Last Ghost at Gettysburg (31 page)

By this time Darcy had returned and was
talking to Bobby and Eddie, exchanging pleasantries. “Mike tells
me you boys have been practicing hard the last few days,” said
Matty. “Being a drummer boy isn’t the hardest thing in the world,
but that don’t mean you can’t screw it up. I’m sure you’ll do just
fine.”

“Matty,” said Mike, “if you’re done harassing
the boys, I think it’s time the three of us suit up. Then I’ll take
them to meet the boss.” The teens removed their knapsacks from the
Hefty bags and put them in the shebang alongside their drum kits,
slung the Hefty bags over their shoulders, and trudged off with
Mike to the long line of porta-sans that bordered the campsite. At
the sight of Bortnicker wrinkling his nose Mike said, “Just be
thankful we’re not going one hundred percent authentic on the
bathroom facilities, or you’d be going potty in a slit trench.”

“Gotcha,” said T.J. appreciatively.

They emerged minutes later, totally
transformed to 1860s Union soldiers. Bortnicker had even managed to
pick up a generic pair of “granny style” reading glasses that
looked infinitely more authentic than his tortoise shell model,
though the clarity was nowhere as sharp.

“Well?” T.J. asked his uncle, who was lacing
on his brogans.

“Fantastic! Nobody would accuse you two of
being farbs, that’s for sure.”

“What’s a farb?” said Bortnicker.

“Someone who cuts corners on their clothes or
equipment, usually for reasons of comfort,” said Mike. “It’s the
ultimate put-down for reenactors. You don’t want to be caught with
modern shoes or cell phones or whatever, unless it’s in the privacy
of your tent. But even then, guys who go for cutting corners are
missing the point of the whole experience. Speaking of which, I’m
going to take you to meet Jack Pelham,
Colonel Pelham
to
you. He’s a pretty good guy away from all this, but when it comes
to reenacting he’s deadly serious. So, Bortnicker, no smart-alecky
stuff, okay?”

“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 72
^nd
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 105
^th
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
72
^nd
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 105
^th
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
72
^nd
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
105
^th
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.