Last Ghost at Gettysburg (34 page)

By the time the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania
dressed their lines for inspection, the merciless sun was beating
down hard and the men were already sweating. Sergeant McAllister
did a thorough firearms check, which seemed to go on forever, and
then he nodded to Colonel Pelham, who stepped forward, visibly
excited, to deliver his Final Day speech.

“Men,” he began, “just the phrase ‘Pickett’s
Charge’ brings forth a multitude of vivid images. This was a
battle that displayed the most terrible aspects of war: artillery
barrages, brutal hand-to-hand fighting, and waves of Confederate
soldiers being chopped to pieces by a hail of canister and musket
fire into which they so bravely marched.

“After an artillery attack to soften the
Union line, the proud forces of the Army of Northern Virginia, in
lines a mile long, stepped off to attack the Federal lines a mile
away. These men of the South were crossing open fields with nothing
to shield them from what promised to be nothing short of total
annihilation.

“But, if they could just cause one breach in
the Union line of defense, they could punch through and perhaps
link up with Stuart’s cavalry, who, unbeknownst to them, were
being stalemated by a mounted force led by George Armstrong Custer
and his Michigan Wolverines.

“The task of carrying out the assault fell
primarily upon two brigade commanders, General James Pettigrew and
General George Pickett. Because of his somewhat flamboyant stature
in the Army of Northern Virginia, Pickett ended up having his name
lent to this valiant effort.

“As we all know, though the Confederates did
actually reach, and, in spots, penetrate the wall, they were beaten
back, incurring horrific casualties. Entire units were virtually
wiped out.

“It is our task today to portray for the
immense crowds they are expecting the desperate fighting that
occurred on that day. Our unit will be situated practically dead
center of the line.”

Here Pelham paused to let his words resonate
as his men, including T.J. and Bortnicker, lifted their hats aloft
and cheered. This was the premier spot to occupy during the
reenactment, and the 72
^nd
had merited such favorable
positioning based on their past performances.

“We will enter the field behind the
32
^nd
New Jersey, and the 44
^th
New York will
follow us. These are good, solid units, so I am confident we will
acquit ourselves admirably.

“Now remember, people have to go down in this
battle. I will expect at least half of whoever didn’t fall
yesterday to do so today. Again, make sure your cap boxes are full
and your canteens as well. The Southern artillery barrage begins
in an hour, which will be followed by the Union response.
Therefore, we will re-form in thirty minutes to await the signal
to take the field. Any questions?”

Nobody spoke up, though the air crackled with
tension.

“All right then. Let’s give them a good show
today, boys!”

With that, the 72
^nd
let out
another cheer. McAllister dismissed them, and everyone returned to
the campsite to use the bathroom or fill their canteens.

With Bortnicker again guarding the entrance
to the tent, T.J. hurriedly unbuttoned his blue woolen tunic,
slipped the revolver from his knapsack, and secured it as best he
could in the waistband of his blue trousers, which he’d cinched
with a leather belt. Since his drum would hang off his left hip, he
had no choice but to place the gun on his right side.

He emerged from the tent and looked
Bortnicker in the eye. “It’s done,” he said quietly.

Bortnicker nodded and then smiled. “It’s like
The Dan
says, Big Mon. Even with a gun, you are who you are,
just the same.”

Suddenly, bugles blew. They slung on their
shoulder straps and drums and hustled out to the head of the Union
column where the other boys waited.

“This is gonna be wicked cool!” said a boy
from Massachusetts.

“Just keep it under control,” cautioned the
veteran Pat Garvey. “Listen for your unit commander’s orders.”

Regimental flags, along with the Stars and
Stripes, were unfurled. Mounted officers scurried about, getting
everyone in line. As far away as they were, the slight hot breeze
carried the opening monologue of the PA announcer.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and
welcome to the 147
^th
Anniversary Reenactment of
Pickett’s Charge.” The raucous response of thousands of spectators
just amped up the soldiers even more.

