T.J.’s Aunt Terri, a tiny, dark woman with a cheerful smile, emerged from the house, drying her hands on her apron, smelling of apple pie. “You’re just in time for dinner,” she said, offering quick hugs. “Let us feed you before you scoot off to the airport.”
“Sounds great,” said Tom. “What do you say, babe? Our last American meal for a while? Terri’s an amazing cook.”
“Sounds great,” parroted Wendy and they all went inside.
Mike pointed T.J. up the stairs. “Guest room’s the second one on the right, big guy. There are two beds, pick the one you want. You can throw your stuff in the bureau later on. Let’s eat!”
By the time T.J. washed up and made it back downstairs, the dining room table was awash with conversation and food: fried chicken, mounds of mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables from Terri’s garden, and dinner rolls hot from the oven.
“So, Wendy,” Terri said as she passed the pitcher of iced tea, “you must be so thrilled. I mean, Paris!”
“Yes, it’s pretty exciting,” Wendy agreed, barely containing her enthusiasm.
“It’ll be a great trip,” Tom said, placing his hand atop hers on the checkered tablecloth. “But I’m not sure you’ll keep T.J. busy here.”
“No problem with that,” Mike said, beaming as he shoveled a forkful of green beans into his mouth. “He can help Terri out with some of the chores and all, but there’s lots to do in town. We’re approaching the height of the tourist season and the annual battle.”
“Battle?” asked Wendy, frowning.
“Oh, yeah, every year we have the commemoration of the Battle of Gettysburg. Hundreds of Civil War reenactors from all over the world take part. I mean, there are entire units, both Union and Confederate, from various states and they come in big old trailers with artillery, horses, wagons, you name it. There are events every day of Commemoration Week all over town. The armies have designated camps where they stay, but for a week you have all these guys—and women—roaming all over town in their 1800s garb. Of course, these events draw tourists by the thousands, so the motels, campgrounds and restaurants are mobbed beyond belief. You can’t find a parking space anywhere in town.”
“And where’s the battlefield?” asked Wendy innocently.
“You’re on it,” said Mike with a wave of his fork. “This whole area, over six thousand acres including the center of town, was a battlefield from July 1 to July 3, 1863. In three days, more men died here—”
“Mike, you’re not giving a tour,” chided Terri.
“Sorry. You’re right, hon. Force of habit. Anyway, even residential areas like this sit right on the site of the battle, side by side with official national park sections. You can’t get away from it. It is what it is.”
“Hey, Uncle Mike, where’s LouAnne?” asked T.J., totally annoyed at Wendy’s ignorance of American history.
“Oh, my! I never mentioned LouAnne! What a lousy host I am. She works over at the Charney House Inn downtown. See, the Charney House is an original building from the Civil War era that served as a temporary Union headquarters during the battle. It changed hands a few times—as did most of the buildings in town—and got pretty shot up, but it survived and today is a restaurant and B&B. Everything there—the stuff on the menu, the furniture, the costumes of the wait staff—is just like it was in 1863. People like to eat there to get a real feel for the era, instead of Mickey D’s and KFC.
“LouAnne plays the part of a young girl who was there during the battle, and after dinner she has a setup in the attic where she tells the story of the citizens during the summer of 1863 and how Confederate snipers shot at people from that very space. And I have to say, she’s pretty convincing. LouAnne’s too young to be formally employed, but she makes a lot of tips from tourists. Last year she made enough in one week to buy herself an iPod.”
T.J. tried to imagine his homely cousin in period garb, and the image wasn’t appealing.
“I can run you over there after dinner, T.J.,” said Mike. “See her do her schtick.”
“Sure thing,” said T.J., chewing a delicious drumstick.
The after-dinner goodbyes were brief and awkward. Both father and son promised to call or email as often as possible, and Wendy even gave the boy a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Stay out of trouble!” were his dad’s last words as he backed the car out of the long driveway. And then, with a wave, they were gone to Philly.
T.J. suspected his uncle could sense his uneasiness by the way Mike playfully cuffed him on the shoulder. “Hope you’re not down over getting stuck with us,” he said with mock seriousness.
