Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “Can’t tell. Of course, he doesn’t want us to get killed, but if he tries to take over the operation there could by a negative reaction by our friend. It seems Major Hilliard has a problem with adults on his turf.”

  “Yeah, but it’s comforting to know we’ve got ‘Maddog Mike’ on our side.”

  “I guess.”

  “Bortnicker, I—”

  “T.J.,” he said slowly, removing and polishing his glasses deliberately, “let’s just get through this and put everything else aside. And then it will all be over and we can go home to our normal lives.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that things are different now. But I know I’m not going to let anyone down while I’m here.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Okay then. Goodnight.” And with that he reached over and flipped off the light switch.

  T.J. lay in the darkness, despairing. A couple times he almost said something to his friend, but the words just wouldn’t come. Then his eyes began to water, and he felt even more miserable.

  What have I done?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  T.J.,

  Sorry, Cuz, but I’m a little under the weather this morning (I don’t think I need to go into detail) so you’re on your own. Don’t you dare punk out and go back to sleep!

  Have a good run.

  LouAnne xxx

  T.J. crumpled up the note his cousin had left on the floor outside his room, sighed, and ventured outside into the sunlight. “I think I’ll take the route we tried my first day,” he said to himself. “Except I’ll finish it this time.” After a few quick stretches he was off down Seminary Ridge.

  The morning air was cool on his face as he got into an easy rhythm. Seminary Avenue led onto Confederate, and then he was on the battlefield proper, heading in the general direction of Little Round Top. It was when he was passing Devil’s Den, the scene of Mike Weinstein’s near-death experience, that the idea hit him like a Miniè-ball to the forehead.

  “Why didn’t I think of this before?” he practically screamed, and took off for the Visitor Center to find his uncle.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, Bortnicker was loading the Mr. Coffee machine, singing to himself about a girl who could be having a change of heart when LouAnne padded downstairs.

  “ ‘Rikki Don’t Lose That Number!’ ” she cried, causing the boy to do a double-take, spilling coffee grounds all over the granite countertop. Even having just rolled out of bed, she was so stunning in the morning light that his voice caught in his throat.

  “D-don’t do that!” he managed. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” He paused to get his bearings, then shot her a look with a squinted eye. “I have two questions. First, how can you possibly know every Steely Dan song?”

  “Okay, I’ll fess up,” she said. “My dad has all the albums. Plays them incessantly in the garage when he’s working out. Reminds him of his ‘70s days at Michigan State, I guess.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. Steely Dan is classic.”

  “Listen, I’ll admit their music is funky, and the older stuff has great guitar solos, too, but their more recent stuff is a little too jazzy for me. I’m more of a rock n’ roll person. The Beatles, the early Stones, and a lot of other bands.”

  “You sure you’re not just one of those Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber fanatics like the girls at my school?”

  “Yuck! If I listen to anything today, its stuff like Green Day and The Killers. But I’ve got it figured out why you’re so into Steely Dan, Bortnicker. It’s the lyrics. I don’t even think they knew what they were talking about. Very mysterious, like you try to be at times.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, really. And your second question?”

  “Why aren’t you running?”

  “Didn’t feel like it.”

  “You? Not run? You sick or something?”

  “Nope. But T.J. thinks I am.”

  “I’m confused.”

  She nimbly hoisted herself to a sitting position on the counter next to Bortnicker, which made him extremely uncomfortable. “So,” she began, looking down at him, “What’s going on with you and my cousin?”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, Bortnicker, yesterday was a tension convention between you two, even aside from our after-dinner grilling from my dad. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bull-tweed.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, it’s something my dad says when he doesn’t want to curse around me. Like I don’t hear it at school every day.”

  “Listen, LouAnne, everything’s cool with me and T.J.”

  “It better be. You guys are like brothers to each other.”

  “Unfortunately, even brothers don’t always see eye to eye.”

