Beaudry's Ghost

  Dedication

  For my sister Pat, who was born about a hundred years too late.

  Mom and Dad, Rick, my beautiful children, and my extended North Carolina clan. “Thank you” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I love you all.

  Acknowledgements

  The many Civil War re-enactors who helped me get it right, particularly Richard Smart, 19th Alabama Infantry, who read the original draft and challenged me to reach deeper for the real story. Any mistakes are my own.

  Prologue

  Help me.

  The lock-picking tools fell with a metallic clatter to the concrete floor. Startled, Taylor Brannon froze in her kneeling position by the old trunk.

  Turning only her eyes at first, then her head, then at last her shoulders, she looked around the museum’s storeroom to assure herself she was alone.

  On a ragged sigh, she sat back on her heels, jammed her fists between her knees, closed her eyes and willfully refused to acknowledge the familiar tingling vibrations running through her body.

  She didn’t like this feeling, like a door opening and cold air rushing in. The feeling of…exposure.

  Opening her eyes, she rubbed her arms, retrieved the tools and once again bent over the ancient trunk’s rusty lock. The trunk was a donation, a leftover from some estate auction. It was so scarred and battered that no one, not even the most avid antique hunter, had bid on it.

  But you never knew what treasures lurked inside drab packages. And that knowledge had kept her working at the lock through her lunch hour.

  Tucking her hair behind her ears, she guided the pick into the keyhole.

  “One last try, my friend, and then it’s Mr. Crowbar for you…” And, like magic, the lock fell open into her hands.

  Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation, yet she steeled herself for disappointment. She set the heels of her hands on the front lip of the lid and pushed. The hinges creaked and the trunk coughed up a grey puff of dust that set her to sneezing and waving her hands in front of her face.

  As the cloud cleared, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. She told herself that she needed the gloves to protect the artifacts she might find inside—not because she needed protection herself.

  Carefully, her tongue catching at her upper lip in concentration, she peeled back layers of white tissue paper. The scents of cedar, lavender and years wafted up to her nose.

  A Civil War-era, Union-blue uniform coat lay on top, neatly folded. Sergeant, from the insignia on the sleeve, and the buttons indicated he rode with the cavalry. There were several carefully mended rips in the cloth. Eagerly, she slid her hands under the folded garment and looked underneath, hoping to find the rest of the uniform intact. She found more fabric, mostly baby clothes and embroidered linens, but no more uniform pieces. No trousers, hat or sword.

  Nothing. Just the coat.

  She frowned in disappointment and wondered why someone had taken such great pains to repair and store that one piece, but not the rest. She chose, for the moment, not to think about the injuries that could have destroyed the remaining pieces of the soldier’s uniform.

  She unfolded the coat and spread it out on the clean, hard floor. Telltale signs told her someone had altered it to fit unusually broad shoulders and a trim waist. She smoothed her gloved hands over the fabric and smiled as she imagined this soldier’s mother doing much the same while fitting the coat to her son’s body. For a moment, voices echoed in her imagination.

  “Stand still, boy, or I’ll never get this done in time.”

  “Aw, Ma, nobody’s gonna care how I look when we’re routing those Rebs.”

  “No son of mine is going off to war wearing something that fits like a potato sack. Now hold still.”

  The imagined voices in her head faded as she turned the garment over to examine the back. Her breath caught when she found how this soldier had died—from a gunshot wound. From the back, meaning his back had been turned toward the enemy at that moment. Perhaps his horse had simply spun around. Or maybe he had been running away, in which case this bullet hole was a mark of shame.

  Her heart ached a little for the mother who had clearly gone to great pains to pack the uniform coat away despite what could have been damning evidence of her son’s cowardice.

  Taylor held the coat a little closer to examine it. Dark stains embedded in the blue cloth could have been powder burns or blood, had she cared to look that close. Other faint stains on one sleeve and around the collar bore the marks of a sincere effort to remove them.

  Taylor shuddered, quickly flipped the coat back over and refolded it, but as she worked something within the garment crinkled. Not finding any outside pockets, she slid the front buttons free and found one inside. A corner of yellowed paper protruded an inch, showing the edge of a postmark.

  A letter. The mother lode. Troy’s going to love this. She brought her thoughts up short. Her brother was overseas on assignment with the Navy SEALs, and their last stinging words to each other guaranteed he wouldn’t be taking her calls anytime soon. She’d have to break the habit of reaching for the cell phone to call her twin every time she came across an interesting Civil War-related artifact.

  A wave of regret, then cold uneasiness swept over her as she unfolded the paper, but with ease of long practice she firmly quelled it. She’s couldn’t remember when she’d had an impression this strong from touching an object, and the fact that it zinged right through her thick cotton gloves struck a note of concern.

  She couldn’t stop now, though, not when there could be more treasures waiting in this trunk. Shutting out the warning bells in her head, she focused instead on the letter, and smiled at the writer’s clumsy attempts at decorum and spelling.

  June 15, 1868

  Mrs. Elizabeth B. Garrison

  Little Hocking, Ohio

  Dear Mrs. Garrison,

  I pray I have found the right person to send this parcel to. It took some doing to find you, seeing as you have remarryed since the war.

