Charge!
by Gerald Sheagren

   Larry and Peter Parsons tromped through the underbrush, both dressed as Confederate soldiers: slouch hats, soiled butternut-colored uniforms, accouterments and brogans so worn that their toes were sticking out. They even carried Bowie knives, bedrolls and plugs of tobacco. Pete had spared not a penny to achieve what he referred to as "the authenticity mode." Now, as they made their way through the Gettysburg National Battlefield, at two o’clock in the morning, his long-awaited plans had been set in motion.

   "Hey, Pete, wait up, for crying-out-loud!"

   "Keep your voice down. The battlefield closes at ten o’clock. The Rangers would have a fit if they knew we were here."

   "Well, I’m having a fit! Why, in hell, do I have to wear this cockamamie uniform?"

   Heaving a weary sigh, Peter trudged over, placing his face nearly nose-to-nose with his brother. "How many goddamn times do I have to tell you?" he asked, enunciating each word as though he was speaking to a preschooler. "If we locate any Confederate spirits, they’ll be more at ease if we’re dressed exactly like them. In effect, we’ll be a couple of Bobby Lee’s boys."

   "You’re completely crazy, do you know that? You need come counseling, Pete, and the sooner the better."

   "You know; I should have never brought you with me. Our nephew, Jimmy, would have been a better choice. At two-years-old, he has more insight than you."

   "This spirit crap is way beyond me. Tell me again; what are those instruments for?"

   "I can’t believe that you’re a college graduate, I really can’t." Peter held up the gizmo in his right hand. "This, here, is a thermal scanner. It measures extreme changes in temperature due to paranormal activity. Is that sinking into your noggin?"

   "Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay, okay."

   "If I held it next to your brain, it would register below zero." Peter held up the meter that he was holding in his left hand. "This device is called an ‘ion detector’. Ions in the air will measure a high disturbance, a negative reading, when spirit energy is present."

   Grumbling, Larry adjusted his uniform in an attempt to make it more comfortable. "Man, my skin is absolutely raw from this idiotic getup. The Johnny Rebs must have prayed for a bullet to end their frigging misery."

   "I’ll tell you one thing; anyone of them was ten times the man that you are. Ma was right; you’re nothing but a whiner."

   "And what, pray tell, are we going to do if we come across any of these so-called spirits?" Larry barked a laugh. "Hey, maybe we can sit around and trade yarns about the war."

   "Come on, let’s get a move on. Confederate Avenue is just up ahead. There’s bound to be some real strong energy there."

   "Sure, maybe we’ll come across the Duracell Rabbit."

   They made their way through the underbrush, their path lit by a near full moon. The battlefield was completely quiet, eerily quiet, excepting for the occasional scurrying of an animal. Reaching Confederate Avenue, they hurried across, heading toward the dark silhouettes of cannons, arrayed along where Pickett’s Charge had commenced. Suddenly, headlights danced in the distance and they dove for cover, lying on their bellies, as a Ranger vehicle slowly approached and passed by, its tires purring on the asphalt.

   "I’m going to say it again, Larry; we have to be quiet. I don’t want to hear any of your yammering."

   "You know what; I’m going to stay right here and stretch out. You go ahead and do what you have to do. I hope that Robert E. Lee comes by and enlists you on the spot. You’re sure dressed for the occasion."

   Peter tilted a beehive slouch hat to the rear of his head and adjusted the large Bowie knife sheathed on his belt. With his butternut filthy and heavily patched and a checkered bedroll slung over his shoulder, he had no doubt that he could gain the confidence of any spirit that he might encounter. He was going to hit pay dirt; he could feel it in his bones. Taking out a plug of tobacco, he gnawed off a piece and started chewing, for a little extra effect.

   "Just remember; don’t make any noise."

   "Take off already, for God-sake. When you’re finished, wake me up."

