Last Ghost at Gettysburg (35 page)

“This is it!” cried Bortnicker. “He’s coming
straight for us!” Indeed, Hilliard had hung a sharp left and now
was on course for the center section of the Union line occupied by
the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania. Wave after wave of remaining
Rebels parted as he blew through their lines. When Hilliard was
less than fifty yards from the wall he drew his revolver, Brutus’
reins tightly clenched in his other hand.

“No!” screamed LouAnne, and before T.J. could
react she was by him, scrambling over the wall in Hilliard’s
direction. Just as quickly, Bortnicker threw off his drum and
bolted after her, displaying incredible speed and athleticism that
he’d pulled from some unknown source.

Momentarily frozen, T.J. now sprang into
action, following the process he’d gone over so many times in his
mind the previous days. Shucking his drum kit, he reached inside
his blue tunic for Uncle Mike’s .44 Colt, praying that he’d loaded
it correctly in the tent that morning, praying that he’d have the
nerve to fire it, praying that his aim would not fail him. But this
wasn’t a calm summer day at the range with his uncle. He was in the
eye of a maelstrom, men “fighting” hand-to-hand all around him,
sweat and smoke stinging his eyes and his head pounding from the
incessant gunfire. He wished he had time to really aim but there
was
no time. His foolish cousin and best friend were about
to be run down by a ghost on a maniacal mission to validate his
heroism. They were almost twenty yards away from the wall when
Bortnicker finally caught LouAnne from behind, bringing her down
with a waist-high tackle. As they fell forward T.J. raised the
revolver, his hand refusing to stop shaking. Hilliard seemed to
look him dead in the eye, a sneer curling his lips as he recognized
the boy he’d thought was the son of Stonewall Jackson, garbed in
Yankee blue. He leveled his weapon and—

Boom!

A rifle cracked next to T.J.’s right earlobe,
deafening him and causing his own weapon to discharge straight into
the air. The rifle bullet struck Hilliard high in the chest, and
reflexively he threw his arms skyward, a red flower blossoming
amid the brass buttons of his uniform front. At that moment he
literally exploded, the tremendous flash of fire causing everyone
in the immediate area to crumple to the ground. T.J., paralyzed
with fear, turned to see his uncle, breathing hard, lower the
Sharps rifle from his shoulder. Then he was off, vaulting the wall
like a linebacker hurdling a pulling guard, sprinting toward the
last place he’d seen his daughter before the explosion.

“I’m right behind you, Uncle Mike!” the boy
yelled, dropping the revolver and following in his wake as the
Confederate attack realized its high water mark.

By the time they reached the fallen teens
LouAnne had turned Bortnicker, who had shielded her with his own
body as Hilliard attempted to trample them, over onto his back. She
knelt at this side, sobbing. “He’s dead! He’s dead! Help me
somebody!” Her army cap had flown off amid the chaos and her blond
locks swirled around her shoulders. But the reenactors from both
sides who surrounded her barely noticed. The show was nearing its
conclusion, and as the Confederates began falling back, there were
“wounded” crying out all around.

Mike Darcy grabbed his daughter’s uniform
jacket and pulled her away as T.J. slid in alongside his fallen
friend, whose glasses were broken and his sooty face streaked with
blood. “Bortnicker! Bortnicker!” he screamed above the tumult,
shaking his shoulders. There was no reaction.

He started to cry. It was all his fault,
leading his cousin and his best friend on an impossible quest to
deal with forces he had no comprehension of. By this time LouAnne
had pulled free of her father and was behind T.J., hugging him,
crying into his shoulder as Mike stood helplessly at their
side.

“It’s all my fault,” whispered T.J. “I’m so,
so sorry, Sam.” His shoulders heaved spasmodically.

Bortnicker’s right eye fluttered. Then his
left. And then a crooked grin creased his dirty lips. “So, let me
get this straight,” he said tiredly. “I’ve gotta
die
to get
you to call me by my first name?”

“You’re alive!” wailed LouAnne, throwing
herself upon the fallen drummer boy and clutching him tightly.

“This isn’t half bad,” he croaked. “I should
get killed more often!”

At that moment Al Warren, wheezing mightily,
and Rudy Herzog pulled up alongside Mike and the kids. “Coach,”
said Rudy, a look of consternation on his face from the realization
that he and the Chief were sticking out like sore thumbs in the
last moments of the battle, “is, uh, everything alright here?”

