Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “Yes, sir!” said Bortnicker, snapping to attention.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, buddy,” Mike laughed. “I’m an enlisted man, just like you. You don’t have to salute anybody but the officers. Come on.”

  Colonel Pelham’s tent was much larger than those of the enlisted men, with a sturdy wooden cot, camp chair, footlocker and map-strewn table. His saber and sidearm pistol lay on his blanket, and he was adjusting his wide-brimmed hat in a cracked mirror that hung from a peg on one of the tent poles.

  “So good to see you, Mike!” said Jack Pelham, who sported muttonchop sideburns that were streaked with gray. “And these are the boys?”

  “Uh-huh. We have my nephew T.J., and his friend Bortnicker.”

  Colonel Pelham gave each of the drummer boys a hearty handshake. “Mike, why don’t you let me have a few minutes with these guys to tell them about the company and whatnot. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Mike. “Listen to what the colonel has to tell you,” he said, shooting T.J. a sly wink. “It just might save your life.” He strolled off in search of some coffee.

  “Have a seat on the cot, boys,” said Pelham, removing his weapons. He pulled up his camp chair and turned it around, straddling its seat like a saddle. T.J. thought his uniform was quite impressive, though not as showy as Major Hilliard’s by any stretch.

  “First of all,” he began, “I want to thank you two for stepping in to help us out in this battle. I feel a little bad that your first time out is the most challenging one you could find anywhere, but Mike was a teacher, and teachers know when their kids are smart enough, and mature enough, to handle something. He had nothing but great things to say about you boys.”

  They both smiled at the compliment and relaxed a bit. But then Pelham leaned forward on the seatback and became quite serious. “As you know, you’re filling in for my sons, who chose to play in a baseball tournament this weekend, which I wasn’t ecstatic about, but they didn’t want to let their team down. I can understand that.

  “But what I want you boys to appreciate is that the 72nd Pennsylvania is a team as well. I organized this unit ten years ago after doing a lot of homework on the men who served in its ranks during the Civil War. It was a valorous and proud unit, and we try to represent them as such. For all I know, these two days upcoming may be your only experience with reenactment. But we attend three or four battles per year, including Gettysburg, and the men are dedicated to being as true to history as possible. I’ll expect nothing less from you. Mike tells me you’ve been working night and day to prepare on short notice, and that is commendable.

  “The spectators and tourists are gone for the day, as you can see, so things are somewhat more relaxed. That doesn’t mean, however, that you two can be horsing around on the grounds or in your tent till all hours, and I hope you weren’t foolish enough to bring along cell phones or iPods or whatever.”

  “No sir,” said Bortnicker, seriously. “We’re not farbs.”

  Pelham paused, eyeing the boy for a moment, then went on. “I’ve been told that after dinner tonight some of the drummers and fifers, such as yourselves, will be meeting near the headquarters tent of the 105th New York. I think it would be a good idea to join them, if only to pick their brains on how to conduct yourselves during the battles. Maybe you’ll even learn new rolls or songs or whatever it is you do.

  “Now, tomorrow after breakfast we’ll fall out for roll call and do a little marching in the field next door, get into the swing of things for the Wheatfield Battle. Then you’ll have a few hours to either stay in camp or walk over to the Civil War village. Have you seen it yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” said T.J. seriously.

  “Well, then you know it’s loaded with things to do and see. And there will be tourists everywhere, the same tourists we’ll be entertaining later on. What I’m saying is, whether they engage you in conversation at the village or even if they wander into camp, which they are allowed to do, be informative, be courteous, but most of all, be authentic. Get into character and stay there. You’re representing the 72nd Pennsylvania, remember. Any questions?”

  “What’s for dinner, sir?” said Bortnicker, warily.

  “Oh, Private Bortnicker, I’m sure the mess sergeant will be whipping up his most special brown beans, salt pork and biscuits for you,” Pelham said, a wry smile creasing his lips. “If there’s nothing else, you guys can get going.”

  “What’d you think of the colonel?” said T.J. as they walked back to their tent.

