Rebel Spirits (7 page)

WE HUDDLE TOGETHER
on the floor in my room. It’s past midnight, same as the night Nathaniel is now telling me about, back in Gettysburg all those years ago.

“It was black as pitch, July second. You’d think the moon was ashamed to cast her countenance upon the bodies strewn in the Wheatfield. Finally, the guns were quiet for the night. I was long past limp with exhaustion and sorrow after two days of battle, but General Sickles ordered all the able-bodied men to bring in the dead. My friend Wince Carmody and I thanked
the good Lord that somebody else was on the burial detail, already digging shallow graves.”

My ears perk up. “Carmody? This inn is the Vienna Carmody House.”

Nathaniel nods. “Called after his wife. He built the house for her a dozen years after the war.”

I file this info away and wring my hands, urging him to get on with the story.

“So that night, I collapsed right where I landed, preferring to sleep in the dirt rather than struggling to my tent. Seemed like only a minute later when someone called my name. One of the drummer boys said, ‘Private Pierce, sir? I hate to bother you, sleeping like you was, but there’s another one out there.’”

My heart jumps. “Another what?” I ask, picturing a field of bodies and dead horses and blood-soaked ground.

Nathaniel squeezes my hand, which makes my heart jump again, but also soothes me. He goes on.

“The boy said, ‘A live one, sir. Don’t know if he’s one of ours, sir. Too dark to tell.’ He stood by, with a drum slung across his chest as a futile deflector of bullets, waiting until I could drag myself up. We stepped around Confederate bodies. Facedown in the stiff grass lay a soldier moaning, calling for his mother. I turned him over and saw he was no older than the
drummer boy, maybe fourteen, and he was a Reb. Entrails spilled out of the jagged hole in the boy’s gut. His eyes were glazed over, but when my face came close, they filled with fear.

“I told him, ‘I’ll not hurt you, little brother. We’ll carry you to a hospital and see what the medics can do for you.’ He cried out as we hoisted his shattered body onto the stretcher and carried him to the hospital, the one that stood up the hill there before the old house burned down.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, a stress habit. “Tell me they saved that poor kid.”

Nathaniel raises and drops his shoulders in a sigh of grief. “The docs had been working day and night. So many wounded all over the hospital. Most of the docs went home to rest a few hours before the battle would take up again in the morning. The only one on duty was that doctor I’d met earlier, and he was nearly sleeping on his feet.”

“The guy with Lincoln’s ring, right?”

Nathaniel nods again and shifts beside me. It’s amazing how comfortable I feel by his side, our hands interlocked as he talks. I’ve never felt this sort of ease touching a boy before.

“So would a Union doctor treat an enemy soldier?” I ask, trying to sort things out. “Is
that
treason?”

“It didn’t matter to the medics, Yank or Reb; it was a human life. The doctor knelt beside the Reb, shaking his head. Even if
the boy survived the gunshot wound, the pain would still be unbearable, and he’d soon die of infection; half his insides were out. But the doctor did what he could for the boy. Then in came Henry Baldwin, a soldier in my infantry. He had his wounded brother slung over his shoulder. When Henry saw that the patient I’d brought in was a Confederate, he flew into a rage, grabbed the doctor by his shirt, and tried to pull him away from the boy. The doctor wrenched himself loose and continued to treat the boy while Henry Baldwin’s brother bled out. Died.”

My heart sinks. “That’s terrible,” I whisper, even though I know Nathaniel witnessed so many other deaths. I can’t fathom it.

Nathaniel shakes his head; his long hair tickles my neck. “Henry went berserk and started throwing wild punches. Landed one on the side of the doctor’s head. I wrestled Henry to the ground. The drummer boy sat on him to keep him still ’til he simmered down. And then Baldwin said, ‘What you done, Pierce, it’s worse’n being a Rebel; it’s treason, letting the enemy get took care of before one of our own. Best watch your back. You know what comes to traitors, don’tcha?’”

“What comes to traitors?” I ask, although I’ve just read it online, but I need to hear it from Nathaniel’s mouth.

Nathaniel gets up and circles the room. I watch him, miss
ing his presence beside me. Then he sits down on the bed behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. They’re light and heavy at the same time. I lay my cheek on his hand.

“The punishment for treason is death,” he says softly. “Killing a traitor’s an honorable deed. Any soldier can do it, just shoot you dead.”

I swerve around to face Nathaniel, feeling my eyes widen. “Then Henry Baldwin was the one who killed you! Not murder. It was execution. But you weren’t committing treason, Nathaniel. You were saving a life, not betraying your country.” I’m flooded with relief to know this about him.

