Ghost Soldier (5 page)

Then the road suddenly opened up and there was a huge parking lot. I could see a cannon and a crew of reenactors in blue uniforms off to the right, with horses harnessed to a two-wheeled wagon. People crowded around them, but there were still places in the parking lot, so Mrs. Hambrick pulled in. A paved path curved away west toward the trees, to the left of the uniformed soldiers with their cannon.

As soon as his mom turned off the engine, Carleton was out of the van, shouting, “It really
is
a cannon!” Nicole climbed out and looked around like she was trying to make a statement in boredom. But I saw her glancing from the cannon to the curving path, and I remembered her hurry to get out of the auditorium. I thought she was more shaken by the story of the siege of Petersburg than she wanted to admit.

“They're still setting up,” I told Dad, who was already starting off after Carleton. “I'm going to explore—I'll be back before anything happens.”

He glanced up at me, but I started off, sure he wouldn't come with me. He was too busy keeping an eye on Mrs. Hambrick's son to worry about his own. I was afraid Nicole would follow, but no shoes hit the pavement except mine.

*   *   *

Behind me, I heard the excited buzz of voices and the creak of leather and metal as the horses shifted in their harnesses. But the grassy plain was quiet in the spring morning. March 25—the same day that Gordon's men had charged Fort Stedman. I felt a shiver of anticipation go through me, and then I broke free of the plain and turned off into a small shaded area surrounded by a rail fence. There were signs on the other side of the rails saying Keep Off Earthworks, and I thought how disappointed Carleton would be when he saw that the same signs were everywhere.

I was a little disappointed myself. I'd been hoping to see the ghosts once I got away from everyone, but there was nothing here at all, except a lone artillery piece and a sign saying this was Colquitt's Salient, the farthest forward part of the Confederate line. This was the place where Gordon's men were when he thought they could break through the Union line.

I turned and sighted along the artillery piece to the crowd of people gathered at the cannon. Dad and the Hambricks must be among them. I could just make out the rise in the land to the right, where the low mound of Fort Stedman sat. It wasn't such a long walk—but in the night, creeping forward, trying not to tip off the Union troops while you were cutting away the stakes in front of their earthworks, it must have seemed farther away than the moon.

I started back, following the line of the Confederate advance. Artillery pieces sat in front of the fort, pointing straight at me. The path dipped a little, then came up on a rise.

I heard the reenactors shouting orders over by the cannon, and I heard someone squeal in excitement—Carleton? But I kept on going, into the fort. I expected to see sharply dug zigzagging trenches, but the ground sank gently away from the marked pathways, then rose to the outer earthworks, with a fuzz of spring grass softening the curves. I glanced over my shoulder, but the outer earthworks blocked the cannon demonstration.

I turned to look at the sunken ground. Would there have been firing steps down there, where a soldier could stand and shoot at the attackers? Or was that depression a bomb proof? Perhaps planking had covered the soldiers who huddled there when they had a chance to rest. Or could an artillery piece have sat there, braced against the dirt as it shot over the earthworks at the Confederate lines?

I took a step forward. I heard a shout behind me and thought for a panicky moment that a Parks guard must have caught me climbing around where I wasn't allowed, but no one was there. The voice had come from one of the soldiers at the living history demonstration.

“Gunner! Load cannister!”

I turned back to the sunken ground of Fort Stedman. What had it felt like to be down there with the mortar shells bursting around you?

“Infantry at three hundred yards!”

I took another step forward, past the Keep Off Earthworks sign.

“Hold your ears now!”

I took another step, and the rubber sole of my running shoe slipped on the grass. I felt myself sliding into the sunken hole, which was much deeper than I had expected.

“Fire!”

I heard a terrible explosion, and suddenly I smelled bitter orange and felt mud and icy water sloshing over my feet as I flailed for balance at the bottom of the hole.

“Again!” The voice sounded louder and hoarse from shouting.

The sunny day had gone overcast and cold, and I wasn't alone anymore. Then a terrific explosion went off just in front of me, and I saw a cannon rolling backward toward me. I fell away from it, jamming both hands over my ears.

