Hallowed ground
“I’ve programmed the satnav, Nat, but not started it in guidance mode. We can just use it as a back-up. I’ve got it all planned out on the map. From here to Dillsburg, then to Heidlersburg, all straight down Route 15 until we hit the Baltimore Pike, Route 97. Then we turn north west for a couple of miles and arrive at Gettysburg. We should be there in 90 minutes, even with a break.”
“Maybe less, if we break your ‘drive 50, rest 10’ rule, Boots. Let’s live dangerously, do the whole journey in one go. I won’t tell anyone…”
“We’ll see, Nat. Maybe check on how things are going at the 50-minute mark. Make sure you aren’t tired. Have you seen how many places on this map end in ‘burg’? There are dozens of them. What’s that all about?”
Nat’s smirking at me, like I should know.
“It’s our invasion, Boots. Us Germans, we came over here and started renaming stuff, especially after Independence, wiping out traces of you Brits. Like Fort Pitt. We changed it to Pittsburgh. I guess with a bit more effort the whole country could have been speaking German instead of English.”
“I’m not sure you actually speak English now, Nat.”
“Seriously, Boots,” laughed Nat as he piloted Lemon Steroids onto Route 15, “America nearly chose German as our official language after Independence. There weren’t just the English colonies here. King George was German, don’t forget, sent Hanoverian mercenaries to fight here because you English were busy with kicking the French. There was a Swedish colony too, and Dutch – New York used to be called New Amsterdam. Think of Shane and Travis – their surnames are from Swedish origins.”
Larsen and Lundgren. That actually makes sense, especially for Shane. He’s definitely got the blond, blue eyed Scandinavian looks. A Viking teen. I’ll have to tell him that, he’ll like it.
Nat’s smiling. He’s going somewhere with this. “One of the votes that the newly founded Congress took was to decide what the official language of America ought to be. Most of the Founding Fathers were English, so English was the front runner, but with a big German contingent and a lot of Swedes, those two languages were also right up there competing. Nobody took much notice of the French. In the end, we voted for English, but it might have gone the other way and we could all have been speaking German now.”
“Keepen zein lookenpeepers auf das tarmakken, Nat, und halten spouten bullscheisse.”
* * *
The Gettysburg National Park is a pretty amazing place and Nat wasn’t complaining too much when I wanted to cover every inch of ground, see where the various fighting units faced off against each other, look where Pickett did his charging thing and how the Union artillery sited their cannon batteries to dominate the field and break up the head on Confederate attacks. I guess Will and Noah know all about those. Their battle recreation on Parent’s Day at the end of the college year was based on it.
We grabbed lunch at a café by the visitor centre – just a sandwich – so we could spend more time looking round and then go and get the wreath of flowers from Lemon Steroids. At breakfast, where we planned our day, I’d suggested that to end our visit we should lay some flowers at the cemetery where Lincoln made his speech: it’s something me and dad often do when we visit battlefields. Remember and pay respect to the fallen, no matter what side they were on. They didn’t choose to go to war. Politicians sent them. Nat had readily agreed and so before leaving Harrisburg we’d called at a florist’s shop and had a small wreath made up. When she heard what we wanted it for, the florist made it from red and white carnations and some blue forget-me-nots. It’s not big and showy, but it doesn’t need to be.
There’s a big monument at the National Cemetery to mark where the Union troops were reburied after the battle once the locals had had time to tidy up and get things sorted out. The Confederates were buried separately a bit further south. I guess right after the battle memories were still a bit too raw to lay the opposing troops side by side. Civil wars always seem to be that bit more brutal.
As we walked around the cemetery Nat was looking around, taking in the sights, nodding to a few people even though he didn’t know any of them. We’re all there for the same reasons. To remember what happened here. To think of the speech Lincoln made when the cemetery was formally opened.
