Last Ghost at Gettysburg (29 page)

After what seemed like years they removed
their drums and crumpled to the ground, staring at the sky, and
never noticed Mike pulling his truck into the driveway. Suddenly he
was standing over them. “How goes it, troopers?” he joked, as
LouAnne chuckled.

“I don’t know, Daddy, you might want to have
these two court-martialed,” she chided.

“Nonsense,” he said, sitting down beside the
exhausted boys. “I think it’s cool you guys want to do this. Don’t
get too carried away. Just a basic cadence will get you through.
All the guys in the regiment will be really appreciative and will
help you however they can. They’ll set up a tent for you and
everything.”

“Will they install central air conditioning
in this tent?” asked Bortnicker.

“Can’t help you on that one. Not authentic.
But I’ll tell you what. Seeing how dedicated you guys are to all
this, I will suck it up and sleep in the camp as well.”

“Oh, the sacrifice!” wailed LouAnne
dramatically, the back of her hand to her forehead.

“How many nights are we talking about here,
Uncle Mike?” asked T.J., sitting up.

“Friday and Saturday should do it,” he
answered. “We’ll be doing two reenactments: The Wheatfield on
Saturday and Pickett’s Charge on Sunday. I worked my schedule so
these would be my days off.”

“That gives us three more days to practice,”
said T.J. “I think we’ve done enough for one day.”

“You got that right,” agreed Bortnicker. “I’m
gonna have to put a pad under my pants to keep the drum from
whacking my thigh so much.”

“Tell you what,” said Mike. “Why don’t you
guys grab a shower and we’ll grill some burgers and stop at the ice
cream shop later on?”

“Solid!” said Bortnicker. “You know what they
say...an army travels on its stomach!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Wednesday and Thursday were pretty much the
same. T.J. and LouAnne went for their morning run, they ate
breakfast, and then the boys resumed their drumming practice as
LouAnne helped her mom with chores around the small barn and
henhouse. Mrs. Spath, like many area residents, would be out of
town for the Reenactment Weekend, so LouAnne had some time to spend
around the house.

With their intense level of repetition, the
boys were actually becoming proficient in the basic fundamentals,
but by Thursday afternoon they needed a break.

“I have an idea,” said Bortnicker. “Since
we’re gonna be doing Pickett’s Charge on Sunday, what do you think
about checking out Cemetery Ridge one last time to see what we’ll
be recreating?”

“Not my idea of a break, man,” groaned T.J.
“Still, you’re probably right.”

“Hey,” chimed in LouAnne, “know what would be
cool? Why don’t we recreate Pickett’s Charge?”

“Say what?” said T.J.

“I mean, let’s walk down Seminary Ridge to
the Virginia Memorial. It’s only a couple hundred yards down the
road. Then we can walk across the field all the way to the Union
lines on Cemetery Ridge. You can see what Hilliard was talking
about.”

“Makes sense,” said Bortnicker.

“I had a feeling you’d agree,” mumbled
T.J.

After lunch they strolled along the ridge,
noting again the Confederate markers and cannon lining both sides
of the one-way road. Finally they came to the Virginia Memorial, an
imposing structure with bronze soldiers at the base of a large
pedestal atop which sat Robert E. Lee astride his favorite horse,
Traveler.

“This has to be the most bigtime Southern
monument,” said T.J.

“Correct,” said LouAnne. “Now, if you look
straight across, you’ll see some farm fields, then the Emmitsburg
Road where they had the split-rail fence Hilliard described, then a
couple hundred more yards to the Union lines. All told, the
Confederates had to cross one thousand yards of wide open
territory, with no trees or other type of cover.”

“That’s like...suicidal,” marveled T.J.

“Yep, I’d say so. Let’s see how long it takes
us to walk it.”

The three set out, side by side, striding
purposefully. The wheat or whatever it was had been mowed
recently, but the terrain was still uneven, and by the time they
reached the Emmitsburg Road they were sweating in the midday
heat.

“Okay,” said LouAnne. “Now, in 1863 the
embankments on each side rose up a bit, topped by the fence. The
road itself was kind of sunken. So you can see how hard it was for
them to walk up the bank and climb the fence.”

“They were like sitting ducks!” cried
Bortnicker.

“Exactly. It’s no wonder a lot of them were
huddled there, afraid to move forward. That’s why Hilliard was
trying to get them to push down the fence. But in doing so they
would’ve been exposed to all sorts of cannon and rifle fire.”

