“Your father’s on the phone from Paris.”
“Oh, okay. Give me a sec.” He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where his aunt handed him the phone.
“Hey, big guy, what’s doing?” asked Tom Jackson, Sr.
“Not much,” yawned T.J. “What time is it there?”
“We just finished lunch and we’re back at the apartment. I’m looking out my window at Notre Dame Cathedral as we speak.”
“Neat. Uh, how’s Wendy?”
“She’s fine. This is a great place, but like any foreign city it takes some getting used to. And neither of us is exactly an expert of the language. But it’s a beautiful city.”
“Uh huh. How’s the project going?”
“It’s going. We’ve hit a few snags here and there with contractors and whatnot.”
T.J. groaned inwardly. “So you’ll be there longer than you planned?”
“Not much, hopefully. Hey, I emailed you about all this, a couple times.”
“I forgot my laptop at home.”
“Oh, I see. Did Uncle Mike tell you I called a week ago?”
“Yeah. He gave me the message.” T.J. was having a hard time masking his disappointment.
“So, what’s going on over there? Anything exciting?”
Oh, nothing much, Dad, except maybe this ghost I ran into the other night.
“Bortnicker’s here.”
“What? Bortnicker? How come?”
“Uncle Mike said he could keep me company. Besides, he loves all this Civil War stuff, and LouAnne is busy most of the time. She’s got like fifteen jobs.”
“I hope you’re not excluding her, son. You’ve always considered her a little nerdy. You’re at least taking notice of her?”
No problem there, Dad. “Yeah, Bortnicker and I have been hanging out with her. She’s not so bad.” He could hear Wendy rummaging through some drawers in the background. Obviously, they were sharing the apartment. Yikes.
“Well, I’ve gotta get going, son. As soon as I have a handle on when this project’s going to get done, I’ll let you know. A few more weeks, give or take. Until then, have fun and try not to get bored. I’ll think of something exciting for us to do when I get back. Just you n’me, okay?”
“Sounds great.”
“Okay then, be careful. Take care of Bortnicker and be nice to your cousin.”
“Right, Dad.”
“Love ya.”
“I know.” T.J. gently replaced the receiver of the wall phone. He turned, met the eyes of Aunt Terri who was regarding him from the sink, then shuffled back upstairs to wake Bortnicker.
Chapter Sixteen
“Bortnicker, you’re amazing me,” said LouAnne as she lifted a forkful of blueberry pancakes to her lips. “Where did you learn to make these?”
“My mom,” he said proudly, carving the edges from his own stack so it resembled a Rubik’s Cube. “She likes to cook, and I like to eat, so I help her whip up stuff at home.”
“Do you cook, T.J.?” she asked, turning to her cousin who was forking some country ham onto his plate.
“Nope. I just eat.”
“Yeah,” cracked Bortnicker, “you’ve gotta see T.J. and his dad when they get going. There’s like sparks coming off their silverware!” Even T.J. had to laugh at that one. It was true. One of the most fun things father and son did together was order out humongous amounts of Chinese or Indian or Mexican food, mix a huge pitcher of iced tea, and have at it. Usually there was so much surplus that Bortnicker had to be called in to assist.
They were busy putting a dent in the pile of flapjacks when Aunt Terri (who’d supplied the blueberries for the batter) came in, her gardening overalls dirty at the knees. She wiped some sweat from her forehead with a working gloved hand, leaving a smear of dirt across her eyebrow, smiled, and rolled something across the table to T.J. “For you,” she said. “Souvenir of Gettysburg.”
Bortnicker recognized the item immediately. “Wow! A Minié ball! Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, they pop up from time to time in the vegetable patch,” said Terri, pouring herself some orange juice. “Year after year, we’re good for a few.”
“Why do they call it a Minié ball?” asked T.J., holding it to the light between his forefinger and thumb.
“They named it after the guy who invented it,” said Bortnicker. “If it struck bone you were cooked. It would splinter the bone, and you’d probably have to have an amputation, if it was an arm or leg.”
“What if it just hit flesh?”
