Last Ghost at Gettysburg (13 page)

“Neat. Uh, how’s Wendy?”

“She’s fine. This is a great place, but like
any foreign city it takes some getting used to. And neither of us
is exactly an expert of the language. But it’s a beautiful
city.”

“Uh huh. How’s the project going?”

“It’s going. We’ve hit a few snags here and
there with contractors and whatnot.”

T.J. groaned inwardly. “So you’ll be there
longer than you planned?”

“Not much, hopefully. Hey, I emailed you
about all this, a couple times.”

“I forgot my laptop at home.”

“Oh, I see. Did Uncle Mike tell you I called
a week ago?”

“Yeah. He gave me the message.” T.J. was
having a hard time masking his disappointment.

“So, what’s going on over there? Anything
exciting?”

Oh, nothing much, Dad, except maybe this
ghost I ran into the other night
.

“Bortnicker’s here.”

“What? Bortnicker? How come?”

“Uncle Mike said he could keep me company.
Besides, he loves all this Civil War stuff, and LouAnne is busy
most of the time. She’s got like fifteen jobs.”

“I hope you’re not excluding her, son. You’ve
always considered her a little nerdy. You’re at least taking
notice of her?”

No problem there, Dad.
“Yeah,
Bortnicker and I have been hanging out with her. She’s not so bad.”
He could hear Wendy rummaging through some drawers in the
background. Obviously, they were sharing the apartment. Yikes.

“Well, I’ve gotta get going, son. As soon as
I have a handle on when this project’s going to get done, I’ll let
you know. A few more weeks, give or take. Until then, have fun and
try not to get bored. I’ll think of something exciting for us to do
when I get back. Just you n’me, okay?”

“Sounds great.”

“Okay then, be careful. Take care of
Bortnicker and be nice to your cousin.”

“Right, Dad.”

“Love ya.”

“I know.” T.J. gently replaced the receiver
of the wall phone. He turned, met the eyes of Aunt Terri who was
regarding him from the sink, then shuffled back upstairs to wake
Bortnicker.

Chapter Sixteen

“Bortnicker, you’re amazing me,” said LouAnne
as she lifted a forkful of blueberry pancakes to her lips. “Where
did you learn to make these?”

“My mom,” he said proudly, carving the edges
from his own stack so it resembled a Rubik’s Cube. “She likes to
cook, and I like to eat, so I help her whip up stuff at home.”

“Do you cook, T.J.?” she asked, turning to
her cousin who was forking some country ham onto his plate.

“Nope. I just eat.”

“Yeah,” cracked Bortnicker, “you’ve gotta see
T.J. and his dad when they get going. There’s like sparks coming
off their silverware!” Even T.J. had to laugh at that one. It was
true. One of the most fun things father and son did together was
order out humongous amounts of Chinese or Indian or Mexican food,
mix a huge pitcher of iced tea, and have at it. Usually there was
so much surplus that Bortnicker had to be called in to assist.

They were busy putting a dent in the pile of
flapjacks when Aunt Terri (who’d supplied the blueberries for the
batter) came in, her gardening overalls dirty at the knees. She
wiped some sweat from her forehead with a working gloved hand,
leaving a smear of dirt across her eyebrow, smiled, and rolled
something across the table to T.J. “For you,” she said. “Souvenir
of Gettysburg.”

Bortnicker recognized the item immediately.
“Wow! A Minié ball! Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, they pop up from time to time in the
vegetable patch,” said Terri, pouring herself some orange juice.
“Year after year, we’re good for a few.”

“Why do they call it a Minié ball?” asked
T.J., holding it to the light between his forefinger and
thumb.

“They named it after the guy who invented
it,” said Bortnicker. “If it struck bone you were cooked. It would
splinter the bone, and you’d probably have to have an amputation,
if it was an arm or leg.”

“What if it just hit flesh?”

“Then you’d probably die of infection,” said
LouAnne. “That’s how I kill off my brother sometimes at the Charney
Inn.”

“Well, enjoy it,” said Aunt Terri. “I’ve got
to get back outside.” She put her glass in the sink and returned to
the garden.

The three teens were again alone. “So, guys,
what’s your plan?” said LouAnne. “Are we going ghost hunting?”