“Oh, man,” said T.J. “Well, let’s push
on.”

They crossed the road, which was now a
two-lane blacktop, and resumed their trek on a gradual upgrade
toward the Union defense line on Cemetery Ridge. There were
monuments and statues all along the ridge, cannons behind them.

“See that bunch of trees?” said LouAnne,
pointing to a part of the wall that jutted out a bit. “That’s
called ‘The Angle.’ It’s where some Southern troops did actually
break through. Let’s head for there.” They completed their journey
by climbing over the knee-high loose-stone wall similar to those
the boys saw everywhere in Connecticut. “Now,” she said, “turn back
and look at how far we came in just under twenty minutes.”

“Wow,” said Bortnicker. “It took us only
twenty minutes, but to those poor guys it must’ve seemed like
forever.”

“Those who made it,” added T.J.

“Check this out,” said LouAnne, motioning the
boys over to a chest-high stone marker. “This is a rarity, a
Confederate monument in the middle of the Union lines.”

“How come?” asked T.J.

“It’s dedicated to General Lewis Armistead,
who decided to lead the attack, on foot, as an example to his men.
Word has it he stuck his hat on his sword, raised it high, and ran
in front of them, actually making it over the wall into the Union
troops. Then he got shot up pretty badly. He died shortly
thereafter in a Union field hospital. People come here and, as you
can see, leave offerings of coins on the monument. Nobody knows how
that got started.”

“Hey, T.J.!” said Bortnicker proudly. “Look
here! The 14
^th
Connecticut Infantry was on the front
line of defense!”

“It seems like a lot of the units that were
here on Day Three were from the Northeast,” said T.J. He took a
long look up and down the line, then turned to his cousin. “You
know,” he said seriously, “now I’m glad you talked us into doing
this. I can really understand how heroic those guys on both sides
were, especially the Confederates. I can also see what Hilliard was
trying to do when they shot him in the back. The Confederates
didn’t have a chance. But why do they call it ‘Pickett’s
Charge’?”

“Well,” said LouAnne, sounding strangely like
her father, “Pickett and Pettigrew’s divisions led the way, under
orders from General Longstreet, who of course got
his
orders
from Lee. As the story goes, Pickett’s troops were so decimated by
the end that when he returned to the rear, and Lee told him to
re-form his division, he answered, ‘General, I have no division!’
That’s when Lee must’ve realized he’d blown it.”

They sat for a while, watching the other
tourists strolling about. A huge tour bus disgorged a large group
who seemed to be from Florida or somewhere tropical, as most had
tans and flowered Hawaiian shirts. One boy about their age with a
puka-shell necklace approached Bortnicker and said, “Yo, dude,
which way is the front line?”

“Thataway, dude,” he replied, pointing at
‘The Angle.’ Then he turned to the cousins and said, “I’ve seen
enough. Let’s head out.”

They picked their way through the crowd,
stepped over the wall and walked back toward the Virginia
Memorial.

At dinner that night they told Mike of their
excursion to Cemetery Ridge. He listened intently, nodding as they
described the landscape and the impressions they got as to the
futility of Lee’s attack. “Yeah,” he said finally, “you can say
that one encounter turned the tide of the war permanently in the
North’s favor. And just think, we’re going to try to do it justice
on Sunday.”

“I don’t know, Uncle Mike,” said T.J., “I
know it sounds corny, but don’t you feel like a, um,
responsibility
to not screw it up, to make it as real as
possible?”

“All reenactors do, T.J.,” said his uncle. “I
know a lot of people think we get carried away into fantasy land,
but most reenactors have a deep, abiding respect for those whom
they portray. That’s why I think you two will do great. You two
get it
.”

“So,” said Bortnicker, trying to lighten the
mood, “when do we report for duty, sir?”

“Here’s my suggestion,” said Mike. “I have to
work tomorrow, and my unit’s not getting here till late afternoon
anyway. But there will be a smaller presentation by some other
units called ‘Battle for the Brickyard’ that recreates the conflict
on July 1
^st
where a Union Army force fought a delaying
tactic as the Confederates surrounded the town. A lot of the
fighting occurred near a brickyard close to the Harrisburg
Road.

“If Terri doesn’t mind, she could give you a
ride over to the farm to watch the battle. It’ll give you a good
idea of what’s in store for us on Saturday and Sunday.