“Lincoln wasn’t even the main guest that day, Boots,” said Nat as we strolled towards the rostrum. “The cemetery was declared open by Edward Everett, a former Governor of Massachusetts. The Cemetery Committee felt he was a good speaker and asked him to be guest of honour. Got their money’s worth too, Boots. He spoke for almost two hours on the battle. Nobody much remembers what he said now though. The Committee invited President Lincoln along almost as an afterthought and just asked him to say a few words. He only spoke for two minutes: it was over so quick that the official photographer never even got a snap of him, he was too busy under his black cape swapping over his glass plates. But in just those two minutes Lincoln summed up everything America stands for. The Gettysburg Address. It’s on that bronze plaque over there.”
We wandered over to the plaque, waited for the group of people already surrounding it to finish reading and move on, then stepped forward to look at it. It’s just a few hundred words, but what words they are. I learned them at Allegheny in the Civics classes.
“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
Abraham Lincoln
As we finished reading, we stepped away and wandered the few hundred yards towards the Soldiers’ National Memorial which forms the centrepiece of the cemetery. We’re not in uniform, so we can’t march up there and salute, but we can still do this right.
As the people ahead of us finished their selfies and moved away chattering excitedly, we stepped smartly forwards and halted at the base of the memorial. We stood quietly for a few seconds, then I passed Nat the wreath and he took a pace forward, carefully laid the colourful wreath on the ground, snapped straight upright and bowed his head for a few seconds.
Around us the area seemed to fall silent save for the sound of birdsong. We might have been there a century ago, or even alongside Lincoln on that day when he was belatedly called upon to say “a few appropriate remarks.”
Nat looked deep in thought. Battlefield memorials do that to people. After a few seconds, we simultaneously took a pace backwards, turned smartly through 45 degrees and stepped away. Nat remembers his Silent Drill.
* * *
As we climbed into Lemon Steroids, I grabbed the map and looked ahead along our route. This is the penultimate leg of our road trip. From here we’re going to a place called Ligonier, where we’ll stay overnight at a colonial style hotel Nat’s been raving about, and tomorrow we’ll look around Fort Ligonier on the outskirts of town. Ligonier is only an hour or so south east of Pittsburgh so we’re nearly home. Well, nearly at Nat’s home. It’s odd how I’m beginning to think of it like it’s my home too though.
“About two hours to go, Nat, mostly straight along Route 30, so we should be at Ligonier in plenty of time to freshen up and have a quick look around town before dinner. I’m really looking forward to seeing the fort tomorrow.”
There was the almost obligatory giggle as Nat fired up Lemon Steroids and headed out of the car park and towards Route 30.
“What you looking for, Boots?”
I sat back in my seat, turning my eyes away from the mirror.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Nat. Just taking a last look back at Gettysburg.”
It probably is nothing. I guess I’ve caught stuff from my dad. Always checking mirrors. Looking around. Observing. It’s instinct to me now. It’s just that I can’t help but feel something’s a little out of place somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it. All day I’ve had a feeling we’re being watched. I haven’t actually seen anything though.
* * *
We stuck with Route 30 most of the way, apart from a stretch where according to the map it was better to switch over to Route 70 which ran parallel with our course but was a better road. That allowed us to get ahead of our schedule. We switched back to Route 30 at a place called Old Bedford – I wonder how long before Nat has that renamed Bedfordburg? – and were soon making good progress towards Ligonier.
“Hey, Nat, that sign we just passed says there’s something called the ‘Flight 93 Memorial’ a mile ahead. What is it? It’s not on the map? How old is this map? We should always have the latest map. We don’t want to run into an iceberg or something like Titanic did. I’ll bet there’s a place called Iceburg around here…”
Nat grinned at my joke, then looked serious for a moment.
“It’s new, Boots. I think they’re still building it. I remember pop going to some meetings about it a year or two back. Helping to arrange funding. Sort out planning permissions. Generally, cut through any red tape. If you aren’t in a rush to get to Ligonier, we can call in and take a look. It’s a memorial to the 9/11 events. The place where the passengers on one of the hijacked flights fought back against the terrorists, refused to let the plane be crashed into the Capitol Building in Washington. Instead, the plane crashed into a field just off the highway ahead of us when the passengers stormed the flight deck to try and regain control. There were no survivors…”
* * *
It was almost 19:00 when Nat pulled off the main street in Ligonier and onto the driveway of a large colonial style mansion, replete with a flagpole outside flying the Stars and Stripes and a magnificently manicured lawn. The building itself was brick built, with white painted wooden weatherboarding on the upper floor and a cedar shingle roof.
