Last Ghost at Gettysburg (30 page)

“Jeez, what’re you putting in there? All you
need is your uniform stuff. They’re probably gonna search us for
modern contraband, anyway.”

“Just double-checking I have everything.
We’ll just set the drum kit and sticks near our bags in the living
room and Uncle Mike’ll have no problem loading it in the truck,”
T.J. said coolly. “I’ll take my shower and then Aunt Terri can
drive us the Civil War camp.”

“Well, enjoy it,” said Bortnicker. “That’s
the last shower you’re gonna have till Sunday night. We’ll be
wearing the same stuff for two days! Ugh!”

They piled into Terri’s Accord and made their
way down Buford Avenue toward the town center, which featured some
early hotels, including the one President Lincoln had stayed at
during his visit to dedicate the cemetery, restaurants, and of
course shops.

They were almost to the roundabout circle
that was fed by some of the roads leading in and out of town when
Terri said, “Now, boys, I want you to get ready, because what
you’re going to see will amaze you. We’ve all tried to impress
upon you just how big these Reenactment Days are here, but you have
to see it to believe it. Well, here we go.”

Immediately the car ground to a halt as they
came upon the square which was clogged with every conceivable type
of vehicle; compact cars, minivans, pickups pulling U-Hauls,
Trailways-style tour buses, tractor trailers, even some
evil-looking Harley choppers.

“I take it they’re going where we’re going?”
said Bortnicker.

“Unfortunately,” said Terri. “The ride to the
farm where the reenactment’s being held this year is usually a five
minute drive. This is going to take us a good half-hour at the
least.”

“It’s always like this?” marveled T.J. as
they paused to allow a couple in full Civil War era garb cross the
street.

“Yup,” said LouAnne. And guys, this is an off
year, the 147
^th
anniversary of the battle. In three
years is the 150
^th
, and the feeling is it’ll break all
records. Heck, the Reenactment Committee’s probably already
planning it.”

They finally pulled into the farm entrance
and were just inside when Terri said, “Okay, here’s where you guys
get out. LouAnne, I’ll be back around six to pick you up. Your dad
should be here by then. Enjoy.”

Bortnicker was literally shaking with
excitement. “Now I’ve seen everything!” he crowed. “It’s Civil War
nirvana!”

Indeed, everywhere the teens looked they were
inundated with history. A midway of tents had been established with
every conceivable type of Civil War era food item for sale—old
fashioned kettle corn and candies, beef jerky, hardtack, muffins
and cakes, lemonade and sweet tea and sarsaparilla if you were
thirsty. Then there were dry goods merchants, or sutlers, all in
period garb, selling hats, shirts, shoes, copper pots and pans,
souvenirs like those in town, books that included Carlton Elway’s,
maps and other ephemera. Mixed in were demonstration tents where
blacksmiths, musicians and artists labored. The sound of Civil War
tunes like “Cumberland Gap” and “The Bonny Blue Flag” filled the
air and added to the cacophony of the thousands of attendees. You
could even get your palm read or your portrait taken with an
antique camera that would make the image look exactly like the
daguerreotypes of the 1860s.

“I say we get our picture snapped tomorrow
when we’re all dressed up,” suggested LouAnne.

“Great idea!” said Bortnicker. “I can’t wait
to show everyone back at school!”

T.J. just offered a weak smile. All around
them, mixed in with the modern day tourists, soldiers and belles
walked arm in arm, the men looking very authentic. T.J. was
starting to question whether they were in over their head with this
reenacting thing. It was true that his uncle said they could handle
it, but T.J. wondered if that was just Mike reverting to his
football pep talk days.

In addition to all of the buying and selling,
there were genuine scholarly demonstrations and seminars going on
in designated tents. One could drop in and learn about Civil War
medicine, complete with a display of surgeon’s amputation tools,
the role of spies in the war, “talks” with actors portraying Robert
E. Lee and other key leaders, brass band concerts, even a complete
Civil War wedding.

These would go on each day, and postings of
the events with their times were everywhere. A prefab command post
building sat on the edge of the village, white and blue Gettysburg
police cruisers parked outside, along with ambulances. Numerous
volunteers with blue “Gettysburg Reenactment Committee” golf shirts
wandered about, speaking into walkie-talkies.

