Boom!
A rifle cracked next to T.J.’s right earlobe, deafening him and causing his own weapon to discharge straight into the air. The rifle bullet struck Hilliard high in the chest, and reflexively he threw his arms skyward, a red flower blossoming amid the brass buttons of his uniform front. At that moment he literally exploded, the tremendous flash of fire causing everyone in the immediate area to crumple to the ground. T.J., paralyzed with fear, turned to see his uncle, breathing hard, lower the Sharps rifle from his shoulder. Then he was off, vaulting the wall like a linebacker hurdling a pulling guard, sprinting toward the last place he’d seen his daughter before the explosion.
“I’m right behind you, Uncle Mike!” the boy yelled, dropping the revolver and following in his wake as the Confederate attack realized its high water mark.
By the time they reached the fallen teens LouAnne had turned Bortnicker, who had shielded her with his own body as Hilliard attempted to trample them, over onto his back. She knelt at this side, sobbing. “He’s dead! He’s dead! Help me somebody!” Her army cap had flown off amid the chaos and her blond locks swirled around her shoulders. But the reenactors from both sides who surrounded her barely noticed. The show was nearing its conclusion, and as the Confederates began falling back, there were “wounded” crying out all around.
Mike Darcy grabbed his daughter’s uniform jacket and pulled her away as T.J. slid in alongside his fallen friend, whose glasses were broken and his sooty face streaked with blood. “Bortnicker! Bortnicker!” he screamed above the tumult, shaking his shoulders. There was no reaction.
He started to cry. It was all his fault, leading his cousin and his best friend on an impossible quest to deal with forces he had no comprehension of. By this time LouAnne had pulled free of her father and was behind T.J., hugging him, crying into his shoulder as Mike stood helplessly at their side.
“It’s all my fault,” whispered T.J. “I’m so, so sorry, Sam.” His shoulders heaved spasmodically.
Bortnicker’s right eye fluttered. Then his left. And then a crooked grin creased his dirty lips. “So, let me get this straight,” he said tiredly. “I’ve gotta die to get you to call me by my first name?”
“You’re alive!” wailed LouAnne, throwing herself upon the fallen drummer boy and clutching him tightly.
“This isn’t half bad,” he croaked. “I should get killed more often!”
At that moment Al Warren, wheezing mightily, and Rudy Herzog pulled up alongside Mike and the kids. “Coach,” said Rudy, a look of consternation on his face from the realization that he and the Chief were sticking out like sore thumbs in the last moments of the battle, “is, uh, everything alright here?”
Mike looked down at the three laughing teens engaged in a celebratory dog pile. “Couldn’t be better, Rudy. So, what brings you and the Chief here?”
Warren wasn’t amused. “Mr. Darcy, would you and the kids please come with us,” he managed, bent over with his hands on his knees.
“Sure, Chief. C’mon guys, show’s over,” he said with resignation while the immense crowd thundered its applause for the conclusion of the 147th Anniversary Reenactment of Pickett’s Charge.
The group wound their way through straggling Union and Rebel soldiers who were now shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, posing for photos or gathering equipment discarded during the throes of battle. Spectators streamed toward the parking fields, the realization suddenly upon them that they were back in 2010. Horses and cannon were led to trailers, and concessionaries on nearby fields did a brisk business in cold drinks and ice cream.
Warren was the first to speak when they reached the cruiser, which was now surrounded by a host of interested parties, including Bruce Morrison, Colonel Pelham, Matty and his brothers, and Aunt Terri. She’d been unable to stay away and had viewed the entire drama from a corner of the grandstand. “Just tell me, straight out. What the hell was going on out there?” he barked.
“As far as what?” said Bortnicker innocently.
“You can just zip it, young man,” said the Chief, pointing his finger at the teen. He turned to Mike. “Mr. Darcy, could you please explain what these three adolescents were doing out there in the middle of a dangerous situation?”
“Well,” said Mike cautiously, “the boys were enlisted as drummers. As for my daughter,” he said with a hint of anger, “I have no idea.”