“Not yet,” said Bortnicker. “I’ve gotta do
some research first. T.J., can we pay another visit to the
battlefield and the museums?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing every day
since I got here, man?” he moaned.

“Yeah, I know that, but I want to look for
stuff about Confederate cavalry in the battle, since your ghost
buddy seems to be a mounted Reb.”

LouAnne looked at the wall clock. “Well,
guys, I’ll clean up in here. It’s the least I can do after that
feast our gourmet chef cooked up.”

Bortnicker gave a slight bow and said,
hopefully, “You’ll be joining us?”

“’
Fraid not. I promised Mom I’d help
her clean the chicken coop. Besides, you don’t need me. T.J.’s
becoming quite the expert.”

Her cousin blushed, which did not go
unnoticed by his friend. “Yeah, let’s go into town and try to hook
up with Uncle Mike,” he said. “Maybe you’ll see some stuff I
didn’t.”

“Could we come to the Inn tonight, LouAnne?”
asked Bortnicker. “I haven’t seen your act yet.”

“Sure. It’ll break the monotony. But listen,
no silly questions, okay?”

“Who, me?” said Bortnicker, grinning
slyly.

* * * *

Bortnicker proved to be correct upon their
second, more comprehensive Visitor Center Museum expedition. T.J.
kept finding things he’d missed before.

They started in an area devoted solely to the
strategy of the battle, Bortnicker’s thick glasses reflecting the
cases that displayed documents and maps. He started what would be a
continuous stream of consciousness, talking to himself as much as
his friend.

“After Lee won at Chancellorsville in May of
1863, he took his army through the Shenandoah Valley into the
North. He wanted to get to Harrisburg or even Philadelphia because
he felt the Northerners would be dispirited enough to give up on
the war and maybe work out a treaty. Also, he needed food and
supplies badly, and wanted to get the devastation off southern
turf, at least in the East, ‘cause at the same time Grant’s army
was pounding the Rebs in Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was a pretty
bold move, but Lee was at his strongest for a northern strike.

“By the time everybody got lined up you had
like 165,000 troops...infantry, cavalry, artillery, the whole deal.
The Confederates were overmatched in numbers, but they had Lee.
This guy, George Meade, was the Union commander at the moment,
‘cause Lincoln kept changing his commanders of the Army of the
Potomac due to their losing.”

“The luncheonette in town’s named after him,”
offered T.J.

“Man,
everything
in this town is named
after someone in the battle, probably down to the municipal
parking lots.”

“So, why did the battle have to take three
days?”

“Well, Day One was mostly getting regiments
into position and establishing the front lines. As I think I told
you a while back, Lee actually approached the town from the
northwest, Meade from the south. There was some fighting, and the
Union troops got pushed around some.

“That’s when General Reynolds got killed,”
said T.J., recalling the monument in the woods near where he’d met
the ghost rider.

“Right you are. So on Day Two, Lee started
pounding the Union lines all over. Little Round Top became a major
strategic point because the Union could put their artillery there
and blast down on the Rebs. So you had these areas like Devil’s
Den, the Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard, Culp’s Hill and Cemetery
Hill...fighting going on all over the place.”

“I’ve run past all those places with
LouAnne,” mused T.J. “Bussed past them, too.”

Either Bortnicker didn’t hear him or was so
zoned-in that he passed over this and just kept going. “So the
Union held their positions on Day Two, which led to one of the
major turning points of the war. Lee basically rolled the dice and
threw the kitchen sink against the center of the Union line on
Cemetery Ridge.”

“Pickett’s Charge!” called out T.J.

“Right again, Big Mon. They almost broke
through, but the Federals finally threw them back. And that was
it, more or less, for the Army of Northern Virginia. Even though
they managed to drag it out for two more years. Hey T.J., come look
at this.”

They were in front of the Confederate
uniforms display. “If you remember what we did in Mr. O’Neill’s
class, the Northern soldiers had much better equipment because most
of the heavy industry was there. So they had real pants, jackets
and shoes. Some had outfits that were kinda out there, like those
Zouave units from New York.”

“Those guys in the red balloon pants?”

“Yep. But, by and large, they looked like an
army. The southern soldiers, on the other hand, were a real
mishmash. Some wore gray, some wore brown. They wore the same
uniforms year round with no replacements. They’d take shoes off
dead guys to replace their own. Same thing with weapons.