   With the thermal scanner in one hand and the ion detector in the other, Peter started out, walking in a straight line along where Pickett’s Division had hunkered down, awaiting the command to form up and move out. The grass was wet with dew and he could feel it on his big toes, jutting through the worn leather of his brogans. He pushed the trigger of the thermal scanner, peering at the readings on its lighted display. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he adjusted his course, heading a bit more out into the field. In the distance, he could just about make out the large, dark silhouette of the General Lee Monument.

   A few yards into the field, he stopped dead in his tracks as the readings started to plummet: 40-35-30-25, all the way down to a bone-chilling zero! At the same time, the ion detector started to go crazy, its indicator plunging into the negative range! There were spirits on the prowl and they were very close by! His heart began to pound as the whole area became chilly, his breath pluming from his mouth like an exhale of cigar smoke! Goosebumps broke out on his arms and shot down the length of his spine. Oh yes, oh yes, he could feel a presence, a very strong presence! He took a step, his legs feeling rubbery.

   Then, right there, before his unbelieving eyes, a strange greenish-colored vapor began to take form, swirling as though stirred by a slight breeze. He watched in awe, his mouth hanging open, as it slowly, every so slowly, began to take the shape of three men: a goateed Colonel, by the looks, and an old scraggly-bearded sergeant and a youthful private, too young for even peach fuzz! The officer’s uniform was still stately, with knee-high boots, the other two, shoeless and clad nearly in rags!

   "Jesus H. Christ, Pete!" he heard Larry shout from behind. "What in the living hell is that? Holy mackerel, it looks like -----."

   "Shut-up or you’ll scare them away. Quiet."

   The Colonel considered him from afar, his body fading to a pale green, as though Peter was viewing him through night vision goggles. Then the green became more vibrant as the officer started forward, heading right in his direction! Closer and closer he drifted, the details of his face and uniform getting sharper! He had a gaunt, raw-boned visage, his eyes shimmering and intense, hair curling from beneath a plumed hat! His uniform was in fine condition: upright collar and braid and gilded buttons, a sash at the waist, with a holstered revolver and sword! As he drew near, he raised a gauntleted hand and stretched it out in Peter’s direction, lips set and eyes fathomless! The other two appeared at his sides, the old sergeant’s jaws seemingly working on a wad of tobacco. The private stared, almost shyly, his head cocked at an inquisitive angle.

   "Don’t take his hand, Peter!" shouted Larry. "Jesus Christ, whatever you do, please don’t accept his hand!"

   Mesmerized, Peter was oblivious to his brother’s warning, as he dropped his thermal scanner and held out his own hand, his fingers touching those of the Colonel. In those few seconds, there came a blinding flash of light, followed by the crackling of an electrical current. The last thing that Peter heard was Larry’s anguished cry coming from somewhere behind him, somewhere off in the humming distance.

*** * ***

   Peter snapped from a swirling, star-studded, black void; eyes closed, his body resting on hard, rough ground. He was immediately aware of everything around him – the booming of artillery and the shouting and cursing of men; the ungodly heat, saturating his clothes with sweat; the acrid, rotten egg-stench of sulfur. He laid there for a long time, frantic, keeping his eyes firmly shut. What, in the name of God, was going on? Where was he? Although not wanting to, he finally eased his eyes open, his heart drumming with the effort, lids batting at a shock of bright sunlight! The first thing he beheld was a face staring down at him; a gaunt, narrow face, with wispy chin whiskers and a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth.

   "Who, who are you?"

   "No, sir; the question is, who in the hell are you. You jus’ plumb popped out of nowhere. I mean; one second you weren’t here, and, then, you were."

   Peter laid still for a few moments, not daring to move, his brain flooded with unanswered questions. "Where in the hell am I?"

   The man cocked his head, knitting a pair of scraggly brows. "You’re foolin’ with me, ain’t’cha?"