“This is most uncommon,” broke in Colonel Pelham. “It in no way reflects the practices of the 72nd Pennsylvania Regiment!”
“Oh, blow it out your keester, Jack,” said Matty. “The kids just got carried away. It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of a battle.”
“I got it on tape! I got it all on tape!” crowed Carlton Elway, juggling a clattering collection of video accessories as he came running up breathlessly.
“Got what?” said Bruce Morrison.
“The horseman! The Gettysburg ghost rider! I filmed him during the battle! He was attacking the Union line and Darcy shot him!”
“What Gettysburg ghost rider?” said Pelham and the other soldiers in unison.
“Let’s take a look, Carlton,” said Warren patiently. They all crowded around the ghost hunter as he rewound the videotape.
“And I’m not the only one,” Elway said confidently. “There had to be hundreds of people who captured him on video before Darcy here blew him away.”
“Carlton Elway,” threatened Aunt Terri, “how dare you accuse my husband of doing anything else than just playing his part as a reenactor?”
“Yeah? Then why was your nephew over here, who’s supposed to be a drummer boy, waving a Colt .44 at the same ghost?”
The assemblage immediately turned en masse to T.J., who offered an embarrassed, “Oops.”
“Okay!” said Elway triumphantly. “Here it is! Just watch this!”
They leaned in to view the 4x6 inch screen, Rudy Herzog holding his Smokey hat over the camcorder to cut the sun glare.
If nothing else, Carlton Elway was a skilled video photographer. He quickly had focused the lens and narrowed the scope of his subject to follow the magnificent cavalryman as he’d galloped along, and then through, the lines of his fellow Rebels in a headlong dash toward the Union center. But as much as they squinted hard and concentrated, none could see Major Crosby Hilliard execute his doomed charge. While it was clear that something had made the Confederates scatter in every direction, and that hundreds of spectators and reenactors would return from Gettysburg that weekend to tell of the dashing cavalier who had “stolen the show,” Elway’s video footage, and the footage or photographs of every shutterbug present that day, would fail to reveal a trace of the ghost rider. There was, of course, that confounding flash of light at the end. But, hey, wasn’t this a battle reenactment? Who was to say some overzealous participant hadn’t sneaked in an explosive of some sort? It could be anything. The group did, however, get a few laughs from Elway’s gleeful cry of “I got you now!” that had so frightened his companions in the grandstand.
“Yeah, that was wonderful, Carlton,” said Warren, mopping his brow in the late afternoon heat. Elway sank back against the police cruiser, utterly defeated.
“Listen, Chief,” said Mike, “if you don’t need us anymore, I’d like to get the kids home. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Darcy,” Warren replied with a wave. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
“No problem. See you around, Rudy,” he said, shooting a wink to his former player, who tried mightily to suppress a smile. “Bruce, see you Monday?”
“Sure, Mike,” said Morrison with a pained smile. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Darcy,” he added politely.
“Likewise, Bruce,” said Terri. “Now, can we all go home and get you out of those disgusting uniforms?”
As they walked toward the campground Matty eased over to his friend. “Hey, Ranger Mike,” he whispered, “what was the deal with the guns? I picked them up when Warren led you off the battlefield. Both your Sharps and th
e boy’s pistol had fired live rounds. What gives?”
“Matty,” Mike said, “it’s, uh, hard to explain.”
“Hard, my butt,” said Matty. “I was playing dead at the time so I was just lying there against the wall, enjoying the action. I had the best seat in the house, Mikey. I saw the guy you shot plain as day, and the coal black stallion he was riding. Then, poof! Gone!”
“Gee, Matty,” said Mike earnestly, “I guess you’ve got me. Maybe you should just report me to Colonel Pelham.”
Matty threw back his head and laughed.
* * * *
The ride home in Mike’s truck was eerily subdued. Aunt Terri drove and he sat up front with her, staring out at the slowly moving traffic. They were all soaked in their heavy woolen uniforms and the air conditioner hardly made a dent in their discomfort. But still no one spoke. All were lost in their thoughts of what had occurred that sultry afternoon.
