Last Ghost at Gettysburg (24 page)

“Yeah, I guess. Not the school part
especially, but seeing my friends and fall track season, that sort
of stuff.”

“How about Katie?”

T.J. paused, caught himself then said, “Yeah,
her too, I guess. But, uh, I’m sure she’s having a fun enough time
on her own this summer. She hangs out at the Westfield County Club
mostly with the preppy crowd, playing tennis and stuff. Not my
thing.”

“You seem a little down on her. Something
happen to change things?”

He turned toward her as they jogged and
half-smiled. “Maybe.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m really looking forward
to going back. My summer schedule’s so hectic between babysitting
and working nights that school’s kind of easy in comparison. And I
want to make All-County in cross country this year. I know I’ll
only be a sophomore, but it’s been done.” She waited a bit, as if
carefully choosing her words. “I’m really glad you came down, T.J.
And Bortnicker, too. It’s kept my summer from being a horrible
bore. But this whole ghost thing is like something on the SyFy
Channel. I mean, you’ve seen some of those cheesy movies they have
where there’s a bunch of kids who end up fighting vampires or
aliens or whatever. When I watch them, at the end I always wonder
how these kids can just go back to school and go on with their
normal lives like nothing happened? Do you worry that this stuff
we’re going through is going to change us forever?”

“Well, kinda. I hope it doesn’t. But I really
want to get to the bottom of it, don’t you?”

“Of course. I just don’t want Dad to get in
trouble, or any of us to get hurt... or worse.”

“How could you possibly get hurt, Cuz?” asked
T.J. “You have two personal bodyguards!”

“Yeah, well there’s a little difference
between Clifford Pangborn III and a dead Confederate soldier who
shoots people.”

“I guess. Hey, uh, LouAnne, since I did come
down to PA this summer, is there any chance of you coming up to
Connecticut to visit?”

“You’d want me to?”

“Sure,” said T.J., trying not to overplay it.
“We’ve got lots of room. Maybe Christmas Break?”

“Well, let’s see how this all ends up, but
I’d say that’s a possibility. Let’s turn back.”

T.J. soared all the way home.

* * * *

After a quick shower they met again
downstairs where Aunt Terri and Bortnicker were putting the
finishing touches to a boatload of apple cinnamon pancakes. And
there was an added guest as well.

“Uncle Mike, aren’t you gonna be late?”
queried T.J.

“It’s my day off. See, we have a rotating
schedule, so every so often I have a midweek day to myself.” He
forked a short stack of pancakes onto his plate. “Is it safe to eat
this stuff?”

Terri swatted him playfully with a dishcloth.
“Of course! You don’t know what you’ve been missing every morning.
Bortnicker and I have whipped up some real winners.”

“I think the Food Channel will be calling
soon,” said Bortnicker as he sat down before his own steaming
stack. “How about this show title:
Breakfast with Mrs. D and Mr.
B
?”

T.J. shook his head as he smothered his
pancakes with syrup.
Wish Aunt Terri was his mother
he
thought.
She’s just what he needs.

“So, what’re you doing on your day off, hon?”
Terri asked her husband.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better
get another day in at the shooting range before Reenactment
Week.”

“You’re
doing it
this year?” said
LouAnne through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah. I figured, why not? Plus, the guys
have been after me since I took last year off.”

“Bruce Morrison doesn’t mind?” asked
Terri.

“I don’t care if he does or doesn’t. Besides,
this year the events will be stretched over four days, from Friday
the 2
^nd
to Monday the 5
^th
. I’ll probably just
do the Saturday and Sunday battles.”

“Don’t those reenactments tear up the
battlefield?” asked Bortnicker, refilling his milk glass.

“They’re not held on the park grounds,” said
Mike.

“Where do they have them, then?” asked T.J.,
stunned at this revelation.

“Well, there are a couple of farms that
border the national park. They’ve been alternating between them the
past few years. Having the reenactment in the same place every year
would just ruin whatever grounds served as the stage.

“You guys don’t live here so you have no idea
what a huge undertaking this is. This is the 147
^th
anniversary of the battle, not a ‘major’ one. They come every five
years. But even though, they’re estimating like 25,000 spectators
will be spread out over the four days. They’re building a small
town on the donated farm, with event tents, bleachers, sanitary
facilities, concession and souvenir areas, police and security, the
whole works. I’d hate to be Al Warren while this is going on.”