  “Huh. Well, you better get on the same page quick because we could all get killed if we screw up.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

  Aunt Terri saved the day, blowing into the kitchen with, “Oh, you can hunt ghosts but you need me to make coffee?”

  “Coming right up,” said Bortnicker, spooning in additional grounds.

  “LouAnne, you’re not running today? You don’t feel well?” she said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

  “Well, I didn’t when I got up,” she smiled at Bortnicker, “but I feel a lot better now.”

  * * * *

  T.J. burst into the rangers’ office where he caught his uncle emerging from the rest room.

  “Whoa there, Hoss,” Mike said, practically applying a forearm shiver to stop the panting boy. “What’s got into you? And where’s your cousin?”

  T.J., doubled over to catch his breath, raised a finger in the air, signaling his uncle to wait a second. Finally he straightened up, breathing more normally.

  “Uncle Mike,” he half-panted, “Nobody ever saw or heard of this ghost horseman till recently, right?”

  “Yeah. I’d put the first shooting at the beginning of May.”

  “Okay, so there’s a good chance Hilliard has been, like, dormant all these years, ‘cause if he wasn’t, chances are he would’ve been shooting people all over the place, for whatever reason. I think something happened that made him appear.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s where you come in. Listen, when me and Bortnicker went to see that Elway guy, he told us of some remains being found near the railroad cut awhile back by one of the park rangers.”

  “I remember. Boy, did he ever make a big deal out of that.”

  “Of course he would. It’s good publicity for his business. But see, this park must be under constant renovation and whatnot, right?”

  “Oh yeah. The idea is to gradually take the landscape back to the way it appeared in 1863. That involves replanting orchards and clearing some other sections. It’s an ongoing process. There’s always some area that’s being worked on.”

  “But if the grounds crew finds remains or whatever, they keep it quiet, don’t they?”

  “Well, yeah. I would assume the remains are discreetly buried in the cemetery. But what makes you so sure this Hilliard just showed up recently?”

  “It’s just a feeling,” said T.J., “like this is all kinda new to him and he hasn’t figured it out yet. Let me give you an example. The first time I met him—”

  “I thought you were with LouAnne and Bortnicker.”

  “Ah, no. There was a previous time when I went for a night run.”

  “WHAT!” his uncle exploded. “Doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

  “Uncle Mike, please calm down. Okay, I screwed up and went for a run after dark. It was stupid. But LouAnne was blowing me away in our morning workouts and I couldn’t stand a girl beating me.”

  Mike sighed, closed his eyes and counted to five. “Okay, I can relate to that. Continue.”

  “Well anyway, I’d turned my ankle in a chuckhole near Reynolds’ Woods and that’s where he found me. So while he’s talking to me a
jumbo jet flies overhead and he just stopped what he was doing and stared at it like he’d never seen one before. Makes me think if he’d been around for a long time that wouldn’t even distract him for a second.”

  “Makes sense. So how can I help you?”

  “Well, do you know the person who’s head of maintenance or whatever?”

  “Yes. Frank Staltaro. His son Pat played defensive tackle for me over at the high school.”

  “Think he’d tell you if, and more importantly, where any remains might have turned up in early May?”

  “I think I could get him to share. He should, I got his kid a full scholarship to Rutgers, and the boy wasn’t exactly a genius.”

  “Great. Maybe we could all touch base over dinner later?”

  “Sounds good. Meanwhile, let me run you home so I can get back for my first tour.”

  “I was hoping you’d offer. I’m pooped!”

  * * * *

  Mike laughed and walked out of the building with his hand across his nephew’s shoulders, unaware that his superior had witnessed, but not heard, their entire encounter from behind the glass door of his office.

  Bruce Morrison trusted Mike Darcy, but figured it was time for a check-in with Al Warren anyway, and dialed him up. The receptionist at the police station put him right through.

  “Chief Warren. Is that you, Bruce?”

  “Hi, Al. Got a question.”

  “Hope I have the answer.”

  “It’s pretty simple. Anything happen the past few nights on the battlefield?”