  “No wonder those kids went to the baseball tournament!” answered Bortnicker. “Did you see how intense his eyes got during that speech?”

  “Kinda like Hilliard,” said T.J.

  “Yeah, but when all’s said and done, it’s still make believe, Big Mon.”

  “Good point. But I think we should take his advice and attend the drummers’ jam session. Hopefully those guys won’t be jerks.”

  “You got it. Hey, I think I smell those beans!”

  Sure enough, a cauldron of baked beans with chunks of salt pork was bubbling away near the boys’ tent, with Mike, of all people, stirring the pot. Nearby, a Dutch oven of biscuits was just about done. “You guys, come grab some eats before the rest of the regiment comes a-running. They’re like a pack of wolves.”

  The boys ducked into their shebang and emerged with tin plates, spoons and cups from their mess kits. After opting for water over coffee, Mike plopped some pork and beans into their plates and tossed each a still-hot biscuit. By then the rest of the unit, which numbered between 25-30 men, engulfed Mike, so the boys retreated to their shebang and took a seat on their blankets.

  “Um-mmm!” said Bortnicker with mock delight. “Just like great-great-great Grandma used to make!”

  “Bortnicker, remember what Uncle Mike said,” warned T.J. “Try not to embarrass us, okay?”

  “You have my word. Hey, do you think there’s a dessert?”

  * * * *

  After everyone had wolfed down their food and the men had settled around small campfires to brew some more coffee, T.J. and Bortnicker picked up their drums and ventured forth to find the 105th New York’s campsite. The sun was setting and the tents, which numbered in the hundreds, formed rows of pale silhouettes in the darkening sky. Small campfires were everywhere, and some female reenactors, probably wives of the soldiers, strolled among the hundreds of men. In the distance, whinnying could be heard from the horse corrals. Some Confederates had even trekked over from their camp to visit old friends from past reenactments.

  Finally, the boys picked up the sound of fifes and strode toward the music. They found a group of ten or so teens lounging around, drum kits set aside. Everyone looked up when the new recruits entered the area, which centered around the dying embers of a dinner campfire.

  “Hey guys,” said T.J. “We’re with the 72nd Pennsylvania and heard there might be a jam session.”

  “You came to the right place,” said a tall, red-haired boy of around sixteen. “I’m Pat Garvey from the 105th New York. These other guys are from all over the place, and Jean over there is even from Quebec. We figured we’d get together and run through some tunes for tomorrow. You guys ever drum before?”

  “Just in school. This is our first reenactment.”

  “You’re starting with Gettysburg?” said a portly boy with bad skin. “Wow. That’s a first.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re just filling in, doing someone a favor, kinda. That’s why we came to find you guys.”

  “Solid,” said Pat. “So, what should we start with?”

  “Anyone know ‘Bodhisattva?’ ” said Bortnicker, trying to be funny. His joke was met with an uneasy silence.

  “You’ll have to excuse Bortnicker here. He got hit in the head with a shell fragment at Fredericksburg,” said T.J.

  Everyone in the group chuckled, and T.J. shot Bortnicker a look that said cut it out. “I’m T.J., by the way. We’ll just join in with whatever you guys want to play.”

 
“Okay, then,” said Garvey. “Let’s try ‘Garry Owen.’” The fifers began and the drummers fell in with the jaunty tune.

  By the time an hour had passed the boys were thoroughly enjoying themselves, and the musicians laughed and joked freely amongst themselves. Little by little, T.J. and Bortnicker learned about their comrades and why they’d gotten into reenacting. Some considered it quality time with their dads, while others had a true interest in history and were real Civil War geeks like Bortnicker. And most of them were looking forward to the day they’d be able to trade in their drums and fifes for percussion rifles.

  “So, what do we do during the Wheatfield Battle tomorrow?” asked T.J.

  “All the drums and fifes will be at the forefront of the Union column,” said Garvey. “Just follow our lead. Then, you’ll break off to your regiment and keep up a roll during the battle. It’s really easy to get distracted, but the good thing is there are two of you. And if you get really tired out there you can always get shot and keel over.”