The teens stopped for a time to witness a
live mortar firing demonstration, which was pretty cool, and the
close-order drill of a small company of Union reenactors from New
Jersey.

“So, what do you think, Cuz?” said LouAnne,
munching on some kettle corn.

“It’s kinda overwhelming,” said T.J.

“Yeah, and just think. They’re all here to
see you guys do your thing. Speaking of which, today’s reenactment
starts in about an hour. I suggest we get a good seat in the
grandstand, if there are any left. Come on!”

They crossed an open field to where huge
sections of bleachers had been erected. To the sides were barrier
ropes that stretched for hundreds of yards behind which people
with lawn chairs or standees could also view the battle. “Are you
serious?” said T.J., scanning the almost full bleachers. “How many
spectators are they expecting?”

“Anywhere from 20,000 to 40,000, given the
day,” said LouAnne nonchalantly as she scoured the stands for a
small opening. “Of course, Pickett’s Charge on Sunday will bring
out the most people. Today’s just a warm-up.”

They wedged themselves in between two
Midwestern families and got comfortable. “Hey, don’t you have to
pay to get in here?” asked T.J.

“We’ve got connections,” said LouAnne with a
wave of her hand. “Half the Committee is in Mom’s church group here
in town. They meet year-round to plan this thing and Mom, being
Mom, is always dropping off muffins and cakes for them to munch
on.”

Bortnicker was smiling broadly. “Just think,
T.J.,” he beamed, “Tomorrow and Sunday it’ll be
us
out
there! I’m so psyched I can’t stand it!”

The “Battle at the Brickyard” itself began
with a PA announcer giving the vast crowd a quick overview of the
upcoming action, including the participating units. The
72
^nd
Pennsylvania would not be among them, although Mike
had said that some early birds from the regiment would simply hook
on to other units.

If this reenactment was only a warm-up, then
it staggered T.J.’s mind as to what Pickett’s Charge on Sunday
would entail. Regiments from both sides marched to their designated
positions, drummer boys and fifers leading the way beside the
regimental color bearers. When all was ready a few cannon from both
sides were discharged, drawing
oohs
and
ahs
from the
throng. Then officers on horseback maneuvered their companies
into place and the shooting began. Almost immediately the field
was covered with a smoky haze. Here and there a soldier dropped to
the ground, either “killed” or “wounded.” The drummers, whom T.J.
was keying on, kept up a steady tattoo during the proceedings as
the action ebbed and flowed. Obviously those in command of the
event had completely choreographed the battle according to actual
field reports from July 1, 1863. Uncle Mike was right. If you just
used a little imagination, you would swear this was all real.

As if reading his mind, Bortnicker yelled
over the din, “You know, I expected this to be a little hokey. But
this is really accurate! You can see that they’re just firing caps,
but most of the guys are going through the whole loading motion
with their rifles. And can you believe how loud those cannons
are?”

“Remember, guys,” broke in LouAnne, “This is
only about half of what’s gonna be out there Sunday. I’m not
kidding!”

The battle ended in just under an hour, with
the Union troops ultimately falling back to higher ground as the
Rebels won the day. The crowd, which T.J. guesstimated at around
15,000, applauded wildly as the military units of both sides
reformed and marched off to their respective camps, the dead and
wounded having dusted themselves off to rejoin their comrades. With
drums and fifes playing and colors flying, they exited the field,
bringing an end to the day’s festivities.

“So, what do you think, Cuz?” said LouAnne,
arching an eyebrow. “Are you ready to go to war?”

“Yeah, I guess,” T.J. managed, not sure if he
was ready at all.

“Let’s follow the crowd toward the exit,” she
said, stretching after a long time sitting on the hard aluminum
bleacher seat. “Mom should be there waiting for me.” The teens wove
their way through the huge spectator parking lot which was slowly,
painfully emptying, with staff volunteers and Gettysburg police
directing the traffic as it crawled out of the entrance. Now T.J.
understood what Aunt Terri had said about every hotel within twenty
miles being booked for the weekend. Not to mention the campgrounds
and RV parks.

They saw Terri waving from a spot just
outside the entrance and jogged over. “Have fun?” she asked as
LouAnne slid in the passenger seat.

“It was a blast!” sang Bortnicker. “And it’s
gonna get better tomorrow!”