Nathaniel shakes his head again.

“Henry Baldwin didn’t kill me that night, and I’m not sure if he was the one who eventually shot me dead. I lived to see another day of battle. By then, we were nearly out of ammunition. Enemy was, too. We were sent into hand-to-hand combat, so close I could see the color of the enemies’ eyes. We’d been fighting dawn to dusk, and Meade’s army was nearing defeat. The Rebs were after Culp’s Hill, which we were doing our best to hold on to. The guns quieted for two minutes, and some of the men made a run for it to find a safer position. That was when I thought I saw Edison Larch running off a ways.”

I give a start. “Edison? Your childhood friend?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t be sure,” Nathaniel says. “I was exhausted. I lost sight of him, and then the bullets started flying again, and that was the last of it. Could’ve been; could’ve
not
been.” Nathaniel takes a deep breath. “But that distraction cost me. I was stabbed in the shoulder, and overcome by a terrible pain.”

“Oh no.” I lean in closer, drenched in misery for him. My feelings are all twisted into knots of belief and doubt. I wonder if this cascade of feelings is normal for … love.

Nathaniel goes on. “I stumbled into my tent, joining a dozen other battle-dazed men. I collapsed on my cot, pressing a bloody rag to my shoulder and clenching my teeth to steel myself against the pain.”

My hand flies to my own shoulder, burning as if I were feeling Nathaniel’s searing pain myself.

“As I fell onto the cot, I noticed a small green pouch in the corner, and I recognized it — it belonged to the doctor. My wound was making me delirious but I remember reaching inside and finding the ring. President Lincoln’s ring. The doctor’s lucky charm. In my haze, I thought that I should keep it for him. He must have dropped it after tending to another wounded soldier.”

I nod, trying to imagine the scene in the tent. The chaos and confusion. Nathaniel continues.

“My good friend Wince Carmody, he’d spent a month studying surgery before the war, so he knew what he was doing.”

“A month, and he was a surgeon? It takes eight years now to learn that stuff.”

“How much could there be to learn?” he asks incredulously. “Wince knew what to do. He cut the torn jacket away from my shoulder, cleaned the wound with a sliver of soap from his haversack, and bound the shoulder in a figure eight, under and over my arm. Used a hank of cloth torn from his own sheet as a bandage. Then he boiled a healing tea — lavender and mint I think it was — to soothe me to sleep. I knew the pain would surge back to me with the coming dawn.

“I was in twilight, not sure if I was awake or asleep, when Henry Baldwin burst into our tent. The doctor was right behind him, wildly shouting about how one of us, Baldwin or I, stole something of value from him. I could barely keep my eyes open, and couldn’t have lifted my head, but Wince got up to settle the argument. The doc was in a frenzy of rage, demanding to know which one of us was the thief. Baldwin shouted at the doctor, ‘You’re one to talk, you murderer, you. You let my brother Jimbo bleed to death right there in front of you while you fussed over a enemy soldier which was drug in by Pierce, over there, fakin’ injury.’

“Baldwin pointed to me, called me a cowardly traitor for
letting his brother die. He squatted beside my cot, tried to rough me up a little, and all I could do was grunt with the pain, until the doctor put a stop to it by yanking Baldwin up. I sank back, the pain scorching me something fierce. Doc was glaring at me and hissing, ‘You know what was stolen, what I treasured above all else, Pierce.’”

I sit up straight. “The ring! Abraham Lincoln’s ring! The one you found on the cot!”

“Yes, Lorelei, but I wasn’t putting two and two together then, hanging on the edge of life like I was. In that moment, I had completely forgotten I had the ring on me. By then, all the men in the tent were awake, some hurting from wounds, and all hollering for quiet, and Wince asked what it was the doctor was missing. He answered, ‘A small thing wrapped up tight in a green bag. I’d rather not say what; it’s personal.’ He said Baldwin probably took it out of his pocket and Baldwin shouted, ‘You accusin’ me, a man what just lost his one and only brother? You are a cold fish, Doc, cold as an arctic blast.’”

Nathaniel’s breath comes in shallow gasps. He’s far away from me, steeped in the visions and smells, and then he wrenches himself back, squeezing my hand.

“So, the doctor turned hateful eyes on me, said I must have reached into his pocket while the fight with Baldwin was swinging left and right.”

“But you were practically dead,” I remind Nathaniel.

“I was, but Doc was a madman that night, not thinking straight because he hadn’t slept in three nights. Well, then, Wince pushed Baldwin out of our tent and asked, could the doctor have just dropped the treasure. Doc shook his head, telling us it was an amulet that had kept him alive even when he was out there on the battlefield bringing in the wounded while bullets were flying. Gentling down a little, he brushed his ashen face with dry-papery hands. Even with one eye open, I could see blood embedded under his fingernails. Then, like a man defeated, he staggered out of the tent.