“Here, you! Get down!” Unexpectedly cold hands shoved me into a depression in the dirt, partially covered by rough wooden planks.

I could make out a steady drumming sound, and over it I heard popping noises, almost like kernels of popcorn in a microwave, but much louder and lower pitched.

“Good shot, Chamblee!” a man's voice called out.

I heard chuffing sounds right over my head. Then I heard more of those strange popping noises in front of me, deep and whooshing, while the beating kept up a steady rhythm. I looked up through the haze of smoke, shivering and terrified. To my left, I saw a boy standing with a drum that dangled from his hip almost all the way down to his ankle. The kid was younger than me but older than Carleton, and he didn't look as if he was having any fun playing in the earthworks. His face was streaked with dirt and looked dead serious. He kept hammering his drumsticks on the drumhead in an unending rolling sound as if his life depended on it.

In front of me, standing inside the earthworks that should have looked out on the parking lot, I could see a group of dirty men in worn brown or grey coats standing with muskets. One man rammed a long rod down the barrel of his musket, while another held his own higher, fiddling with something on the side of the gun, near the trigger. I couldn't see anything like a parking lot beyond the men, just a muddy space stretching away into smoky haze.

A younger soldier already had his long musket up to his shoulder, and I jumped as the popping whoosh went off when he fired. Another chuffing sound like a steam engine rushed past my head, and I turned and saw a man fall. I realized that the noise was the sound of a minié ball shot into the fort! I crouched lower, hugging the ground in desperation, but I could still see the soldiers. Could I be shot by a ghost minié ball? There was no window protecting me from the past anymore—I was part of that time, and I wished I'd never stepped into the earthworks.

The boy continued to beat his drum in that steady roll as the soldiers in front of him kept shooting. The young soldier reached down into a leather pouch, pulled out a paper cartridge, then tore it open with his teeth. He poured the powder down the muzzle, then pushed in the minié ball and used his ramrod to shove it down the barrel. He rested the ramrod against something shiny stuck in the ground, then he pulled back the hammer and jammed a little copper-colored metal cap in place and fired again.

“They're falling back!” a voice shouted.

“Cease fire! Cease fire on the line!” the first man's hoarse voice rang out. Then, much louder in the sudden stillness, he called, “Boy!”

I jerked my head around, thinking for a panicky moment that he was shouting at me. I saw a man in a uniform with a high collar, with mud-splattered gold braid on his shoulders—probably an officer. But he wasn't calling me. The drummer boy ran forward, the large drum banging awkwardly against his hip.

“A Company, B Company, C Company, fall back!” the officer yelled. “Back to the salient! Carry what wounded you can.”

I saw grubby-looking men in threadbare grey uniforms climbing over the earthworks behind me. Some of them didn't even have on real uniforms—they were just wearing shirts and ragged brownish-colored jackets. The earth walls were much higher than I expected, towering above me, with sodden sandbags piled on top. In front of me, the shooters I'd seen reloaded their muskets and waited, except for the younger one, who jumped down. I saw him bend over a body on the ground, then fumble for a leather box around the man's waist and pull out a fistful of paper cartridges. He shoved them into his own box. Then he took out a handful of something smaller—those copper-colored caps I'd seen him use—and stuck them into a different pouch on his belt. He moved to another fallen man and reached into his cartridge box.

The drummer boy snapped to attention in front of the officer with the gold braid.

“Drummer boy, fall back with A, B, and C Companies of the 49th,” the officer told him. “Find General Gordon and tell him that D, E, and I Companies will hold them one more time, then fall back. He must fire the Coehorn mortars just east of this fort to cover our retreat. Do you understand, boy? Repeat the order!”

“But, sir,” the boy stammered. “Who will beat the long roll? I'm the last drummer boy left.”

The officer's face softened. “That's all right, son. The men know what to do. And it is critical the message be carried faithfully. Now repeat the order.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, twisting the drumsticks. “A, B, and C Companies of the 49th falling back. D, E, and I Companies will hold the Yanks one more time, then fall back. Fire the Coehorn mortars at—at—”

“Just east of Stedman,” the man repeated.