  “Not involving the horseman, and believe me, our patrol cars have been out. But something curious did occur. Couple nights ago I personally picked up our friend Carlton Elway loaded down with an assortment of ghost-hunting equipment, supposedly on his way to some battlefield night mission.”

  “Oh yeah? Where was this?”

  “On Seminary Ridge, ‘bout a half mile from Pitzer’s Woods.”

  “Near Mike Darcy’s house?”

  “Well, in the area. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I can’t tell exactly. But Elway and Darcy’s nephew and his buddy and even Darcy himself are all connected somehow. I’ve spoken to Mike myself and, I don’t know, I get a strange vibe.”

  “Think I should pay an official visit to our esteemed ghost hunter? ‘Cause he wasn’t saying squat when I picked him up.”

  “It’s your call, Al.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up, Bruce.”

  * * * *

  After a shower and a somewhat hurried breakfast T.J. and Bortnicker caught a ride into town with Aunt Terri to make their appointment, dropping off LouAnne at Mrs. Spath’s on the way.

  “Call me on my cell if you learn anything!” she said as she exited the car.

  “I’m running a ghost hunter car service,” lamented Aunt Terri.

  They barely made it to Dr. Landon’s office in time. She was just making them comfortable when the phone rang promptly at ten. Landon exchanged pleasantries with Ms. Thibodeaux, punched the conference call button, and left the office to attend to her duties.

  “Mistuh Jackson, Mistuh Bortnicker, good morning! Is it as hot in Gettysburg as it is here in Charleston?”

  “It’s pretty brutal, Ma’am,” answered T.J. politely.

  “Yes. Well. My staff burned the midnight oil looking for our Major Hilliard, and we did have some success, though the findings are somewhat disturbing. Mr. Jackson, I neglected to ask you and Mr. Bortnicker if the major is a relation of yours?”

  “No, Ms. Thibodeaux, neither of us,” said Bortnicker.

  “Oh, then I feel so much better about sharing this information.

  “Hilliard’s career pretty much mirrored his superior’s early on. Hampton’s Legion first saw combat in 1861 at the First Battle of Manassas, also known as Bull Run, where their maneuvers bought time for Stonewall Jackson to reach the field and turn the tide the South’s way.

  “It was during this battle that Hilliard made a name for himself. Hampton was wounded for the first of five times during the war while leading a charge against a Federal artillery position, and Hilliard, though only a lieutenant, made an instinctive, reckless, spur-of-the-moment decision to step in for his superior and continue leading the men forward. According to eyewitness accounts his uniform and hat were shredded with grapeshot and two horses were shot from under him, but he steadfastly carried on and helped win the day.

  “For his heroism under fire Hilliard received a battlefield commission to captain and, as a token of appreciation from his friend Hampton, a beautiful stallion.”

  “BRUTUS!” cried Bortnicker.

  “Why, yes, that was his name. How could you possibly know that?”

  “Uh, I think I read it somewhere,” he managed before Thibodeaux continued.

  “Anyway, this horse of his, like his master, was known for its unflinching fearlessness in the face of enemy fire. By all accounts Brutus was a magnificent animal, as comparatively large in stature as Hilliard, who stood at 6’2” without his riding boots. We have his measurements from the records of his personal tailor, who crafted what was by all accounts a rather flashy uniform that mirrored his sense of dash and drama.

  “Hilliard participated in the Peninsula Campaign of 1862, again stepping up when Hampton was wounded in the foot at the Battle of Seven Pines. His next promotion came in the winter of that same year when he distinguished himself in a series of cavalry raids behind enemy lines that captured numerous prisoners and supplies with minimal losses. So, by the time Lee went north to Gettysburg, he was a highly decorated, and popular major.”

  “Wow,” said T.J.

  “Wow, indeed,” she answered primly. “But here is where it gets hazy.”

  “How so?” said Bortnicker.