Nat smiled. “I knew you’d like it, Boots. I asked pop to get us something special for our last night. This time tomorrow we’ll be back home.”
I grabbed my bag from the trunk of Lemon Steroids. Trunk? Jeez, I sound like I’m starting to speak ‘merrycan, and followed Nat into the hotel’s vestibule, a light oak panelled room from which a flight of stairs swept upwards to what I presumed were the bedrooms, and two doors led off, one to either side. The left was labelled “Dining” and the right “Reception.” We went through to Reception, a small, airy room dappled with light from the sun streaming through a stained-glass window over a big, old-fashioned desk with a smartly dressed young lady seated at its far side. There was no sign of a computer anywhere.
“Good evening, Miss,” smiled Nat, effortlessly taking control as he usually does and placing his leather bag down by the side of the desk. “Nat Bauer and Craig Wright. I believe we have a reservation for tonight.”
The lady, I guess she was in her mid-twenties, beamed and glanced down at the large leather-bound ledger open in front of her.
“That’s right, Mr Bauer, a room was booked for you this morning. The Carriage Suite in fact, our finest room. It’s out in the gardens, the entire upper floor of what was once the stable block. Will you be requiring any help with your bags? And perhaps you’d like to book a table for dinner? Our restaurant is relatively small and gets very busy of an evening as it’s open to residents and townsfolk alike.”
Nat smiled over at me. “Shall we book a table now, Boots, or go unpack and then make our mind up?”
“There are plenty of good restaurants nearby that I can recommend if you’d like a choice, Mr Bauer. Now, if you’d just like to sign in alongside your reservation.”
Nat’s smiling again. “Boots, you sign the register for us. Your handwriting is way neater than mine.”
As I stepped over and took fountain pen the lady held out, Nat was turning his charm up another notch. “Craig’s from England. He wrote all his college notes in a big book like this too. I don’t think he believes in typing things on a tablet. It would probably be the downfall of the kingdom.”
“Write and remember, Nat, click and forget,” I grinned as I wrote our names alongside the reservation. The book had already been filled in with Nat’s home address. Discreetly printed in almost washed-out lettering beneath the suite name was the price: $695 / night. Bloody hell, this room had better be good!
“There we go, Nat,” I said as I capped the Mont Blanc pen and handed it back. I smiled at the lady and then leaned forward to her, whispering loudly enough for Nat to hear, “I plan to teach him to write one day, but you know how slow these country hicks are...”
“Ah, Presidential candidate material then,” she smiled as she opened a desk drawer, took out a brass tagged key and handed it to me. She smiled at Nat. “Be sure to tell your pop I’ll be voting for him, Mr Bauer.”
* * *
The Carriage Suite was in a separate building reached along a small path that wound through a rose garden alongside the main house. The roses smelled pretty sweetly as we wandered through them, a mix of yellow and white mainly. The lower floor of the stables had four large wooden doors along its front face, clearly where carriages had once been stored. Along one side of the building were smaller doors, presumably to what had been stables, and to the other side was an ornate wrought iron staircase leading up to the second floor. As I raced up the staircase ahead of Nat and unlocked the door, he was glancing at the leaflet the lady on reception had given him.
“Our suite used to be the quarters for the grooms and carriage drivers, Boots. It says here they were converted into a guest suite years ago. Two bedrooms, a lounge and a bathroom. The house used to belong to the coal magnate, Josiah Mason, until he died in 1932 and it was sold off to be a hotel.”
“Mason? That’s Noah’s surname, Nat. Didn’t you say he was from coal people?”
“I expect they’re related, Boots. Great grand uncle or something like that, probably. We’ll ask him one day.”
The key turned slickly in the lock and the door swung open. The suite was awesome. Period furniture, proper paintings on the walls rather than mass market prints. Bronze antique statuettes on the leather topped desk in the lounge. Most amazingly of all, there was no tv. This is a proper hotel.
I think Nat can read my mind. They say werewolves can.
“Like it, Boots?”
“It’s great, Nat.”