“Then you’d probably die of infection,” said LouAnne. “That’s how I kill off my brother sometimes at the Charney Inn.”
“Well, enjoy it,” said Aunt Terri. “I’ve got to get back outside.” She put her glass in the sink and returned to the garden.
The three teens were again alone. “So, guys, what’s your plan?” said LouAnne. “Are we going ghost hunting?”
“Not yet,” said Bortnicker. “I’ve gotta do some research first. T.J., can we pay another visit to the battlefield and the museums?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing every day since I got here, man?” he moaned.
“Yeah, I know that, but I want to look for stuff about Confederate cavalry in the battle, since your ghost buddy seems to be a mounted Reb.”
LouAnne looked at the wall clock. “Well, guys, I’ll clean up in here. It’s the least I can do after that feast our gourmet chef cooked up.”
Bortnicker gave a slight bow and said, hopefully, “You’ll be joining us?”
“’Fraid not. I promised Mom I’d help her clean the chicken coop. Besides, you don’t need me. T.J.’s becoming quite the expert.”
Her cousin blushed, which did not go unnoticed by his friend. “Yeah, let’s go into town and try to hook up with Uncle Mike,” he said. “Maybe you’ll see some stuff I didn’t.”
“Could we come to the Inn tonight, LouAnne?” asked Bortnicker. “I haven’t seen your act yet.”
“Sure. It’ll break the monotony. But listen, no silly questions, okay?”
“Who, me?” said Bortnicker, grinning slyly.
* * * *
Bortnicker proved to be correct upon their second, more comprehensive Visitor Center Museum expedition. T.J. kept finding things he’d missed before.
They started in an area devoted solely to the strategy of the battle, Bortnicker’s thick glasses reflecting the cases that displayed documents and maps. He started what would be a continuous stream of consciousness, talking to himself as much as his friend.
“After Lee won at Chancellorsville in May of 1863, he took his army through the Shenandoah Valley into the North. He wanted to get to Harrisburg or even Philadelphia because he felt the Northerners would be dispirited enough to give up on the war and maybe work out a treaty. Also, he needed food and supplies badly, and wanted to get the devastation off southern turf, at least in the East, ‘cause at the same time Grant’s army was pounding the Rebs in Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was a pretty bold move, but Lee was at his strongest for a northern strike.
“By the time everybody got lined up you had like 165,000 troops...infantry, cavalry, artillery, the whole deal. The Confederates were overmatched in numbers, but they had Lee. This guy, George Meade, was the Union commander at the moment, ‘cause Lincoln kept changing his commanders of the Army of the Potomac due to their losing.”
“The luncheonette in town’s named after him,” offered T.J.
“Man, everything in this town is named after someone in the battle, probably down to the municipal parking lots.”
“So, why did the battle have to take three days?”
“Well, Day One was mostly getting regiments into position and establishing the front lines. As I think I told you a while back, Lee actually approached the town from the northwest, Meade from the south. There was some fighting, and the Union troops got pushed around some.
“That’s when General Reynolds got killed,” said T.J.,
recalling the monument in the woods near where he’d met the ghost rider.
“Right you are. So on Day Two, Lee started pounding the Union lines all over. Little Round Top became a major strategic point because the Union could put their artillery there and blast down on the Rebs. So you had these areas like Devil’s Den, the Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard, Culp’s Hill and Cemetery Hill...fighting going on all over the place.”
“I’ve run past all those places with LouAnne,” mused T.J. “Bussed past them, too.”
Either Bortnicker didn’t hear him or was so zoned-in that he passed over this and just kept going. “So the Union held their positions on Day Two, which led to one of the major turning points of the war. Lee basically rolled the dice and threw the kitchen sink against the center of the Union line on Cemetery Ridge.”
“Pickett’s Charge!” called out T.J.
“Right again, Big Mon. They almost broke through, but the Federals finally threw them back. And that was it, more or less, for the Army of Northern Virginia. Even though they managed to drag it out for two more years. Hey T.J., come look at this.”