“Well, just don’t screw up,” said LouAnne
sweetly.

“My husband’s right behind me,” said Terri.
“Please don’t let him or his army buddies corrupt you.”

“We won’t, Aunt Terri,” said T.J., secretly
wishing he could climb in beside LouAnne and get out of here. Why
was he having such negative thoughts?

Terri’s Accord pulled away into the traffic
flow and was replaced seconds later by Uncle Mike’s truck, its bed
loaded with their equipment for the weekend. He was grinning
broadly and obviously excited. “Jump in, guys!” he cried. “We’ve
got to get us registered.” He followed a gravel path away from the
spectator parking lot to another prefab building on the village
perimeter.

Inside was a beehive of activity. Long tables
were everywhere, arranged in alphabetical order. The Union
reenactors had one side, the Confederates the other. In the center
of the room were huge bulletin boards with regimental postings.

“That’s for guys who don’t have a unit, or
whose units are very small,” said Mike. “The committee just hooks
them up with another regiment for the weekend. We won’t have that
problem. The 72
^nd
Pennsylvania should be rolling in as
we speak.” He led them to their respective tables where a photo ID
was issued. They also had to sign a waiver, which Mike also signed
as their guardian because they were underage, that absolved the
event committee of any accidents that might happen to them while on
the grounds. T.J. couldn’t believe all the paperwork involved. “How
many reenactors are gonna be here, Uncle Mike?” he asked as he
signed the waiver form.

“I’m hearing anywhere from 2,000 to 2,500 by
Sunday,” he said. “That’s not including horses.”

After that was taken care of they rode in the
truck to the reenactors’ parking field, where T.J. was once again
awed by the scope of the event. Many units had rented their own
tour buses. Some artillery units even had tractor trailers with
their regimental logos painted on the sides. There were horse
trailers by the hundreds as well.

“Where do they keep the horses?” asked
Bortnicker.

“There’s a special corral for each army,”
said Mike. They branched off down yet another gravel road, topped a
rise, and were treated to the sight of two very large camps of
white tents, separated by an area of woods a quarter mile wide.

“Holy crow!” said Bortnicker. “Who put all
these tents up?”

“The reenactors,” said Mike. “Remember, we’re
getting to the party a little late. Some of these guys have been
here over twenty-four hours already. Let’s find the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania.” They crawled along until Mike spied the familiar
faces of Matty, Bobby and Eddie, fully dressed and stacking their
muskets pyramid style in front of a group of tents.

“Well, if it isn’t Ranger Mike!” cried Matty,
bear-hugging his friend. “And are these our two drummer boys?”

“Yup,” said Mike. “New recruits. You guys
already know my nephew T.J. This is his buddy, Bortnicker.”

“Glad to have you join our unit,” said Matty
with a courtly bow. “Let’s give you a hand unpacking your gear.”
They easily hefted the big plastic bags as Mike carefully handed
down the drums and accessories from the truck bed.

“Let me go park the truck,” said Mike as he
slammed the tailgate shut. “Matty, you guys show the boys their
tent. I assume I’m bunking with you?”

“Only the best for you, Ranger Mike,” said
Matty. “Actually, the three of us did Rock-Paper-Scissors and I
lost.”

“Very funny,” said Mike, climbing behind the
wheel. “Be back in a few.”

As he crunched away over the gravel, Matty
said, “Okay, boys, ready to see your shebang?”

“She-what?” said Bortnicker.

“Shebang,” said Matty patiently. “Like in the
phrase ‘The whole shebang’? What would happen is, two soldiers
would be issued one-half of a tent apiece. Instead of it being set
up like your typical A-frame ‘dog tent’ as they called it, they
would take two long sticks and prop up one side like a flap. This
would give them more room, especially on hot days like this where
there was little chance of rain.

“Colonel Pelham decided it would be okay for
you to borrow his sons’ tent, so we’ve set it up shebang style, at
least until tonight. You can peg it down later for some
privacy.

“Now, T.J., I talked to your uncle and he
said you guys have picked up the basic uniform and a knapsack.
We’ve also supplied you with a rubber ground cover and blankets, as
well as mess kits and canteens, which will be the most important
piece of equipment you carry this weekend. Whenever you get a
chance, keep filling it with water. Dehydration in weather like
this is our biggest problem.”