“Nah, it’s okay, Uncle Mike. I just hope Dad doesn’t do anything crazy.”
“Like what, T.J.? Fall in love? Sometimes you just can’t help it, my friend. After all, he fell in love with my sister once upon a time. Your dad deserves to be happy. I’m sure you told him that.”
“Yeah, well, of course,” T.J. mumbled.
“So let’s go to Charney House. Have you there in a flash.”
Indeed, it was just a few minutes’ drive from Seminary Ridge to the historic section of town. T.J. remembered from an early childhood visit the blocks of row houses on Baltimore Street, invariably Pennsylvania red brick or clapboard, most sporting American flags and window baskets brimming with flowers. The entire town, in fact, was well kept. Private residences mingled with souvenir shops, museums, eateries and motels from 1950s style motor courts to modern chains. Some areas were getting a bit too commercial for T.J., but there still existed sections where, if one closed his eyes and imagined, he could hear the bullets ricocheting off brick facades and shattering windows. Though it was early summer, tourists strolled about in the twilight, individually or in groups, sporting golf shirts and Civil War-themed tee shirts, Bermuda shorts, jeans and sundresses. Some of the children wore cheap replica kepi-style army caps, both blue and gray, each topped by imitation brass crossed swords. Others brandished plastic cavalry sabers and pistols. T.J. couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.
As if reading his mind, Mike said, “Yeah, summer gets crazy here. It’s kind of like a Civil War theme park. I mean, you get the scholarly types who show proper reverence for the battlefield and the town, but then you get a lot of yahoos with no real sense of history, which they pass on to their kids, like for example that one little guy across the street slashing his buddy across the neck.” He sighed. “And then there’s the reenactors. Man, some of those guys are so hardcore, so into character, they don’t even use real toilet paper when they camp out! Parade around town in their uniforms, march into the Waffle House or Friendly’s with full backpacks on, that sort of thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ragging on what they do...they seem to have a real appreciation for history...but come on. It’s 2010.”
The truck pulled up outside a two-story brick house with stone steps leading to a first floor entrance. Surrounded by an ornate wrought iron fence, it was the very essence of pre-Civil War architecture. Warm light emanated from the first floor dining rooms, and conversation mixed with occasional laughter wafted into the front yard. “T.J.,” said Mike, “we’ve reached our destination: Charney House, circa 1810, and pretty much intact. Tell the hostess who you are and she’ll direct you to where LouAnne is in the garret.”
“The garret?”
“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you. The dining room and kitchen are on the first floor, the second floor has four rooms, so it’s like an inn. Then, on the third floor you’ll find LouAnne doing her thing. See, during the battle it was occupied for a time by Confederate sharpshooters. You can see bullet holes all over the outer walls, and the garret, uh, attic, was a good spot to hide out and pick off Yankees in the surrounding area. Tell LouAnne to call if you guys want a ride home.”
As T.J. mounted the steps with slight trepidation, he tried to imagine himself a young man in 1863 calling upon a chum or a young lady perhaps. As Mike predicted, the hostess, a plump college-age girl in full period garb, amiably directed him to the stairs.
/> “You should get there just in time for the eight o’clock performance,” she said with a wink.
Indeed, when T.J. reached the garret most of the dozen or so straight-backed wooden chairs were taken. He eased into one of the rear seats as the speaker, who was looking out the window behind her, turned to face the audience, causing T.J. to do a double-take.
It wasn’t LouAnne...or was it? Through the filmy candlelight he saw not his mousy, painfully skinny cousin, but a beautiful young girl with long, honey-blonde hair pulled back and fastened with a blue bow that matched her bulky, high-collared dress. Even so, there were the unmistakable outlines of an athletic, yet feminine figure. And her face...gone were the Coke-bottle glasses he remembered, replaced by piercing green eyes and skin of a tawny brown hue that reflected an outdoors healthiness. She was breathtaking, and all T.J. could think of was Katie Vickers, the prettiest girl in the eighth grade at Bridgefield Middle School, whom he’d pined after, but who would barely acknowledge his existence though other girls thought him “cute.” In fact, his late mom had playfully called him “my little Beatle Paul,” for his resemblance to a young Paul McCartney.