“How long have they been having the
reenactments?” asked Bortnicker.

“Around fifteen years,” said Mike. “And it
gets bigger each time, and a little more commercial as well, sorry
to say. Just to get in, spectators have to pay twenty-five dollars
and up, and it’s usually hot as blazes.

“There will be one ‘battle’ each day,
depicting a specific segment from the three-day battle that
actually happened. Pickett’s Charge, the real biggie, is Sunday,
the 4
^th
of July.”

“How many reenactors will there be?” asked
T.J.

“Gotta figure, counting both sides, between
2,000 and 2,500. Plus twenty or so cannons and around
one-hundred-fifty mounted cavalry.”

“Wow,” said Bortnicker.

“Like I said, it’s a very big deal. The
town’s gonna be bursting at the seams, and that’s how the Chamber
of Commerce likes it. But for the police, local EMTs and hospitals,
and even the park rangers, it can be a logistical nightmare.”

“Lots of injuries?” said T.J.

“Oh, yeah. You’ve got reenactors falling off
horses that get spooked by the cannon, dehydration issues because
of the heavy uniforms, and spectators getting heat stroke from
getting to their primo location bleacher seats early and then just
baking there for hours awaiting the action.

“What never ceases to amaze me are how many
reenactors are way overweight. I mean, your typical Civil War
soldier was trim, and Lee’s Army was
starving
. These guys
show up having poured tons of money into perfectly replicated
uniforms and accoutrements, but having no clue as to what a Civil
War era soldier should look like. They figure, ‘Well, I grew my
hair longer and have a scraggly beard, so I look the part.’ Then
they keel over from the heat. Ridiculous.”

“Well, Daddy, everyone can’t be as buff as
you,” chided LouAnne.

“It’s not that, honey. I believe if you want
to really pay homage to history and give people the real deal, the
least you could do is ease up on the Big Macs for a while, you
know?”

“But people don’t actually get shot, do
they?” asked Bortnicker.

“No, of course not. Whether our weapons are
real like mine, which is extremely rare, or just replicas, they
fire blanks. On top of that, nobody under sixteen is permitted to
fire a black powder weapon, and nobody, and I mean
nobody
,
is allowed to even carry real ammo as a prop. Then, you have to
point your gun at an elevated angle, never point directly at the
enemy, and you can’t get closer than twenty-five yards.”

“So it isn’t
totally
authentic,” said
Bortnicker.

“Nah, not really. You have to use your
imagination a bit,” admitted Mike, polishing off his last forkful.
“Well, I gotta get going. Breakfast was great, Bortnicker.”

“What about me?” cried Terri in mock
anger.

“You too, sweetie,” he said, leaning over to
kiss the top of her head as he went by.

“Hey, Uncle Mike, want some company at the
range?” asked T.J.

“Really? You want to go back?”

“Why not? It’ll help the time go by faster
today. Get my mind off tonight.”

“Sure thing. I’ll bring the pistol and my
rifle, though I’ll only be using the rifle in the reenactment. Only
officers are allowed to carry sidearms.”

“I’ll be going into town,” said Bortnicker.
“The only shops I haven’t checked out are the ones that supply the
reenactors. It should be educational.”

“Oh yeah,” said Mike. “Wait till you see the
prices!”

“You don’t even have to ask where I’ll be,”
LouAnne said with a sigh. “But my day will go quickly. Those kids
keep me hopping, and Mrs. Spath lets me eat whatever I want!”

As T.J. climbed into the truck with his
uncle, Mike handed him a sheaf of papers. “Figured I’d let you read
this on the way over,” he said. “It’s all the rules and regulations
put out by the organizing committee for reenactors.”

T.J. let out a low whistle as he began
pouring over the literature. “So, there are two types of spectator
seating for these events?” he asked.

“Yeah. There’s general admission, where
people stand or bring their own lawn chairs, and bleacher seating,
which costs extra. I’m telling you, it’s a big production.”

“Oh, man,” T.J. said, eyeing another page.
“You’ve got a pretty lengthy safety code here.”