Suddenly a somewhat rotund, gray-bearded
general appeared at the front of the column, looked through his
field glasses for what was obviously a signal, and then turned back
to the musicians who fronted the extremely long line. “Fifers, I
think we’ll go with ‘The Battle Cry of Freedom’ today.” He lifted
his saber, which glinted in the afternoon sun, then let it drop.
“Forward...march!”

And so, off to the final battle they went,
stepping proudly, sergeants to the sides of the column calling off
the cadence, mounted officers cantering in the wings. At the sound
of the music the din of the crowd grew louder and louder, until the
head of the column finally entered the field of battle, and then it
was sheer bedlam.

One by one the units marched to their
positions across the expansive Union lines. The boys broke off to
join the 72
^nd
’s regimental color bearers. Colonel Pelham
and Sergeant McAllister barked orders, and everybody was hyped.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Did any of those soldiers notice the clouds
that day? T.J. wondered. Would you try to drink in every detail of
what might be your last moments on earth?

Pelham’s harsh voice broke his reverie. “Off
you go, lads!” he yelled. “Take your places and let’s hear those
drums!”

They took their position behind a knee-high
wall fashioned from loose field stones. T.J. and Bortnicker found
themselves to the extreme left of the regiment, near the flags;
Mike was farther down the line to the right, almost obscured by the
twenty-five or so troops in between. T.J. looked over his shoulder
to see artillery placements some fifty yards behind their lines,
and still behind that, grandstands chock full of spectators sipping
cool drinks and fanning themselves furiously. To the sides of the
stands thousands of others sat in lawn chairs or stood three or
four deep, and these sections stretched for fifty yards apiece. The
enormity of it all made him a bit queasy.

As T.J. beat a steady tattoo he peered
through the summer haze across the expansive fields and was awed by
the sight of hundreds of men clad in gray and butternut brown, in
long parade lines, poised to step off one wave at a time. He kept
drumming, his heart hammering as the anticipation built.

“This is awesome!” cried Bortnicker, who
despite his excitement managed to keep in sync with T.J. “I can
really feel what those guys were dealing with. Wondering if it was
their last minute on earth... T.J., my legs are wobbling!”

“Stay cool, man,” cautioned T.J., barely in
control of his own emotions.

“Jeez, guys, you’re not gonna wet your pants,
are you?” a high-pitched voice cried from behind them. They both
turned to find a soldier not much older than themselves, his hat
tugged low over his eyes, which were obscured by old-fashioned
granny glasses. He held a fife, but T.J. wondered why they hadn’t
heard it on the march over. Then he looked more closely into the
dirt-smeared face, which was trying to mask a mischievous grin.

“Cuz, is that
you
?” he said
incredulously.

“Ssshhh!” she nodded quickly. “You didn’t
think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?”

“You’re nuts!” said Bortnicker. “Your dad’s
gonna kill you when he finds out you’re here!”

“I’ll handle my dad. Now, get back to your
job and don’t give me away, you morons!”

“Listen,” said T.J., “I really think you’d
better–”

Whatever he said was immediately lost as the
Confederate artillery, which was spread across a distant ridge
behind their infantry lines, opened up, the cannons firing down the
line at two second intervals. It was like rolling thunder, and the
ground started shaking. Almost immediately the soft breeze, which
was blowing toward the Union lines, began carrying the thick haze
of smoke toward them. The spectators started applauding wildly,
happy to finally see the action commence.

“Stand your ground, men,” bellowed Colonel
Pelham dramatically, so that the crowd might hear him. “They are
just trying to soften us up. The attack will come soon! Be
brave!”

Again and again the cannons roared in
syncopation. Soon there was so much smoke that the Rebel army was
obscured. And then the cacophony stopped, followed by a deep,
rousing cheer that emanated from the Confederate masses and rolled
across the fields. The Rebel yell.

“They’re stepping off!” announced Pelham,
peering through a telescope. “Remember to listen for my signal to
commence firing. Stay disciplined!”

T.J. and Bortnicker kept drumming, their
tempo increasing as the first waves of enemy troops began their
long march across the fields toward them. Their ears had barely
stopped ringing when the Union batteries responded, causing their
bodies to shudder from the concussion.