“Yes, sir,” the boy said quickly. “Fire the Coehorn mortars just east of Stedman to cover the retreat!”

The officer nodded. “Go now.”

The boy saluted, hauled himself up over the earthworks, and raced across the ragged remains of a cornfield to carry the message.

Through a shooting gap, I saw the retreating men stumbling across the cornfield I'd crossed just a few moments ago in my own time, when it was a grassy plain. The soldiers pulled the wounded along through the broken stalks of corn toward safety, sometimes staggering and using their muskets to keep on their feet. Every few seconds I could hear those popping sounds, softer in the distance. I pushed myself under the planks as far as I could go, terrified—freezing—helpless, and wanting to cry.

“Go on.” A cold boot prodded me impatiently, and I could feel the chill cut through my shirt as if someone had dropped an ice cube down my back. “Get on back to the salient before they come again.”

I looked up into a dirt-streaked face barely older than my own. Old men and young boys, Mrs. Hambrick had said. This was one of the boys—the one who had been checking the bodies. Apparently my jeans and the plaid shirt blended in well enough with the variety of uniforms that he just thought I was another soldier.

I shook my head at him. I don't belong here, I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't find my voice.

The boy's eyes widened—they were the black wells I had seen in the mist the first night at the Hambricks'. “You're—not one of us,” he said.

For a moment I thought the boy was going to swing his long musket around and point it at me. Then he reached out a grimy hand. “You're an out-of-timer! But you're in my time now, and you see me—thank God! I've been praying for someone all these years. You must help me!”

“Chamblee,” the officer said, moving closer to where I was hiding, and the boy whirled around, blocking me from sight. “Out of ammunition?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, standing stiffly. “Replenishing it for their next assault, sir, but there's not much left.”

The officer nodded. “You shoot faster and straighter than any other soldier, Chamblee.” His voice sounded tired. “I wish I had a thousand men like you and an ammunition wagon. Then we'd push those Yankees back—and keep them back.”

“We'll hold them, sir!” the boy said.

The officer smiled at him a little sadly. He must realize what was going to happen, I thought. That's why he sent some of his men back. He knew they would lose Fort Stedman. And what would happen to me when the fort was retaken?

“Yes, we'll hold them one more time, Private Chamblee,” he said.

A voice called, “I see them forming up, sir! They're about four hundred yards out!”

The officer glanced to the east of Fort Stedman. “Back to your position now, Private,” he said, and his voice had turned decisive.

“Chamblee! Come on, lad!” I looked up at the firing steps inside the earthworks and saw an older man beckoning.

The boy glanced down at me as he started toward the earthworks. “Don't forget,” he said in a low voice. “Help me!”

Then he grabbed the older man's hand and pulled himself up with the others.

“Steady now!” the officer called. “Set your sights at three hundred yards!”

The Union troops were attacking. What did the boy mean, to help him?

“Front rank!” the officer cried. “Fire!”

I heard the popping sounds ripple across the line—louder this time.

“Second rank! Fire!”

I also heard that chuffing sound again, rushing over my head.

“Fire at will!” the officer shouted. Then I heard something like the thumping sound your knuckles make when you rap on a watermelon. When I looked back at him, the officer had fallen and the dirt around him was turning a muddy red color.

The popping got louder, so many shots blurring together that they blended into a deafening sound like the roar of the surf. I saw the older soldier fall. The boy glanced down at him for a second, his face stricken, as he reloaded. Then he stepped sideways, standing over the fallen man, swung his musket to his shoulder, and fired again. He pulled out a new cartridge and was biting into the paper even before the smoke at the muzzle cleared.

The surf roared ceaselessly around me. The boy rested his ramrod against the metal object in the dirt so he could load faster. He fired and loaded and fired again, his body moving in a steady rhythm. The men around him fired and fumbled for reloads, and finally the surf sound sputtered out into separate pops as men ran out of ammunition, or turned and ran back toward the salient, or died.