When they pulled into the driveway it was Aunt Terri who broke the silence. “Now you all listen to me,” she began seriously. “I want everyone to get out of those horrible clothes, take a shower, and we’ll meet on the front porch. I’ll make some lemonade and sandwiches and we’ll sit and sort the whole thing out. Now get going!”
LouAnne went in first to the hallway bathroom while Mike used the master bathroom’s shower. This left T.J. and Bortnicker, band aids covering the cuts above his eyes, exhausted yet still tingling from their exploits.
“I think it’s fair to say your uncle’s ticked off,” said Bortnicker, throwing his filthy army jacket to the floor.
“No doubt,” agreed T.J. “But we had to do what we did. It was the only way. I’ll tell you what, though. What you did, running out there after LouAnne, that took a lot of guts.”
“Thanks. I still can’t believe I caught her. Must’ve had a massive surge of adrenaline.”
“That, and the fact that you care about her.”
“We both do, T.J.” he said with an air of resignation. “It is what it is.”
By the time the family reconvened on the porch a breeze had kicked up, and with the ice cold lemonade and turkey sandwiches it was quite pleasant. Fireworks from nearby backyards went off here and there, reminding everyone that it was the Fourth of July.
When she was sure everyone was served, Terri sat next to her husband on the bench swing and gave him a nudge.
“Okay, guys,” he said quietly. “As you can guess, I’m really upset about today. You don’t know how lucky we are that nobody got killed or thrown in jail. So I’ll start with you, T.J. What made you take my gun and try to play hero?”
“Well, Uncle Mike,” said T.J., relieved that his uncle wasn’t screaming at him, “the other night on the battlefield we brought up the reenactment to Hilliard, which made him go ballistic. When Bortnicker mentioned Pickett’s Charge was going to take place, I saw this strange look in his eyes, and I could tell he was gonna try his best to be there for it so he could...I don’t know...make up for his failure, clear his name, whatever. And I felt it was my responsibility to stop him, because I started this whole thing by going for a run on the Battlefield that first night.
“I figured, if the guy still thinks it’s 1863 then the only way to send him back would be to kill him with an old bullet fired by an old weapon. So I borrowed your revolver and hid it in my knapsack. What I hadn’t figured was that I’d only get one shot, ‘cause I got interrupted in our tent before we marched to the battlefield. I know it was stupid, and that it could’ve gone off inside my jacket or I could’ve hit somebody accidentally out there, but I was desperate to do this. If I just left Gettysburg without trying to end this whole mess, I would’ve felt like I chickened out. As it turns out, it wasn’t even me who shot him, so I don’t know if I accomplished anything at all.”
“Well, I think you were incredibly brave, T.J.,” said LouAnne. “If you—”
“Excuse me, dear,” said Mike to his daughter. “Let me handle this. Yes, T.J., what you did was foolhardy at best. And if I hadn’t accidentally come across the empty pistol case while I was getting my rifle ready, I never would’ve known what you were up to. But once that gun went missing I more or less figured it out. My decision to bring some old bullets was just a lucky guess. Fortunately, I have a small stash of period ammo that I’ve accumulated over the years. So, I decided to keep an eye on you two out there and help out if it was necessary, which obviously is what happened.
“While I’m furious at you for not letting me in on all this, I realize I would have forbid you from setting foot on that battlefield with a loaded gun. And I have to give you credit, you stared down that guy and probably would’ve shot him if I didn’t do it first. I don’t know if you understand anything about football, but you could play on my defense anytime.”
T.J. felt his eyes brimming as his uncle went on.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though. That’s the last time I’ll ever fire a gun, or do any reenacting, for that matter. For that one instant, I knew what it was truly like to be in a battle, and I don’t care for it at all. I think it’s time I took up golf.”
Mike turned to his daughter. “And as for you, young lady, I don’t know where you get off thinking you can just do whatever you want, whenever you want. I don’t even want to know where you got your hands on that uniform. You put everyone at risk this afternoon, and if it wasn’t for Bortnicker making like Lawrence Taylor, you would’ve gotten trampled out there.”