   A projectile screamed overhead, striking a tree and splitting it down the middle with a sound that Peter could only describe as someone biting into a hard, crisp apple. Splinters of wood buzzed and leaves fluttered to the ground. Someone uttered a God-awful scream that sent chills coursing down the length of Peter’s spine. Sulfuric smoke stung his eyes, causing them to water. He forgot the question that he had asked, until the private’s face reappeared, a bit more distraught than before.

   "You’re foolin’ with me, ain’t’cha?" he asked again.

   "No, damn-it-all, I’m not fooling with you. Now please answer me; where in the be-Jesus am I?"

   "You’re in Getts’burg, friend. Getts’burg, Pennslyvannie, as if you didn’t awready know." The soldier pointed a gnarled finger off into the distance. "An’ we’re jus’ a-waitin’ orders to attack the Union center, way off there, by that clump of trees."

   "Ah shit!" exclaimed Peter, scrambling onto his hands and knees and staring in the direction of the private’s finger. Right there, sure enough, through the wreaths of powder smoke, he could just about make out the small copse of trees, that terrible and fateful landmark, in the very middle of Cemetery Ridge! Panicked, his eyes darted to the array of Confederate artillery, many of the gunners stripped to the waist, their torsos shining with sweat. Shells exploded in the distance like fireworks, amongst great, balloon-shaped clouds of powder smoke! Nearby, was a shattered caisson, with one of its wheels still spinning - a mangled horse crying piteously, its legs kicking wildly in a last bid for life. Corpses littered the field where shells had furrowed the ground like giant moles. Peter felt a bile rising in his throat as he spotted a solitary brogan, lying amongst the carnage, with the bloody stump of a foot still attached!

   "You’re looking a might peaked, friend. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that this was the first time ya saw the elephant."

   "Ah Jesus, ah Christ; how in the hell is this possible? How could I have ever gotten here?"

   "You got here same as all of us."

   Peter gave a near hysterical laugh. "Oh, I seriously doubt that, pal. I very seriously doubt that." Then, although trying hard not to, Peter bent over and vomited onto a clump of grass, his body heaving with spasms. When he thought that he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, only to fall to it again, with a greater gusto than before.

   "You better not let the Lieutenant see ya up-chuckin’. He’d write ya up for cowardice."

   "Aaaaggghhh, eeeccchhh! Who the hell cares?"

   "You had better, for one."

   A shell wailed in like a banshee, plowing into the ground and sending up a great geyser of soil and stones and clumps of grass. Another soon followed and found its mark, heaving two shattered men into the air as if they were nothing more than a couple of oversized rag dolls. Limbs, scraps of clothing, bone fragments and brain tissue pelted down on the soldiers hunkered nearby, their shoulders hunched and noses pressed to the ground. Smoke floated like specters through the mangled trees. More projectiles poured in, one after another, the ground trembling as though in the throes of an earthquake.

   Peter heard a gurgling sound and turned to the man that he had been talking to, horrified to see him tottering, his fingers desperately trying to free a splinter of wood that had lodged itself clear through his neck! He looked to Peter in wide-eyed wonderment, his mouth working fruitlessly, before falling flat on his face. His body shook with spasms, giving off a strong stench of feces and urine, then laid still.

   "Oh God, oh God, help me! Please let me out of this hellhole! If I did anything wrong in my life, I promise that I’ll make up for it!"

   Nearby, a grizzled, long-bearded veteran peered over at Peter, mustering a wry smile, along with a wink. "He ain’t gonna listen to ya, sonny, ‘cause that’s what I been tellin’ Him right along."

   Just then, a round of cheers went up and Peter saw what appeared to be a General, riding his horse along the lines, his cap worn rakishly over one ear, auburn locks bouncing in rhythm to the hoof beats. Sweet Jesus, it had to be Pickett! Clad impeccably in gray and gold, the General waved a gauntleted hand over his head, inspiring the huddled masses with his pomp and pride. He reined in his mount and bent low, having a few moments of conversation with a tall, black-hatted Brigadier who had hurried out to meet him. Then unleashing a whoop and a holler, Pickett galloped off, whirling his sword over his head like a Cossack, back in the direction he had come.