“Now, there’s going to be hourly
demonstrations and seminars on site in different tents near the
battlefield area, so you can get there any time after the gates
open and check out whatever interests you all the way up till the
battle in the late afternoon. Make sure you put on sunscreen and
drink lots of water. And I suggest that T.J. and LouAnne forget
about running till after Sunday. We’ll all have to conserve our
strength because they’re saying both weekend days are going to be
mucho hot.

“Then I’ll get home from work, load all our
uniforms and equipment into the truck, and meet you out there. Our
regimental camp should be set up by Friday evening; we’ll get you
boys squared away and introduce you to Colonel Pelham and the rest
of the men. We’ll sleep at the camp Friday night, as you two ease
into it. Then, our regiment’s going to participate in both the
Saturday ‘Battle of the Wheatfield’ and the big show on Sunday,
‘Pickett’s Charge.’”

“I have to work at the Inn Friday night, so
Mom’ll be taking me home after Friday’s battle,” said LouAnne. “But
I’ll come spectate on Saturday and Sunday. Dad, is it okay if I
suit up for a Saturday night camp visit?”

“As long as you’re in full costume, it
shouldn’t be a problem,” said Mike. “And what will you be doing,
dear?” he said sweetly to his wife.

Terri shook her head. “Listen,” she said,
“I’ll run the shuttle service, as always, but I think I’ll skip the
battles this year. I have misgivings about the boys being out there
with so little experience.”

“Don’t worry, hon, I’ll keep an eye on them,”
assured Mike.

“Oh, yeah? And who’s going to keep an eye on
you and your kooky friends?”

Mike smiled weakly as the teens laughed out
loud.

Chapter Thirty

Friday morning T.J. was treated to a rare
pleasure, an opportunity to sleep late. By the time he rolled out
of bed at 7:30 A.M., Bortnicker and Aunt Terri were already
clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. LouAnne, wearing a Beatles
Rubber Soul
tee shirt and pajama bottoms, drifted downstairs
right after him.

Bortnicker, who was frying up some bacon,
sang about welcoming people to a place called The Lido for sausage
and beer.

“‘
Here at the Western World,’” said
LouAnne with a yawn. “Can I have some coffee please?”

“You know that’s not good for you, honey,”
said her mother.

“I’ll put lots of milk, Mom. C’mon, we’ve got
a long day of Civil War studies ahead of us.”

“Okay,” she relented, pouring out half a mug.
“Oh, boys, Mike said to remind you to pack up all your stuff for
the next two days and he’ll bring it to the campsite this evening.
I have a heavy duty Hefty bag for each of you.”

“We’d better savor this meal, T.J.,” cracked
Bortnicker, setting platters of eggs, bacon and toast on the table.
“God knows what we’ll be eating ‘round the campfire the next two
days.”

“He’s right,” said LouAnne. “Don’t expect
anything good in a reenactment camp. Dad says the coffee could take
the paint off cars and the meat, if there is any, never gets cooked
all the way.”

“I think I’ll stick with beans,” said
Bortnicker.

“Easy, there,” joked T.J grimly, “I have to
sleep with you in one of those tiny dog tents!”

“Well, there’s always hardtack,” suggested
LouAnne.

“What’s that?” said T.J.

“An extremely hard biscuit that you’ll have
to dunk or it’ll break your teeth,” said Bortnicker. “During the
Civil War the hardtack the soldiers ate was usually infested with
weevils.”

“I’ll try to sneak you in some granola bars
on Saturday,” offered LouAnne. “It’s the least I can do for my
brave boys in blue.”

“How kind,” said T.J. sarcastically.

After breakfast the boys went upstairs to
pack, dragging their empty Hefty bags behind them. In went their
leather backpacks embossed with the US logo, their shoes,
kepi-style hats, white muslin shirts, woolen socks, pants, belts
and jackets.

“I’m done,” said Bortnicker. “Can I get in
the shower first?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” said T.J. “I’ve still got a
ways to go.” He waited until his friend entered the bathroom, then
slipped down the stairs and out the back door to the garage. In
Uncle Mike’s work table area he found the oblong wooden box in
which Mike stored his Civil War weapons. T.J. removed the Sharps
rifle, which lay on top wrapped in oilcloth, and pulled up the
leather covered box that housed the .44. He gently lifted it out,
wrapped it in a small towel, and replaced the empty box and the
rifle. Then, he crept back up to his room and packed the wrapped
revolver in his knapsack, along with the powder cartridges and
antique .44 bullets he’d purchased. He was just cinching the
plastic bag when Bortnicker reentered the room, his scraggly hair
still damp.