LouAnne blew Katie Vickers away. No contest.
Suddenly snapping out of his reverie, T.J. realized he’d missed the beginning of LouAnne’s presentation. He tuned in, his attention riveted to the stunning girl who held her small audience, especially the males, in a trance.
“I was only thirteen when the War Between the States came to Gettysburg,” she said. “My family had lived in the area for generations, and my father was a local boot maker. Sadly, I had lost three siblings to disease...one was just a baby. But my older brother had survived, a strapping young man who was among the first to enlist in the 72nd Pennsylvania Infantry. I had not seen him in two years, and of course Mama feared the worst. But we persevered, and I helped out around the house as much as I could. We all hoped the war would end, and had no idea it could spread this far north.
“But then we heard rumors. General Lee’s forces were on the march towards Washington...then they were in Maryland. The word was that they were deathly in need of shoes, and were looking for a factory or warehouse to outfit their horribly equipped men.” She paused for effect, glancing out the window before locking onto the audience again.
“Oh, why did they have to come here, to our sleepy little town? Was it because we stand at a crossroads? Was it because of our abundant farms whose grain and livestock would fill their stomachs? Or were we just chosen by God to bear the horrible burden of destiny?”
She’s really got them, thought T.J. Some of the women are starting to tear up!
“And so,” she continued with a sigh, “the two great armies collided. For three bloody days we townsfolk hid in our cellars as the village streets changed hands. Why, this house alone came under both Yankee and Rebel occupation. After the battle we found blood on the floor of this very garret where a Johnny Reb had been winged while sharpshooting with a long distance rifle at Union soldiers on the neighboring fields.
“When it was over, the poor citizens of Gettysburg emerged from their cellars to find the streets awash in blood and filth and the surrounding fields littered with the corpses of men, horses and cattle. Only one of our citizens had been killed—poor Jennie Wade, who was shot in the back with a stray bullet while baking bread in her kitchen—but we might as well all have been dead, as the stench of carnage and decay hung over the town for weeks afterward. Our homes all became makeshift hospitals for hundreds of wounded, mutilated men, and it seemed like forever until the thousands of dead were finally laid to rest, and the animals burned in huge pyres.
“As for my family, we were never the same. Daddy took sick shortly afterward, and was gone by October. And we never heard from my brother again.” She stood up, looking directly at T.J. “But, thank God, my cousin Thomas has come, from the great state of Connecticut, to help us put our lives back together!”
At that, the entire assemblage turned and gaped at T.J., who managed a weak wave while detecting a wry smile creep across his cousin’s lips.
“That ends our presentation, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no questions. Thank you so much for your patience. You’ve been a wonderful audience. Tips are appreciated.”
Satisfied, the people applauded politely and filed out, dropping change and small bills into a labeled ceramic jar by the garret door. When the last person had exited, LouAnne glided over and gave T.J. as much of a hug as she could manage over her cumbersome hoop skirt.
“Not bad, Cuz,” said T.J. “You almost had me bawling there.” The smell of her lilac perfume was intoxicating in an old-fashioned way.
“Ya think? Let’s see how much the touristas loved it.” She dumped the contents of the jar onto a barrel top and quickly counted it. “Twenty-one fifty? That’s all? Sheesh! I bared my soul to those people!”
“Well, I thought you did great.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t see you throwing any dinero in the jar.”
T.J.’s eyes widened. “Well, uh...” he stammered.
She laughed. “I’m just kidding, T.J. It’s great to have you here. Welcome to Gettysburg.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and he felt his face flush. “Now sit right back down, my darling cousin. I’ve got one last tour group coming up the stairs.”
So T.J., his head spinning, reclaimed his seat as a new audience filed in and took their places before the girl who was looking forlornly out the window.
Chapter Six
“Are you sure you want to walk home?” T.J. asked. “You’re not tired?”