“So, after things calmed down, I tried to sleep. My pulse was racing and I knew I was in bad shape, losing so much blood. I put my hand to my heart to try to slow its drumming and tapped something in my pocket. With my one good hand, I slid the small green bag out of the pocket.”

“The doctor’s ring,” I say.

Nathaniel nods. “I promised myself that I’d return it to the doctor, soon as I had the strength to get up on my feet. I sure didn’t want to carry the guilt to the grave, just in case I didn’t make it through the night.”

“Tell me you did
not
steal the ring from the doctor.”

“I did not. At least, I think I didn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you know? Anyway, what reason on earth would
you have to steal it?” I ask indignantly, feeling doubt creeping back into my bones.

“Reason, Lorelei? Wasn’t a lot of it during those three days of battle. You have to understand the stresses and perplexity, the pain, the noise, the putrid stench of rotting flesh, the blood-slippery ground, the exhaustion. All that’ll drive a man to insanity, believe me. Believe me,” he says again.

I nod. I do.

“I managed to wake Wince and he promised to take care of the ring, to bring it to the doctor in the morning. He sat me up then to spoon a little tea in my mouth. And that’s —” He shakes his head. “That is the last real memory I have of that night. There was something of a scuffle in the tent, and then a loud shot. I felt a pain in my back that was at once sharper and duller than the pain in my shoulder. I don’t think I’d even realized I’d been shot. The next thing I knew, I was floating up and seeing my dead body, from a great distance. But I couldn’t see anything else around me. It was all black and fuzzy. I don’t know who killed me, or why.”

There’s a long silence. Tears fill my throat, and I’m about to ask him if he has any suspects. But then I hear thundering footsteps that stop at my door, and a furious knock.

“Mrs. Chase! Mrs. Chase! HELP!”

I RECOGNIZE THE
young voices, and I leap to my feet. “It’s the McLean boys. You’d better go, Nathaniel.”

He nods, and the air around me changes so that I know he’s gone just as the door bursts open and the boys, plus Brownie the dog, trot right into my room.

“I’m not a missus anybody,” I tell them, annoyed at being interrupted. My thoughts are still on Nathaniel and the horrible story he told me. “My name’s Lori. Why did you rampage in here like the house was going up in smoke?”

Then I notice that Max is all blubbery with tears, and I feel bad. Jake, the older boy, can barely get his words out.

“We — we heard somebody downstairs who wasn’t s’posed to be.”

“I’m sure it’s just one of our guests having a restless night, pacing around the parlor,” I tell them, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of fear. Is Nathaniel still here somewhere, listening? If I knew he was close by, I’d feel safer.

Jake shakes his head wildly. “Me and Max were sleeping next to an open window, and we heard an awful scream. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Please don’t die on my watch,” I say.

Jake continues in a panic. “So me and Max went exploring and we saw a guy going down to the basement.”

The night is hot and still; not a breath of wind, but I feel chilled to the bone. I try to remain calm, though. I tell them, “It’s an old house. The floors creak, wind wails through the walls. There are shadows in strange places.”
Oh, and there’s a ghost here, too.
“Besides,” I add, “why didn’t you tell your parents what you saw?”

Max is still sniffling. Jake replies, “There’d be no point in trying to wake them. Daddy could sleep through a bomb blast,” Jake says. “Mama, too.”

I heave a sigh. The skeptical side of me is certain they’ve been imagining things, but I can’t help thinking of that figure in the shed. Even though I’m scared, I grab my flashlight. I try to be brave, like Nathaniel was as a soldier. I usher the boys and Brownie out of my room.

“Okay, let’s go see,” I tell them. “I’ll show you there’s nobody there.”

The wide beam of the flashlight livens every corner on the second floor, where all the bedroom doors are closed. No screams. Something Bertha said flashes through my mind: People staying in this house have reported hearing the screams of wounded soldiers, or at least of their spirits that linger in agonized eternity.

We creep down another flight of stairs, and I flip all the switches to flood the first floor with light. Mom and Dad’s door is closed. All the public rooms are empty, and Gertie’s deep into dreamland in her doggy bed on the screened porch. I turn my flashlight toward the boys and Brownie, who tries to leap out of Jake’s arms to cuddle with Gertie.

The light at the top of the steep, narrow basement stairs is just a bare bulb, very dim, but I bathe the steps ahead of us with my high-beam flashlight. My knees are knocking. I don’t want the boys to see that my hands are shaking, so I steady the
flashlight and we start down the creaky stairs. Everything smells sour, like laundry left overnight in the washer.