“But the Confederate cavalry officers, like
the man you ran into, were big into fancy uniforms, which made
sense because a lot of the officers came from wealthy families and
could afford to have their stuff custom tailored. Do any of these
look familiar to you?”

They slowly shuffled sideways, T.J. looking
for similarities to what he remembered from that dark night. The
Confederate showcase stretched the length of the room, with so many
more variations than the Union’s. Suddenly he grabbed Bortnicker’s
shoulder. “Whoa. Wait a second. This looks close.”

The uniform before them was a medium gray,
with a three-quarter length frock coat topping a pair of gray
breeches with pale yellow stripe down the side. The coat itself had
gold cuffs and a standup collar with an attached gold star. There
were also gold embroidered designs swirling upwards from the cuffs
to the elbow, and a double row of brass buttons down the chest.
Cream colored gauntlets, spurred black knee boots and a plumed hat
pinned up on one side rounded out the impressive display.

“Wow,” said Bortnicker. “Your boy was
styling
. Imagine wearing this getup in the middle of summer?
The duds in this case must be mucho funky.” He pursed his lips for
a moment. “What about sidearms and that kind of stuff?”

“Well,” remembered T.J., “he had a sword and
a pistol, but the pistol was in a holster.”

“Let’s peruse the weapons section, then.”
Again, they scanned a dizzying array of guns, pausing here and
there, when T.J. saw something that looked familiar. “I think,
that one,” he said finally, pointing to a menacing-looking
pistol.

Bortnicker read the placard underneath. “.44
caliber Colt Army Revolver. There’s a Navy model right under it
that’s similar, but it’s a .36 caliber. Hard to tell which one he
had ‘cause like you say it was holstered. Good for you he didn’t
take it out so you could get a better look.”

“You got that right.”

“Now, as far as the sword, was the
scabbard—the holder—curved or straight?”

T.J. thought hard. “Curved.”

“With a piece to kind of shield your
knuckles?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. So here’s what we’ve got. The
soldier you encountered in Reynolds’ Woods was anywhere from a
lieutenant to a colonel, probably from a well-to-do family, with
first rate weapons which he either bought himself or plucked from a
fallen enemy.”

“What next?”

“A little Internet research when we get home
later. I think I might be able to narrow down the particulars on
this guy.”

“No way. Out of the thousands of soldiers who
were in this battle? C’mon, Bortnicker.”

“Hey, let me work on it.” He held up his
hands. “These fingers are like magic on the keyboard.”

“Well, look who’s here!” The boys turned to
find Mike Darcy. “Some mean looking blades there.”

“Seriously,” agreed Bortnicker.

“I’m doing a tour bus group in ten minutes.
Cub Scouts from New Jersey. Want to ride along?”

“Sure!” piped Bortnicker.

“Okay then. If I get tired, T.J., you can
take over.” They started walking toward the front hallway where the
tour groups assembled. “Heard you guys were over at Carlton Elway’s
House of Ghosts yesterday.”

The boys looked at each other nervously.
“Yeah, Mr. Darcy, that’s mostly because of me,” said Bortnicker. “I
can’t get enough of all those ghost shows on TV. Have you ever had
an experience here?”

“Nope, though you’d think every Gettysburg
ranger in history has, by what you see on TV. That doesn’t mean I
don’t think this place has an aura about it. I mean, I feel that
every day. And I do have shivers go down my spine at the oddest
times while I’m out there, especially in the cemetery. But no, no
sightings, encounters, whatever. And, don’t take this the wrong
way, fellas, but I suggest you don’t go searching out any for
yourselves. If you’ve learned anything from those shows, which I
believe are mostly crap anyway, it’s that these things happen when
you least expect it, not when you try to manufacture it.”

“We gotcha,” said T.J.

“Glad we’re straight on that. Ah, there’s
Troop Six awaiting us. Let’s get on it!” He led the group of forty
or so fresh-faced youngsters in their neckerchiefed uniforms onto
the bus, got them settled and they were on their way. The day had
become oppressively humid and T.J. felt his eyelids drooping almost
immediately, for he’d done the tour a handful of times by now.

“Good afternoon and a hearty welcome to the
scouts of Troop Six from Lodi, New Jersey!”