   The tall man with the black hat, who Peter determined to be General Lewis Armistead, quickly gathered his subordinates and began issuing orders, hands animated, voice rising to a shout to be heard over the din. All along the lines, men started to prepare – casting aside unnecessary equipment; bowing heads in last minute prayer; scrawling their names on scraps of paper and pinning them to their uniforms. Most seemed resigned to their fate, casting their lot to the mercy of the Almighty.

   As Peter watched, his apprehension suddenly began to dissolve, a strange, warm, calming feeling spreading throughout his body. He was actually here, at one of the most memorable and heroic times in American history! And, there, only the matter of yards away, was General Armistead, a man soon to be wrapped in the arms of glory! What an honor; to be here, amongst this legion of brave souls! By God, he was joining to join the charge, and, by God, he was going to make it clear to the High Water Mark with General Armistead!

   Then, suddenly, amongst the shot and shell, there came the cadent beating of drums – rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat – gaining in intensity and echoing down the long line of trees. Men began to form into companies, companies into regiments and regiments into brigades, muskets as thick as the quills of a porcupine. Shoulder-to-shoulder they stood, as if on dress parade, creating quite a spectacle for the Yankees massed along Cemetery Ridge.

   A mustachioed Lieutenant wended his way through the underbrush, looking for shirkers and nudged Peter’s arm with his sword. "Let’s go, son, it’s time to form up. Don’t be afraid, we’re all in the same boat."

   Peter jerked his chin toward a private thrashing on the ground, pale as a sheet, with his mouth covered with foam. "What’s happening to him?"

   "Don’t’cha worry about him none; he’s suffering from heat prostration. He’ll be jus’ fine, when all this is done, thanking the Almighty he’s still alive. Where’s your weapon?"

   "Uh ----- it’s around here someplace."

   The officer snatched up the musket of a dead man and shoved it into Peter’s hand, along with a cap pouch and cartridge box. "I should discipline you for your negligence, but it’s neither the time nor place. C’mon, now; let’s get a move on."

   Peter rushed forward and joined the first company he came across, just as orders were given to "fix bayonets" and "shoulder arms." Regimental colors were unfurled and held high, where they hung limp in the thick, humid air. The young man to Peter’s right kept his head bowed, muttering the Lords Prayer over-and-over, a nervous tic playing at the corner of his mouth. Chances were, thought Peter, the poor kid would never see hearth and home again.

   Directing the tip of his sword toward the distant rise of Cemetery Ridge, Armistead raised his voice for all to hear. "Our objective is to converge on that copse of trees and split the center of the Union lines! Remember, we are to dress to the left, always left, and head for those trees!" Then falling silent for a moment, he brandished his sword high. "Men, remember what you are fighting for: your homes, your firesides, and your sweethearts! Follow me!"

   Peter had recited those last striking words along with the General, for he had long ago committed them to memory. God, they never failed, even now, to bring tears to his eyes!

   To the beat of drums, the long line of men started forward, fifteen thousand strong - faces grim, eyes glued to that mile-away collection of trees. As they passed the Confederate artillery, the weary, sweat-soaked gunners unleashed a rousing cheer, smiles breaking across their powder-blackened faces. On and on they marched in perfect order, until, finally, shells began to whistle and screech and whine, exploding amongst the packed masses, cutting men down like wheat before the scythe! Peter saw a soldier’s head completely disintegrate, like an over-ripe melon, spraying those behind with blood and gore! A few steps further along, he passed a man lying on the ground, writhing and desperately trying to push his steaming entrails back into his stomach! Arms and legs were everywhere, like the terrible remains of some demonic slaughterhouse! Yet onward he pressed, head bowed, purpose set, his mind centered on going over that fateful stonewall along with Armistead. Only once, briefly, did he think of his parents, of his siblings, his girlfriend, of the many comforts of an upper middle class family. A shell burst overhead, shrapnel like so many scalpels, slicing madly through the ranks of men.