  I believe this uniform belonged to your son. With shame I admit I relieved him of it after his death. I, along with many of my companions, often collected such trophys during our service under Jefferson Davis. The posession of this prize, however, has become a weight on my soul through the years, and I am compelled to relieve my conshense of the burden.

  Your son was captured in February 1862, during the Roanoke Island skirmish. He was taken on Bodie Island while scouting a rebel camp, and was killed many miles south on Cape Hatteras.

  It was I, through sheer accident, who came upon him and brought him with some cheer to my commanding officer. Had I known what awaited him, I would have been more inclined to let him go without a word to anyone, and gladly have taken whatever punishment I earned.

  The events between his capture and murder I will not repeat, as I have no wish to cause anyone more distress. I will tell you that he suffered mightily at the hands of my commanding officer, but be assured that your son died bravely and well.

  With deep regret I cannot say where his remains lie. Hard storms have changed the lay of the island, making it impossible to find landmarks or any markers we might have left behind.

  Perhaps knowing he is at peace will bring you some small comfort.

  I must close here, as I have many days journey home after posting this parcel to you. I beg you do not attempt to find me, as there is little more I can tell you and it is my wish to lay the whole sorry event to rest.

  But I will never forget your son’s courage. For you see, it is the curse of those of us who have no courage, to spend our lives haunted by men such as him.

  The letter was postmarked Richmond, Virginia. The handwriting was round and childlike, as if the writer was unaccustomed to laboring over so many wor
ds and so many memories.

  She turned the page over, hoping for some clue to the writer’s identity, but it was blank.

  Murder. Murder? She shook her head. Some people might think him a victim of murder, others just a casualty of war. She made a mental note to make a copy and fax it to Troy anyway. This was just the sort of mystery that would intrigue him, and it would pull double duty as a peace offering.

  Refolding the letter, she reached for the garment. Her gloved fingers accidentally touched the hole in the uniform. An odd sensation shot up her arm, raised the hairs on the back, and then settled in a hollow ball in the pit of her stomach.

  Help me.

  She didn’t hear a voice. Not exactly. Just an incredibly strong impression of crushing fatigue, confusion and…and…she touched the hole again in spite of herself, for once leaving herself a little open to her psychometric ability.

  Pain. Terror.

  Taylor gasped, dropped the coat and scrambled backward, her frantic breathing echoing in the cavernous room. Her gaze stayed glued to the untidy pile of blue cloth as she shakily regained her feet, fighting the childish notion that it might jump up and come after her. Then, leaving the coat untouched, she backed away and ran.

  Chapter One

  One Year Later

  Jared Beaudry circled the campfire, his mind racing with questions.

  A group of Confederate soldiers lounged around a fire, smoking or drinking coffee. Their quiet conversation, ribald laughter and occasional mournful songs of home were so familiar, so beloved, that Jared ached in the place where his heart had once beat.

  Friends. Comrades in arms. Brothers. He remembered well the bond among soldiers. How many years had it been since he’d sat by a campfire of his own? He’d lost count but enough time had passed that these men should be long dead.

  Jared hobbled closer, guarding where he placed his good foot. Then he laughed bitterly at himself. Old habits truly died hard. He could clatter about like a traveling tinker, or lean down to the closest ear and shout the rudest epithet, and no one would notice.

  Only a gifted few could see a ghost.

  Confusion swirled in his mind, momentarily blocking out the pain and the sickening sensation of his own blood draining from his wounds. Blood that flowed from a wellspring of rage that never ran dry.

  Who were these men? Why, after all these years, were they back here on this island? Had war broken out again? Had he somehow been thrown back in time? Or had a piece of the past torn free and landed here in his horrible reality?

  Before he could sort it all out, the sound of his own name brought him up short, and a singsong voice drew his attention back to the campfire. The men fell silent as they listened to one of their own, apparently the resident storyteller.

  “…And they say the ghost of Union soldier Jared Beaudry rides the Outer Banks to this very day, looking for his lost arm and leg. Looking for revenge against Bloody Zachariah Harris, the Confederate lieutenant who took them and his honor, by shooting him in the back.”

  A moment of rapt silence followed. The large, red-bearded man who had been speaking settled back and sent a long stream of tobacco juice hissing into the fire, signaling the story finished.

  The rest of the men released the breath they’d been holding, then broke into hearty laughter. Jared’s mind reeled. These men knew him! They remembered his name! They spoke of his death as if they’d seen it! How…?

  “Hell’s fire, Leon. That tale just gets better every time you tell it. You almost had me believin’ it this time!”

  “Yeah, you shoulda been a politician, Leon. Nobody tells a lie bettern’ you.”

  Jared moved closer to the one named Leon as the huge bear of a man stiffened in mock offense.

  “Fisher, you can insult my truck, my dog or my wife but don’t never call me a liar.”

  The men guffawed and various insults flew among them, save one. For the first time, Jared noticed a gangling youth huddled on the sand just outside the circle, with knees drawn to chest and arms clasped tight around them. Jared could swear that beneath the oversized grey uniform, the youth was trembling.