  “Just don’t fall on your drum,” said the portly boy, who looked like he was speaking from experience. “Those things are expensive!”

  As they trudged back to their tent the moon was full and things were quieting down. The soldiers, who had either participated that day in the Brickyard Battle or driven hundreds of miles to arrive by the evening, were by and large turning in for a good night’s sleep. Isolated pockets of laughter in the dark could be heard.

  The boys converted their shebang into the standard dog tent configuration, removed their military tunics, hats and shoes, and lay upon their blankets, exhausted. A wood fire smoldered a few feet away, warding off mosquitoes for the time being.

  “That was actually fun,” said Bortnicker. “And, I think we can hang with those guys musically. Don’t you?”

  “Yup,” said T.J., closing his eyes.

  “Well, big day tomorrow. I wonder if they do the bugle thing in the morning.”

  “We’ll find out.” As he was speaking, T.J. absently felt the knapsack behind his bunched up jacket that served as a pillow. The pistol was inside, safe and sound. “G’night, Bortnicker.”

  His friend was already snoring.

  * * * *

  Later that night T.J. awoke, needing to use the bathroom. He reluctantly pulled on his brogans and tramped to the far side of the camp to the porta-sans. When he was finished he let the door close gently behind him and then happened to glance at the woods that separated the two sleeping armies. Maybe it was the moon glow, or just his eyes playing tricks on him, but he could swear something was moving between the trees, and it looked like a soldier.

  With a plumed hat.

  Breaking into a jog, he made his way back to the tent, occasionally looking over his shoulder. And although it was a humid seventy-five degrees, he found himself shivering in his blanket.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was just past daybreak when T.J.’s eyes snapped open to the sight of Bortnicker, perched on his blanket, watching him intently. “What?” he said groggily.

  “You had a rough night,” said Bortnicker. “I’ve just been up an hour, but you’ve been thrashing around. Your blankets and stuff are all over the place. Bad dreams?”

  “I don’t know,” said T.J., sitting up. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I was afraid to.”

  “Oh. Why don’t you try to scrounge us some coffee? My tin cup’s around here somewhere.”

  “Coming right up.” He grabbed both their cups and wandered out into the gathering light as the camp began to come alive. T.J. could hear the clattering of iron skillets and Dutch oven tops. His stomach growled for food, and he reached into his knapsack for a granola bar he’d sneaked in. He was just finishing it when Uncle Mike popped his head into the tent. “You awake, soldier?” he said with a smile. His brownish-blond beard was starting to grow in around his goatee, giving him that grungy Civil War look.

  “I’ll be dressed in a minute. Bortnicker’s out scavenging some coffee.”

  “Well, we should have some bacon and eggs on the griddle soon. As you can see, I got pressed into cook service last night as a ‘punishment’ for blowing off last year’s reenactment. But today our regular cook’s on duty. In real life he’s a fireman, so you know he can cook!”

  It only took T.J. a few minutes to throw on his brogans and hat, and then he was outside among the living. Even at this early hour people were going here and there, preparing for the long day ahead. T.J. brought their tin plates to the 72nd’s campfire, where Bortnicker met him with two steaming cups of coffee. They got their bacon and eggs, which smelled heavenly, and sat down amongst the troops. As soldiers came and went, Uncle Mike introduced them to the boys. It seemed like the unit was one big happy family, and that the boys’ relation to Mike earned them instant acceptance into the club.

  They were just finishing their meal when Colonel Pelham approached the gathering, looking all business.

  “Okay, men, it seems like most of us are here. Let’s meet in the field to our right in ten minutes for a little drilling.” After some playful groans the men drifted toward their tents to stow their mess kits and suit up.

  T.J. and Bortnicker slipped their drum slings over their shoulders and grabbed their sticks before a quick walk to the field where the 72nd Pennsylvania was assembling. A sergeant formed the unit into four lines of six men apiece and had the boys bookend the front lines next to the U.S. and regimental flags.