They were in front of the Confederate uniforms display. “If you remember what we did in Mr. O’Neill’s class, the Northern soldiers had much better equipment because most of the heavy industry was there. So they had real pants, jackets and shoes. Some had outfits that were kinda out there, like those Zouave units from New York.”
“Those guys in the red balloon pants?”
“Yep. But, by and large, they looked like an army. The southern soldiers, on the other hand, were a real mishmash. Some wore gray, some wore brown. They wore the same uniforms year round with no replacements. They’d take shoes off dead guys to replace their own. Same thing with weapons.
“But the Confederate cavalry officers, like the man you ran into, were big into fancy uniforms, which made sense because a lot of the officers came from wealthy families and could afford to have their stuff custom tailored. Do any of these look familiar to you?”
They slowly shuffled sideways, T.J. looking for similarities to what he remembered from that dark night. The Confederate showcase stretched the length of the room, with so many more variations than the Union’s. Suddenly he grabbed Bortnicker’s shoulder. “Whoa. Wait a second. This looks close.”
The uniform before them was a medium gray, with a three-quarter length frock coat topping a pair of gray breeches with pale yellow stripe down the side. The coat itself had gold cuffs and a standup collar with an attached gold star. There were also gold embroidered designs swirling upwards from the cuffs to the elbow, and a double row of brass buttons down the chest. Cream colored gauntlets, spurred black knee boots and a plumed hat pinned up on one side rounded out the impressive display.
“Wow,” said Bortnicker. “Your boy was styling. Imagine wearing this getup in the middle of summer? The duds in this case must be mucho funky.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “What about sidearms and that kind of stuff?”
“Well,” remembered T.J., “he had a sword and a pistol, but the pistol was in a holster.”
“Let’s peruse the weapons section, then.” Again, they scanned a dizzying array of guns, pausing here and there, when T.J. saw something that looked familiar. “I think, that one,” he said finally, pointing to a menacing-looking pistol.
Bortnicker read the placard underneath. “.44 caliber Colt Army Revolver. There’s a Navy model right under it that’s similar, but it’s a .36 caliber. Hard to tell which one he had ‘cause like you say it was holstered. Good for you he didn’t take it out so you could get a better look.”
“You got that right.”
“Now, as far as the sword, was the scabbard—the holder—curved or straight?”
T.J. thought hard. “Curved.”
“With a piece to kind of shield your knuckles?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. So here’s what we’ve got. The soldier you encountered in Reynolds’ Woods was anywhere from a lieutenant to a colonel, probably from a well-to-do family, with first rate weapons which he either bought himself or plucked from a fallen enemy.”
“What next?”
“A little Internet research when we get home later. I think I might be able to narrow down the particulars on this guy.”
“No way. Out of the thousands of soldiers who were in this battle? C’mon, Bortnicker.”
“Hey, let me work on it.” He held up his hands. “These fingers are like magic on the keyboard.”
“Well, look who’s here!” The boys turned to find Mike Darcy. “Some mean looking blades there.”
“Seriously,” agreed Bortnicker.
“I’m doing a tour bus group in ten minutes. Cub Scouts from New Jersey. Want to ride along?”
“Sure!” piped Bortnicker.
“Okay then. If I get tired, T.J., you can take over.” They started walking toward the front hallway where the tour groups assembled. “Heard you guys were over at Carlton Elway’s House of Ghosts yesterday.”
The boys looked at each other nervously. “Yeah, Mr. Darcy, that’s mostly because of me,” said Bortnicker. “I can’t get enough of all those ghost shows on TV. Have you ever had an experience here?”
“Nope, though you’d think every Gettysburg ranger in history has, by what you see on TV. That doesn’t mean I don’t think this place has an aura about it. I mean, I feel that every day. And I do have shivers go down my spine at the oddest times while I’m out there, especially in the cemetery. But no, no sightings, encounters, whatever. And, don’t take this the wrong way, fellas, but I suggest you don’t go searching out any for yourselves. If you’ve learned anything from those shows, which I believe are mostly crap anyway, it’s that these things happen when you least expect it, not when you try to manufacture it.”
“We gotcha,” said T.J.