The original kitchen was in the basement, and there’s a leftover coal-burning stove shoved into a corner, tilting on three legs. Its black ventilation chute reaches up and stops just short of the ceiling, which is crisscrossed with exposed pipes coated with white plaster. Water rushes through the pipes; maybe someone flushed a toilet upstairs. Good. At least someone else is awake in the house to hear us if we scream.

There’s not much stored in the basement except folding chairs and a rolled-up carpet and some paint drums. Otherwise, the room is empty. Relief rushes through me.

“See? All clear. Nobody down here,” I whisper. “Let’s all go up to bed.”

Jake opens the oven door and sticks his head into the gaping black. “Nobody in there,” he announces. Then Max kicks over a plastic crate, and behind it is a tiny skeleton of a squirrel or raccoon.

“Cool!” Jake cries.

“Don’t touch it, guys.” Didn’t I read somewhere that you can get rabies from animal carcasses? These bones are so dry, though, that they’d turn to powder with the slightest pressure.

Jake points to a door on the west wall. “Where’s that go?”

“Water heater, furnace, that stuff. Back to bed.”

“I hear something in there, don’t you?” Jake tiptoes over to the door. Brownie’s
yip-yapping
in his staccato bark that wouldn’t scare anything mightier than a gnat. When Jake reaches for the doorknob, it rattles loose and comes off in his hand. “Yipes!” He drops it like it’s steaming.

“Shh. You too, Brownie.” Now I also hear something on the other side of the door. “Get behind me, boys.” My heart is racing. I wriggle my finger in the doorknob hole to work the latch; the door swings open. We all three jump back in shock, the boys clinging to my skirt.

Old Dryden’s in there on the floor, his butt sticking out from under a table! He turns his head toward us, eyes wild with fear — or is it fury?

Brownie’s a wreck, running around in circles while Max tries to shush him.

“What are you doing?” I ask Old Dryden. He stands and smoothes down the Hawaiian shirt that’s riding up over his bowling-ball belly. The boys peek around me, still glued to my waist, and Jake asks boldly, “Were you the one doing all that screaming bloody murder?”

Old Dryden snarls. “Never made a peep ’til you come along.”

“But we heard you,” Max cries, trying to hold a struggling Brownie.

“Raging spirits,” Old Dryden says. “Left over from the hospital days.” His face cruelly twists. “Doctor only needed twelve minutes to cut off a whole leg. Arm, less than that.”

I’m no longer frightened, just annoyed. “You are totally scaring the boys, Mr. Dryden. Why are you still here at this hour?”

He doesn’t answer me.

“Jake and Max, go on upstairs, quick. Get in your room and lock the door.” I hear their footsteps scamper across the kitchen floor above me. I’m alone with Old Dryden, which is not smart. I march him toward the stairs with the flashlight thrust into his back, kidney level. Of course, he could kill me just by backing up and butting me down the stairs, but he’s clutching the banister and breathing heavily, one slow step at a time, probably concentrating on just staying alive ’til the top. The man needs a fitness program.

At the garden door, I watch him with narrowed eyes as he staggers out into the night. Then I throw the bolt so he can’t get back in.

But how did he get in in the first place?

Back in my own room upstairs, I tumble into my bed fully clothed. This is getting to be a bad habit.

As I’m trying to set my heart to normal speed, I wonder about Old Dryden. He’s supposed to be sleeping, hibernating,
like Bertha said, until July fourth. In his own house. What’s he doing prowling around in our basement, and if he had a legitimate reason to be there, why was he hiding? Too many bizarre things going on here. I need a reasonable person to help me sort all this out. I slide my laptop out from under the bed, open Skype, and click on Randy’s name.

It’s early morning in Ghana. He doesn’t pick up. I hit the phone icon again, listen to the chirpy ring, get the message
Call Ended
. Then I remember he said he’d be out in some village visiting the sacred crocodiles or hippos. Out there on the savanna, the only electricity is from a generator, probably hand-cranked, for a six-bed hospital in a Quonset hut. Jocelyn is almost just as hard to reach. But I’ve got to get some answers somewhere. I wish Nathaniel were here now, but I still don’t know how to
call
him. And I’ve stupidly told him not to hover around or pop up unexpectedly.

Evan. I don’t have his cell number, can’t text him, and certainly can’t call his house phone in the middle of the night. But I know his e-mail, so I send him a quick message. No answer. I decide not to stay up waiting, so I close my “talking machine,” as Nathaniel calls it, and drift into an uneasy sleep.