“And for good reason. You don’t want some
yahoo trying to steal the show by pulling a stunt that puts other
reenactors and spectators at risk. Each company appoints a
designated Safety Officer, who reports to the Brigade Safety
Officer, who reports to the Army Headquarters Officer. There’s an
inspection conducted prior to each battle.”

“What if someone’s in violation of the
rules?”

“He isn’t allowed to participate.”

“How’s your unit on this stuff?”

“We’re pretty good. Most of us are veterans
and our unit has never had a violation, so we’re not overly
scrutinized. There have been some units who have been caught a few
times and thus aren’t allowed to attend reenactments.”

“Other battlefields have them?”

“Oh, yeah. All the major ones do it yearly,
some of the smaller ones here and there. But this is the big one.
That’s why it draws participants from all over the world.”

“What if you’re some guy, say, in England,
and you want to come over and do it?”

“They’ll assign you to a unit, pretty much.
You can’t just be running around out there. These battle
reenactments are carefully scripted to mirror the actual events,
though on an obviously smaller scale. We even know who’s gonna die
or get wounded.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. Think about it, T.J. You can’t have
a battle where nobody gets killed. So, we volunteer or even draw
straws ahead of time to see who goes down.”

“Wow. I never realized it was so
organized.”

“It has to be. And if you think it’s
stringent for us infantrymen, just imagine all the additional
rules for mounted soldiers and cavalry, or the artillery
batteries.”

“So you guys are pretty meticulous about
being historically correct.”

“You have no idea. From the uniforms to the
weapons to our canteens and eating utensils to our tents and
sleeping equipment. If anybody is even a little off on this stuff
he gets mercilessly ragged on.”

“But LouAnne said you don’t go in for the
camp out part.”

“That’s true, although there are all kinds of
designated camps; one for Union troops, one for Confederate, and
one for dependents and family of soldiers where you have men and
women reenacting the roles of doctors, cooks, seamstresses, etc.
But, just like the soldiers, they have to be well versed on their
roles.”

“Did Aunt Terri ever participate?”

Mike gave a short, snorting laugh. “No, your
aunt isn’t a big fan of all this. The last thing she wants is to be
dragging around in some big hoop skirt on a ninety degree day. She
just says, ‘You can go play with your friends, Mike.’ She attends
the reenactment as a spectator when I participate, though. Says
it’s to make sure I don’t get killed, but I think she gets a kick
out of it. And, of course, LouAnne spends her whole summer
reenacting at the Charney House, so she doesn’t feel the need to
suit up for the battle as well, though she’d be one of the
best.”

“That’s for sure.”

They arrived at the range and set up a booth,
where T.J. impressed his uncle with his memorization of the
loading and firing procedure of the .44. He even hit the target
more times than he missed.

Mike was clearly a great marksman, deftly
loading and shooting his rifle and hitting the mark consistently.
Uncle and nephew joked with each other and thoroughly enjoyed their
day of shooting, then retired to the same burger joint for a hearty
lunch and gallons of iced tea. It was while they were awaiting the
bill that Mike’s cell phone beeped. He clicked it open and read the
caller ID. “That’s odd. It’s my Civil War unit commanding officer,”
he said. “Wants me to call him. Says it’s important. Give me a few
minutes, T.J., okay?”

“Sure. I’ll just hang out here and watch
SportsCenter
,” he said, pointing to a TV over the bar.

Mike returned a few minutes later, grinning
from ear to ear, and sat down across from T.J. “Talk about
coincidence, this is eerie!” he began.

“What’s up, Uncle Mike?”

“Okay, so that was my commander, Colonel
Pelham. Actually, his real name is Jack Pelham, and he’s a computer
technician with some big marketing agency in Philly. Anyway, his
twin sons are our unit’s drummer boys.”

“Drummer boys?”

“Oh yeah, most units have ‘em. Well, it seems
these kids are on the same Babe Ruth League travel team that just
made their league playoffs, and they have to play in a regional
tournament in Pittsburgh during the Reenactment Days. Their dad
said they had to make a choice, and they chose the tournament,
since both guys are starters. Needless to say, Jack’s not happy.
So, we’re scrounging for at least one drummer boy.”