  “At ease, men,” began Pelham, and the troops relaxed. “First, I want to welcome you all back for another year at Gettysburg. It looks like we’re going to have two fine days for reenactments, though it will be very warm and humid, so remember to drink water whenever possible. Just about everyone’s here, so no introductions are necessary, except that we will have two new drummers replacing my sons, Mike Darcy’s nephew T.J. and his friend Bortnicker.”

  At that, Bortnicker did a quick drum roll that drew a few chuckles. T.J. merely turned and waved meekly to the assemblage.

  “As I was saying, we will be formally participating as a unit in today’s and tomorrow’s reenactments. Some of you who got in early today were able to hook on to other units for the Brickyard Battle, and I’m sure you represented us admirably. So, let me give you an overview of today’s action, which they’re calling ‘The Wheatfield—Harvest of Death.’

  “On the morning of July 2, 1862, Robert E. Lee was liking his army’s chances at Gettysburg. His men had driven the enemy from the field and now occupied the town. The Union forces held the high ground south and east of town. Lee decided to try a flanking maneuver, with General Longstreet’s 1st Corps engaging the Federals on Little Round Top, and General Ewell’s 2nd Corps hitting the Federals on Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill as a diversion.

  “Unbeknownst to Longstreet, the commander of the Union’s 3rd Corps, General Dan Sickles, ordered his men off the rocky hill and positioned them in the fields in front of the Round Tops. Why he decided upon this tactic is a subject of debate to this day.

  “So, when Longstreet’s troops arrived on the afternoon of July 2nd, he was surprised to find Federal troops in the Peach Orchard, the Wheatfield, and Devil’s Den. Longstreet launched his attack and found that Sickles had left his flank open by abandoning his superior position. He took Devil’s Den and moved in on the Wheatfield. Sickles desperately sent for reinforcements to bail him out and General John Caldwell’s division of the Union 2nd Corps rushed to the rescue. They were immediately engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Six times the field changed hands in just over two hours, and two of the Union brigade commanders were killed.

  “In the end the Federals held off the Southerners, and units from Pennsylvania were among those who saw action. But by the end of the day the Confederates had lost about 1,400 men and the Union around 3,100. It was some of the most furious fighting of the war.

  “We will try to capture the essence of that struggle for the thousands of spectators who will be attending. As al
ways, we will be coordinating with units from New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Jersey, among others. I will be attending a commanders’ meeting after we’re done here.

  “So, right now let’s get in some close order drill so we can look good entering the field this afternoon. Our forces will be assembling at 4:00 P.M. sharp on this very field. Are there any questions? Okay. And one more thing. Make sure you have brought a plentiful amount of percussion caps for your rifles. Last year too many soldiers ran out, and there’s not much else you can do after that but become a casualty. Which brings to mind another minor problem we had last year. Fellows, I know this is Gettysburg, the event everyone looks forward to, but we can’t have an authentic battle without some casualties. We’ve never had to resort to drawing straws or things like that before. So, now I’ll ask you: who’d like to volunteer to be killed or wounded in today’s battle?”

  Slowly, about one third of the men’s hands were raised.

  “Great. That should do it. And one last thing. Don’t feel the need to apply any fake blood if you’re shot. The spectators are so far removed that they’ll never see it. Sergeant McAllister, are you ready to give the men a little workout?”

  “Yes, sir!” piped a beefy veteran whose leathery face reflected many days of reenacting in the hot sun. “Company...forward, march!” They started moving, and Colonel Pelham barked, “Let’s hear those drums, boys!” T.J. and Bortnicker looked across at each other, nodded, and began an easy tattoo.

  The 72nd went forward, left, right, front and back. It was hot, boring and tedious, but within minutes they began looking like the veteran unit they were. They boys were proud to be leading the way. After a half-hour McAllister had them form a line, shoulder-width apart, to practice “loading” and “firing” their weapons. It was at this time that the unit held its weapons inspection in accordance with reenactment rules. Only a couple of the men had vintage rifles, including Darcy’s Sharps.

  “Still using that, Mike?” said McAllister, checking the gun over after Mike had ‘presented arms.’ “Not afraid to ruin it?”