“Nah,” said LouAnne as the last group made their way out of the garret and down the wooden staircase. “Just let me change downstairs and give Dad a ring to tell him we’re walking. I’ve been cooped up all evening in that room and could use some fresh air. Besides, it’ll give us a chance to catch up. It’s only a mile and a half. You can wait outside the Inn. I’ll just be a minute.”
As T.J. stretched his legs out front, he noticed that by 10:00 P.M. the town had quieted considerably, save for clusters of tourists being led on some kind of walk by guides dressed in period garb who held antique lanterns. A few early summer fireflies danced in the small side yards of houses.
“Okay, ready to go,” said LouAnne, bounding down the steps in faded jeans and a Beatles “Abbey Road” tee shirt that made him think briefly of his mom. Her hair swung behind her as she hit the sidewalk. “All in all, a successful night,” she said, fanning the greenbacks she’d earned in tips. “Some of this goes to the college fund, some for spending. My goal this summer is to get myself a laptop with all the bells and whistles.”
“Cool,” said T.J. as they started up Baltimore Street. He wondered how much Uncle Mike made from his park ranger salary. He also realized that he’d stupidly forgotten to bring his laptop down to Pennsylvania. Oh, well. “You were pretty convincing back there,” he offered. “How many of those talks do you do a night?”
“Depends. On the weekends and during Reenactment Week it seems I’m doing fifty in an evening. And it does get a little old at times. Some nights I end up changing my story around, adding characters to my family, blah, blah, blah. Once in a while, if tips are slow, I’ll even kill myself off, you know, die of disease a year or so after the battle. Overall, it’s a good gig. For the most part, the people are really nice. Of course, you get some guys who maybe have a couple drinks too many with dinner and try to be smart-alecky, trip you up with questions or make inappropriate remarks. Then you have some of the reenactors who show up in their uniforms and try to take over the show by quizzing me. But I know my stuff. You can’t go to school in this town without having the history drilled into you. I handle them okay. The worst are little kids. Man, some of those rug rats can’t sit still for a minute! Of course, back in the 1800s they’d just get slapped, but that’s politically incorrect these days. Not that I haven’t considered it,” she added with an impish smile that made his heart jump. What was up with that?
“Hot isn’t the word,” she answered. “’Cause there’s a lot more that you don’t see. First, I slip on a chemise and drawers. On top of that is a corset. Then comes an under petticoat, also called a privacy petticoat because you wouldn’t want anyone to look up your skirt when you’re going up the stairs, would you?”
“Guess not.”
“Then comes the hoop, followed by more petticoats to hide the boning, under sleeves and a collar, and then the dress. And, of course, socks and shoes, which you have to get on before the hoop or you’ll never reach ‘em.”
“You have to wear all that?”
“Yeah, if you want to be authentic. Mom made a lot of the stuff for me, but things like the hoop, you have to buy from one of the reenactor supply places in town, and let me tell you, it ain’t cheap.”
“I never realized you had to go through so much to be realistic.”
“T.J., we’re selling the past here. People expect that.”
They stopped abruptly on Chambersburg Street as a white and blue police cruiser flew by. “There’s something you don’t see every day,” murmured LouAnne, and she watched the vehicle until it was out of sight.
“Pretty quiet here?”
“Quiet’s not the word, Cuz. Except for the high season. But something’s going on around here. Even my dad’s been a little on edge lately.”
“But he likes being a ranger, right?”
“Oh sure, though in a way it’s the same deal that I have at the Charney Inn. He conducts special tours or talks around the battlefield for visiting dignitaries or ‘people who know people,’ if you get what I’m saying. Much better than the generic tour busses you’ll see all over the place. And let me tell you, it gets steaming on the grounds during the summer, same as it was during the actual battle. But Dad loves history, and he loves the outdoors. Do you know he has a few buddies he goes shooting with and all they use is Civil War style rifles and pistols? You know, sticking the bullet down the muzzle, using a ramrod, the whole deal. Comes home with black powder all over his face. No, thank you. But he’s like an expert at it.”
Last Ghost at Gettysburg Page 3