Mike looked down at the three laughing teens
engaged in a celebratory dog pile. “Couldn’t be better, Rudy. So,
what brings you and the Chief here?”

Warren wasn’t amused. “Mr. Darcy, would you
and the kids please come with us,” he managed, bent over with his
hands on his knees.

“Sure, Chief. C’mon guys, show’s over,” he
said with resignation while the immense crowd thundered its
applause for the conclusion of the 147
^th
Anniversary
Reenactment of Pickett’s Charge.

The group wound their way through straggling
Union and Rebel soldiers who were now shaking hands, exchanging
pleasantries, posing for photos or gathering equipment discarded
during the throes of battle. Spectators streamed toward the parking
fields, the realization suddenly upon them that they were back in
2010. Horses and cannon were led to trailers, and concessionaries
on nearby fields did a brisk business in cold drinks and ice
cream.

Warren was the first to speak when they
reached the cruiser, which was now surrounded by a host of
interested parties, including Bruce Morrison, Colonel Pelham, Matty
and his brothers, and Aunt Terri. She’d been unable to stay away
and had viewed the entire drama from a corner of the grandstand.
“Just tell me, straight out. What the hell was going on out there?”
he barked.

“As far as what?” said Bortnicker
innocently.

“You can just zip it, young man,” said the
Chief, pointing his finger at the teen. He turned to Mike. “Mr.
Darcy, could you please explain what these three adolescents were
doing out there in the middle of a dangerous situation?”

“Well,” said Mike cautiously, “the boys were
enlisted as drummers. As for my daughter,” he said with a hint of
anger, “I have no idea.”

“This is most uncommon,” broke in Colonel
Pelham. “It in no way reflects the practices of the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania Regiment!”

“Oh, blow it out your keester, Jack,” said
Matty. “The kids just got carried away. It’s easy to get caught up
in the excitement of a battle.”

“I got it on tape! I got it all on tape!”
crowed Carlton Elway, juggling a clattering collection of video
accessories as he came running up breathlessly.

“Got what?” said Bruce Morrison.

“The horseman! The Gettysburg ghost rider! I
filmed him during the battle! He was attacking the Union line and
Darcy shot him!”

“What
Gettysburg ghost rider?” said
Pelham and the other soldiers in unison.

“Let’s take a look, Carlton,” said Warren
patiently. They all crowded around the ghost hunter as he rewound
the videotape.

“And I’m not the only one,” Elway said
confidently. “There had to be
hundreds
of people who
captured him on video before Darcy here blew him away.”

“Carlton Elway,” threatened Aunt Terri, “how
dare
you accuse my husband of doing anything else than just
playing his part as a reenactor?”

“Yeah? Then why was your
nephew
over
here, who’s supposed to be a drummer boy, waving a Colt .44 at the
same ghost?”

The assemblage immediately turned en masse to
T.J., who offered an embarrassed, “Oops.”

“Okay!” said Elway triumphantly. “Here it is!
Just watch
this
!”

They leaned in to view the 4x6 inch screen,
Rudy Herzog holding his Smokey hat over the camcorder to cut the
sun glare.

If nothing else, Carlton Elway was a skilled
video photographer. He quickly had focused the lens and narrowed
the scope of his subject to follow the magnificent cavalryman as
he’d galloped along, and then through, the lines of his fellow
Rebels in a headlong dash toward the Union center. But as much as
they squinted hard and concentrated, none could see Major Crosby
Hilliard execute his doomed charge. While it was clear that
something
had made the Confederates scatter in every
direction, and that hundreds of spectators and reenactors would
return from Gettysburg that weekend to tell of the dashing cavalier
who had “stolen the show,” Elway’s video footage, and the footage
or photographs of every shutterbug present that day, would fail to
reveal a trace of the ghost rider. There was, of course, that
confounding flash of light at the end. But, hey, wasn’t this a
battle reenactment? Who was to say some overzealous participant
hadn’t sneaked in an explosive of some sort? It could be
anything
. The group did, however, get a few laughs from
Elway’s gleeful cry of “I got you now!” that had so frightened his
companions in the grandstand.

“Yeah, that was
wonderful
, Carlton,”
said Warren, mopping his brow in the late afternoon heat. Elway
sank back against the police cruiser, utterly defeated.