  “Well, he came through with distinction at the Battle of Brandy Station, the war’s largest cavalry battle, but he was also a part of supreme cavalry Commander J.E.B. Stuart’s ill-advised ride around the Union army.”

  “Which he took a lot of criticism for,” said Bortnicker eagerly.

  “Young man,” snapped Ms. Thibodeaux, “though General Stuart has been made a scapegoat for the Southern defeat at Gettysburg, it should be noted that Hampton’s Legion were merely carrying out their orders and were the vanguard of many of Stuart’s glorified campaigns!”

  “Yes Ma’am, sorry,” Bortnicker mumbled as T.J. mouthed the words Shut up!

  “To continue, Hampton’s Legion, as part of Stuart’s cavalry, did not join the fight at Gettysburg until the third day, at what is today known as East Cavalry Field. There they fought to a draw with cavalry led by George Armstrong Custer.

  “But the regimental ledger we have from the battle that lists the wounded, killed or missing displays an odd notation next to Hilliard’s name. Two words, both followed by question marks: Desertion and Cowardice. And that’s where all traces of Crosby Hilliard end. In his official battle report for Gettysburg, Hampton, who had himself sustained a saber wound during the conflict, wrote, ‘One of my most valuable and valiant subordinates, Major Crosby Hilliard, disappeared at the most desperate moment of the engagement, never to be seen again.’

  “And that’s all we know, gentlemen. Of course, Hilliard’s family was mortified, and his father even made a pilgrimage to the battlefield a few weeks later to find some trace of his son. This was, however, a fool’s errand, as all the dead were by that time buried. Unfortunately, as could be expected, there were some tongues wagging in and around Charleston, most notably of Miss Mary Londoner, that nothing less than cowardice could come from someone who would murder a defenseless man in a duel he had himself proposed. With that, Major Crosby Hilliard passed into history, until you decided to find him. That’s all the assistance I can offer in this matter.”

  “Ms. Thibodeaux, you’ve done more than enough,” said T.J.

  “Glad to help. If you uncover any more information, I’d love to heah about it.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, you
will. Just one question, though. Do you think he was a coward?”

  “Mr. Jackson,” Thibodeaux said sweetly, “always remember that what you learn in history depends upon who was writing the books. Have a good day.”

  * * * *

  Al Warren entered Carlton Elway’s Gettysburg ghost emporium and took in the racks of DVD’s, books, and assorted paraphernalia that constituted his growing empire. Frowning, he approached Tiffany at the front desk. “Mr. Elway in?” he asked casually.

  The receptionist, who was buried in a Harlequin paperback while twirling her hair, looked up sleepily, saw the uniform and sat up straight. “No, Chief, he’s out of town today for a speaking engagement.”

  “Oh, too bad. I needed to talk to him about some paranormal-related matters.”

  Tiffany dramatically looked right and left, then leaned forward and whispered, “Is this about the guy on the horse?”

  Warren blinked in surprise. “You know about this? How?”

  “Well,” she said proudly, “as Mr. Elway’s top employee, I’m in on most important matters to the business.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh yeah, plus, I found out some key information for him regarding the ghost rider.”

  “And how did you stumble upon this, Tiffany?” he said kindly, tipping his hat back and smiling broadly.

  “Well, I guess it’s okay to tell you, being the police chief and all, ‘cause I know you guys are pretty tight.”

  “We are?”

  She nodded. “According to Mr. Elway. Besides, he told me he’s helping with the investigation.”

  “Oh yeah, no question,” said Warren. What a self-important moron!

  “So, I found out all this information from this kid T.J. Jackson, Mike Darcy’s nephew. You know, the ranger. Oh, and his sidekick, this dorky guy, Boatnacker or something.”

  “They told you all this?”

  “Well, uh, I kind of eavesdropped on them, actually. But you guys do that, right?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know, wire taps, surveillance and such?”

  “Well, yes, that’s correct, I suppose. Tiffany, you could be a real help to this investigation if you’d share with me what you told Mr. Elway.”