“Glad we’re straight on that. Ah, there’s Troop Six awaiting us. Let’s get on it!” He led the group of forty or so fresh-faced youngsters in their neckerchiefed uniforms onto the bus, got them settled and they were on their way. The day had become oppressively humid and T.J. felt his eyelids drooping almost immediately, for he’d done the tour a handful of times by now.
“Good afternoon and a hearty welcome to the scouts of Troop Six from Lodi, New Jersey!”
Cheers rang out.
“Okay, I’m Ranger Mike Darcy, and today we’re going to tell you about a dark period in American history, and a battle that was both glorious and tragic, a battle that helped shape our country as we know it today...”
That would be the last thing T.J. remembered until Bortnicker nudged him awake some ninety minutes later. “Hey, Big Mon, we’re back. You z’d through the whole thing!”
“Whoa, sorry,” T.J. mumbled, blinking in the sunlight as he rose and stretched.
“Let me shoo the scouts off the bus and we’ll go for an ice cream in town,” said Mike. “This is my last assignment for the day and I’m craving a strawberry shake. Sound okay to you guys?”
“Great!” the boys said in unison. They climbed off the bus together, Mike’s muscular arms draped over the teens’ shoulders. They almost ran right into Bruce Morrison, who was standing outside the Visitor Center entrance, clipboard in hand.
“Good tour?” he said to Mike, eyeing the threesome.
“Too cool!” blurted Bortnicker. “Mr. Darcy’s the man!”
“Easy, Trigger,” said Mike. “Bruce, this is my nephew, T.J., and his somewhat excitable friend, Bortnicker. Bruce is the chief of rangers here, guys.”
“Pleased to meet you boys,” said Morrison evenly. “So, you’re liking our little corner of the world?”
“Way cool!” said Bortnicker.
“I’m learning a lot,” agreed T.J.
“Well, great,” said Morrison. “We’ll be seeing you around.”
“No question!” chimed Bortnicker.
Somehow, Mike was sure his superior didn’t like the boy’s answer.
Chapter Seventeen
; Saturday began with a fine run down the Chambersburg Road in which LouAnne and T.J. took turns pacing each other. Conversation was minimal; it was clear that with T.J.’s improvement their casual jaunts had become more competitive. Of course, no dialogue could be conducted without talk of Bortnicker, who was still blissfully asleep after a late night on the computer. As T.J. had nodded off, his friend was still clicking away madly, trying to dig up information on Confederate cavalry movements during the battle.
LouAnne asked about Bortnicker’s family life, and T.J. tried, as tactfully as he could, to describe the eccentric, feng shui-dominated existence of mother and son. LouAnne had a lot of questions, but she wisely stopped short of getting into T.J.’s own current situation with his parent and his father’s girlfriend. Why ruin a beautiful morning workout?
All five inhabitants of the Darcy house were enjoying Aunt Terri’s homemade granola cereal when Mike asked, “So, who wants to go shooting with me?”
“Yuck,” was LouAnne’s reply.
Mike turned to the boys and patiently explained, “The princess here doesn’t like to get black powder on her fingers.”
“Or face. Or hair,” finished LouAnne. “And let’s face it, Dad, a couple of those guys you hang out with at the range are a little out there. It’s like the annual reenactment is their Christmas. I hope you’re not going to actually suit up with them again this year.”
“You’re a Civil War reenactor?” said Bortnicker, milk dripping down his chin.
“We try to discourage him,” chided Aunt Terri, “but every couple of years they talk him into it.”
“But Dad’s kinda weak about it,” continued LouAnne. “Instead of tenting on the field with his wacko friends he sneaks home and showers and sleeps in his own comfy bed. Am I right?”
Mike frowned, his face coloring.
“Well, I for one think it’s cool, Mr. Darcy,” said Bortnicker. “You’re keeping history alive and all that.”
“So, does that mean you want to come shooting with me?”
Bortnicker thought for a moment, then said, “Ah, no. Not today. Besides, I’ve already promised LouAnne I’ll help her with some weeding this morning.” He said it with a smile, as if he would have agreed to eat the weeds as well if she’d asked.
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