   Soon the leading elements began to waver, slowing their pace, as they reached the split rail fence strung along the Emmittsburg Road. Here, hindered for only a few brief, yet terrible moments, they would become nothing more than so many ducks in a shooting gallery. As the first of the attackers mounted the fence, poising for a split moment, the Yankees unleashed a devastating volley, cutting them down to nearly a man! The bullets, peppering flesh and wood and soil, reminded Peter of large raindrops pattering against a roof. Yet on they scrambled, unfaltering, hundreds upon hundreds of men, raising the fearsome yip-yip of the Rebel yell. They had scarce time to dwell on what lay ahead – a virtual killing ground of enfilade musket fire and loads of double canister.

*** * ***

   Doctor Erwin Vance walked into the ER room, taking a few moments to consider the still, pale man stretched out before him, dressed in ----- dressed in what appeared to be a very authentic Rebel infantryman’s uniform. The man’s breathing was shallow, his skin sickly pale.

   Vance turned to a nurse, barley hiding his amusement. "What, is it Halloween or was there some battle reenactment?"

   "I’m not sure, Doctor. His brother brought him in; said he found him mumbling to himself and walking in circles near that rail fence, you know, along the Emmittsburg Road. He appears to be in shock; weak pulse, skin cold to the touch, breathing irregular."

   "Hhhmmm. Where’s the brother, now?"

   "In the waiting room, making calls to family members. He’s dressed in the same fashion, something about spirit-hunting or some such, on the battlefield."

   "Takes all kinds, I guess." Vance looked at the heart monitor, noting a few irregular spikes in the patient’s rhythm. Then taking a penlight from his breast pocket, he carefully examined each eye. "His pupils are extremely dilated. Did his brother provide any information as to what may have happened?"

   "No, Doctor. And I’ll tell you; he didn’t look any too stable himself – very stressful, very agitated."

   "Perhaps they discovered a few of those spirits," Vance mused "Strip him to the waist, nurse, and hook him up for an electro-cardiogram. I want to ask his brother a few questions."

*** * ***

   Peter pressed himself between two rungs of the fence, bullets buzzing all around him like angry bees; one burning past his ear, one stirring his sleeve, and yet another, plucking the hat clean off his head. Again and again, he heard the unmistakable thud of metal meeting flesh – some men falling with a scream and others silently, as though they were sitting at a wake. Sweat burned his eyes, blurring his vision, and he had to take a moment to clear it away with the sleeve of his shell jacket. The ranks were visibly thinned as the survivors sent up a chorus of Rebel yells and dashed forward – straight for the copse of trees and the maws of awaiting artillery. One cannon belched a hail of iron balls, decimating what remained of a company, lifting many off their feet and sending them flying backwards. Men screamed; covered with blood, roaming about aimlessly – wide-eyed - as though lost in a nightmare. Then, in that very instant, Peter saw Armistead; yet unscathed as he rushed forward, beseeching the dwindling ranks to follow, his black hat impaled on the tip of his sword! Ah, but the glory, thought Peter, the sheer glory of it all! Unleashing a raw Rebel yell of his own, he fell in close at the General’s heels, his heart beating so rapidly that he thought, for sure, it might burst!

   A solid row of Yankees leapt to their feet behind the stonewall, leveled their muskets with a clatter and unleashed a blistering volley, deafening to the ear, smoke curling and flames leaping from hundreds of gleaming barrels.

*** * ***

   "Doctor, my God, this man is in cardiac arrest!"

   Vance spun as the green line spiked wildly on the monitor, the beeps coming in rapid succession. "Quick, quick, get me the paddles, get the paddles!"

   "It’s a big one by the looks, Doctor!"

   "Hurry, switch on the machine and hand me the paddles!"

   They were only fifteen seconds into their emergency mode when the green spikes flat-lined, the beeps turning into one long, continuous chirp!

 ©2004 Gerald Sheagren