Bortnicker, who had a mouthful of potato salad, waved off the compliment. “It was nothing, really, Mr. D,” he said with mock modesty. “All in a day’s work.”
Even Mike couldn’t help but smile, and the tension lifted.
“All I know,” said LouAnne, holding back tears, “is that you are the bravest two guys I’ve ever met. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Well, that’s a first,” said Aunt Terri.
“Uncle Mike,” said T.J., “do you think it’s really over?”
“Time will tell,” said Darcy, “but my guess is that we’ve seen the last of Major Crosby Hilliard. Hopefully now he’ll rest in peace.”
At that moment the phone rang inside. “I’ll get it and come back with dessert,” said Terri. “Apple pie with ice cream sound okay?”
“You know it!” said LouAnne brightly, dabbing at her eyes.
But seconds later, Aunt Terri reappeared, without the dessert. “This day just doesn’t end, it seems. T.J., your dad’s on the phone from Paris. He doesn’t sound too good.”
T.J. ran inside and scooped up the receiver. “Dad? What’s going on?” he asked.
“Well, son, looks like I’ll be flying home tonight. The local office will be taking over the project from here, and it’ll be in capable hands.”
“What about Wendy? Is she okay?”
“Ah, Wendy. Well, T.J., it seems that she’s taken a fancy to a young Frenchman, a waiter in our hotel, in fact. She’s going to be staying on, I’m afraid.” He sounded crushed.
“Oh,” said T.J. “But, hey, Dad, that means we’ll just have more time to spend together. We’re going fishing, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And lots of barbequing.”
“Sounds good to me. And will Bortnicker be joining us?”
“Of course!” T.J. smiled inwardly. “And Dad, when you get back, we have a seriously amazing story to tell you on the ride home.”
“I can’t wait. But, looking back, I feel a little foolish, T.J. I hope you’re not mad at me for dumping you at Uncle Mike’s for so long and running off with Wendy.”
“Mad? Are you kidding? This was the best trip ever!”
* * * *
“I’m glad you’re so excited about your dad coming home, T.J.,” said Aunt Terri as she served the boys a second helping of pie. “Too bad the thing with his girlfriend didn’t work out.”
“There will be others,” said Mike with confidence. “The Jackson men are regular chick magnets. Right, T.J.?”
“Daddy, you’
re such a butt,” said LouAnne, but they all noticed she was blushing.
“Hey, Cuz,” said T.J., “we running tomorrow morning? Last chance.”
“Are you sure you two are up to it, after all you went through today?” asked Terri.
“No problem, Mom,” assured LouAnne. “As long as Bortnicker and you cook one last breakfast feast together.”
“Consider it done,” said Bortnicker, heaping a spoonful of vanilla ice cream onto his pie. “And I assure you, there will be no scrapple served.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
That last morning it was hot and dripping with humidity, the same as it had seemingly been for T.J’s entire stay.
The two cousins stretched in the shade of an oak tree and then set off down Seminary Ridge toward Reynolds Woods and the Battlefield Park entrance.
“Think your dad’s really gonna give up reenacting?” said T.J., gliding easily over the pavement.
“Well, when he says he’s gonna do something, he rarely changes his mind. I guess he’ll just stick to being a really good park ranger.” They went a ways farther and she added, “And I don’t know how much longer I want to do the Charney Inn thing. I mean, it’s good money, and I’m good at it, but sometimes I feel this whole town is just cashing in on other people’s tragedy. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this whole thing with Major Hilliard. He was only one minor story in a war where thousands upon thousands died. I know they all felt they were fighting for a just cause, but it’s all so senseless and sad.”
They wound through the battlefield, silent cannon, monuments and statues in their wake, and T.J. wondered if he’d be able to look at social studies class—or life in general—the same way again. One thing was for sure, he’d pay attention from now on. To everything.
As the cousins reached the Darcy front yard and slowed to a walk LouAnne said, “I wonder how many miles we’ve put in since you’ve been here?”
Last Ghost at Gettysburg Page 27