LouAnne crouched behind the madly drumming
boys, searching the fields for Hilliard. There were a few mounted
Confederate officers, but they stayed closer to the rear so as to
help the lines remain formed until they stepped off. But with every
passing second the clouds of cannon smoke permeated the field,
making it hard to see anything, much less pick out a specific
soldier on horseback.

“Steady men, steady...” said Pelham, his
voice unwavering. “They’re almost within range... Prepare to
fire... FIRE!”

With that, the entire Union line, including
the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania, unleashed their first volley,
the air ripping with sound. The boys couldn’t help but flinch from
the concussion, and it was now becoming impossible to maintain
their drumbeat.

“My eyes are killing me!” cried
Bortnicker.

The first wave of Confederates was closing,
one-hundred yards...seventy-five yards. With each cannon blast and
rifle volley men fell, but the line simply closed up and they kept
coming, just like in 1863. T.J. marveled at the courage that
enabled those waves of Southern farm boys to march into the jaws of
death as their comrades were blown apart around them. Though this
was only a reenactment and there was no Emmitsburg Road or picket
fence to navigate, he could just imagine the panic and fear of the
soldiers huddled by the fence that Hilliard had disgustedly
described.

I would have been right there with
them
, he thought.
No way would I be brave enough to keep
going forward
.

The Union troops, Mike Darcy included, fired
round after round. The volleys became more disjointed as the
Confederates came closer, the action more confused. Now only a
handful of attackers from the first wave remained, and were
threatening to breach the wall of defense.

“Keep pouring lead into them, boys!” yelled
Pelham, waving his hat. Here and there a Federal soldier crumpled
to the ground, and when one burly trooper fell forward across the
wall, the youths were fully exposed to Mike Darcy’s field of
vision. His mouth literally fell open when he saw his daughter
poised between the drummers. Mike started gesturing wildly for her
to fall back, but LouAnne stared straight ahead, feigning that she
hadn’t seen him. All the while reloading and firing, Mike started
creeping sideways along the wall in the melee, trying to reach
them.

Now the few Confederates who had been chosen
to get the farthest started to clamber over the wall, and one
grabbed Mike around the shoulders, trying to “wrestle” him to the
ground. “Lemme go!” he grunted, which made his attacker struggle
all the harder, trying to put on a good show.

Then LouAnne screamed. “I see him!” She
pointed between the boys’ shoulders.

There, riding hard parallel to the last wave
of Confederate troops, Major Crosby Hilliard spurred his beloved
Brutus, clearly the most formidable animal on the field, to speeds
that had his “comrades” diving out of the way.

But LouAnne was not the only spectator who
sensed something was happening.

* * * *

Carlton Elway,
who had staked out a choice spot dead center on the bleachers,
spied the pointing trooper—
could that be a girl?—
with the
drummer boys gesturing wildly, and followed her line of vision to
a striking cavalier who was churning toward the Union center at a
pace far too fast for reenactment standards. The moment had
arrived! For the first time, he was viewing a genuine ghost! In
broad daylight! He zoomed his hi-def camcorder on the rider, who
was clearly not a reenactor but a one-hundred percent authentic
Confederate cavalryman, galloping right out of 1863 and toward
him
, dead ahead.

“I got you now!” he screamed with glee,
spectators nearby shrinking back in fear of the man with the
cameras who seemed to have lost his mind.

* * * *

At the same time Chief Al Warren, who was
leaning against his cruiser with Rudy Herzog and taking in the
whole scene through field glasses from roughly two-hundred yards
away, noted some strange movements in the drummer boys, whom he’d
been keying on from the get-go. Something was going wrong out
there. “Rudy, come on!” he yelled, grabbing Herzog’s uniform
sleeve.

“Chief!” gasped the patrolman, jogging along
behind his boss. “We can’t just run into the middle of a
battle!”

“Oh yes we can! Stay close!” But Warren knew
he was already too late. They’d never be able to close the gap to
the front lines in time.