“Listen, Chief,” said Mike, “if you don’t
need us anymore, I’d like to get the kids home. It’s been a long
day.”

“Yeah, sure, Mr. Darcy,” Warren replied with
a wave. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“No problem. See you around, Rudy,” he said,
shooting a wink to his former player, who tried mightily to
suppress a smile. “Bruce, see you Monday?”

“Sure, Mike,” said Morrison with a pained
smile. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Darcy,” he added politely.

“Likewise, Bruce,” said Terri. “Now, can we
all go home and get you out of those disgusting uniforms?”

As they walked toward the campground Matty
eased over to his friend. “Hey, Ranger Mike,” he whispered, “what
was the deal with the guns? I picked them up when Warren led you
off the battlefield. Both your Sharps and the boy’s pistol had
fired live rounds. What gives?”

“Matty,” Mike said, “it’s, uh, hard to
explain.”

“Hard, my butt,” said Matty. “I was playing
dead at the time so I was just lying there against the wall,
enjoying the action. I had the best seat in the house, Mikey. I saw
the guy you shot plain as day, and the coal black stallion he was
riding. Then, poof! Gone!”

“Gee, Matty,” said Mike earnestly, “I guess
you’ve got me. Maybe you should just report me to Colonel
Pelham.”

Matty threw back his head and laughed.

* * * *

The ride home in Mike’s truck was eerily
subdued. Aunt Terri drove and he sat up front with her, staring out
at the slowly moving traffic. They were all soaked in their heavy
woolen uniforms and the air conditioner hardly made a dent in their
discomfort. But still no one spoke. All were lost in their thoughts
of what had occurred that sultry afternoon.

When they pulled into the driveway it was
Aunt Terri who broke the silence. “Now you all listen to me,” she
began seriously. “I want everyone to get out of those horrible
clothes, take a shower, and we’ll meet on the front porch. I’ll
make some lemonade and sandwiches and we’ll sit and sort the whole
thing out. Now get going!”

LouAnne went in first to the hallway bathroom
while Mike used the master bathroom’s shower. This left T.J. and
Bortnicker, band aids covering the cuts above his eyes, exhausted
yet still tingling from their exploits.

“I think it’s fair to say your uncle’s ticked
off,” said Bortnicker, throwing his filthy army jacket to the
floor.

“No doubt,” agreed T.J. “But we had to do
what we did. It was the only way. I’ll tell you what, though. What
you did, running out there after LouAnne, that took a lot of
guts.”

“Thanks. I still can’t believe I caught her.
Must’ve had a massive surge of adrenaline.”

“That, and the fact that you care about
her.”

“We both do, T.J.” he said with an air of
resignation. “It is what it is.”

By the time the family reconvened on the
porch a breeze had kicked up, and with the ice cold lemonade and
turkey sandwiches it was quite pleasant. Fireworks from nearby
backyards went off here and there, reminding everyone that it was
the Fourth of July.

When she was sure everyone was served, Terri
sat next to her husband on the bench swing and gave him a
nudge.

“Okay, guys,” he said quietly. “As you can
guess, I’m really upset about today. You don’t know how lucky we
are that nobody got killed or thrown in jail. So I’ll start with
you, T.J. What made you take my gun and try to play hero?”

“Well, Uncle Mike,” said T.J., relieved that
his uncle wasn’t screaming at him, “the other night on the
battlefield we brought up the reenactment to Hilliard, which made
him go ballistic. When Bortnicker mentioned Pickett’s Charge was
going to take place, I saw this strange look in his eyes, and I
could tell he was gonna try his best to be there for it so he
could...I don’t know...make up for his failure, clear his name,
whatever. And I felt it was my responsibility to stop him, because
I started this whole thing by going for a run on the Battlefield
that first night.

“I figured, if the guy still thinks it’s 1863
then the only way to send him back would be to kill him with an old
bullet fired by an old weapon. So I borrowed your revolver and hid
it in my knapsack. What I hadn’t figured was that I’d only get one
shot, ‘cause I got interrupted in our tent before we marched to the
battlefield. I know it was stupid, and that it could’ve gone off
inside my jacket or I could’ve hit somebody accidentally out there,
but I was desperate to do this. If I just left Gettysburg without
trying to end this whole mess, I would’ve felt like I chickened
out. As it turns out, it wasn’t even me who shot him, so I don’t
know if I accomplished anything at all.”