  Something about the boy drew Jared nearer. Yes, the boy was trembling. Shaking, as a matter of fact. Without thought, Jared reached out, then drew back in self-disgust when he realized he was reaching with his handless left arm.

  To Jared's amazement, the boy inhaled sharply and jerked around to look directly at him.

  He fell back a step, startled by the depth of terror in the boy’s green eyes. Yet he sensed something in this youth that was different from the other men. He could feel the boy mentally reaching out to search the darkness, looking for something that his eyes could not see.

  Hope surged. For so long, he had pleaded with God. For an end to the pain, the loneliness of his prison on earth. For a chance to somehow live those last days over again, this time keeping his wits about him—and his limbs.

  And at last, when God hadn’t answered, Jared had screamed out for help to anyone who might be listening. Anyone.

  Could this boy be his answer? Jared reclaimed the backward step he’d taken, and extended his good hand toward the boy’s shoulder.

  “Beaudry.” A voice, sharp with warning.

  Jared pivoted on his good leg and nearly fell flat. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  A tall, blond man dressed entirely in black stood a few yards away, holding the reins of the horse Jared had left ground-tied among the dunes. The horse—rather, the ghost of it—had been the only other creature to share Jared’s nightmare. Until now. The man, relaxed now that Jared’s attention was off the boy, looked him up and down. Then his mouth quirked.

  “Not even close. My name’s Troy.” He patted the horse’s neck.

  Jared realized the figure before him was another like himself. The ghost of a man who had once walked the earth. The reason he no longer did so became apparent when Troy dropped the horse’s reins and stepped closer. A fist-sized bullet hole glistened on the right side of his chest, the lack of blood showing that he had most likely died quickly.

  A luxury Jared himself had not enjoyed.

  Something about Troy’s black clothing, though unfamiliar, and the way he carried himself told Jared something else. Troy was also a soldier.

  “How…how do you know me?” He marveled that he was actually communicating with someone. Until now, he’d had only his horse for company. Emotion choked him, and he stifled the urge to grab the man’s shoulders and shake him to make sure he was real.

  Troy laughed. “Leon’s been telling that story since I was a six-year-old drummer boy in this re-enacting unit.” He sent a sad, affectionate glance toward the men around the campfire. “We never got tired of it.” His image flickered for an instant, but steadied as he narrowed his eyes in apparent concentration.

  “Re-en…” The term was unfamiliar to Jared. He’d known units of sharpshooters, horsemen, infantry and artillery, but he’d never heard of a re-enacting unit.

  Troy jerked his chin toward the men. “These men are living history—acting out 1860s army life and battles that took place more than a hundred years ago. They’re called re-enactors.”

  Living history? Who the hell would want to… A hundred years!

  The hope that had flared in Jared’s chest died a little. “So this is still the present time, and I haven’t somehow gone back…”

  Troy shook his head. “No.”

  If he’d had any tears left, Jared would have shed them in rage and frustration. For years—more than a century, he now knew—he had been trapped, a spirit who searched among the faces of living people for the one who had taken him prisoner, cutting him to pieces, and dishonored him by shooting him in the back.

  Yet he gathered himself, a part of his remaining self still refusing to believe all was lost. “You seem to know why I’m here. What brings you to this little strip of paradise?”

  Troy regarded him with a steady eye. “The only reason you’re here, Jared Beaudry, is because
you choose it.”

  Jared laughed, hard and long, the noise gurgling from the open gash in his throat causing his own stomach to roll. “I have a choice?” What did Troy think, that he enjoyed his hopeless existence? “Come, tell me. What choice do I need to make in order to leave this place?”

  “That depends on where you’re going after you choose, I suppose,” said Troy, an eyebrow arched. Then he shrugged. “It’s simple, Beaudry. From what I’ve seen, all you have to do is let go of your rage and your lust for revenge. That’s all that’s holding you here. Can’t take baggage like that through the gates of heaven.”

  Let go! Jared swung away from his newfound companion, instantly dismissing the notion. He gazed with lonely hunger at the soldiers—re-enactors—some of whom were drifting toward their tents and sleep.

  “And your choice is to stay here, as well?”

  Troy’s voice, sounding oddly fainter, came to him from behind. “That’s something I’m still trying to figure out. But for now, I’m here because of her.”

  Her? Jared saw no women among the re-enactors, only men clad in grey. One of them, the boy, glanced nervously over his shoulder, staring in Jared’s direction. No, past him and toward Troy, eyes wide as if desperately searching for something, but afraid of what he might find.

  Abruptly the boy rose to his feet and snatched an Enfield musket from the nearby stack. At the campfire, all conversation halted. Jared sensed an odd combination of sympathy and resentment rushing out of the men to envelop the boy, who hunched his shoulders.

  “I’m going out to relieve Jimmy on the picket line.”

  Jared was faintly surprised at the soft, husky quality of the voice. The boy sounded even younger than he looked.

  “It’s not your time yet, Taylor,” said Leon, keeping his gaze locked on the campfire, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at the youth.

  The boy shrugged. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, thanks to you, Leon Gulley.”

  Leon shifted his chaw to the other cheek. “It’s only a legend. Who knows if it’s even true.”