– July 2012 –
The kids begged that we not stay at the Cashtown Inn. After my stories, they weren’t thrilled at the ideas of amputated limbs and bloodied soldiers, especially seeing that I was booking a suite.
So instead we checked into the Battlefield B & B, an 1809 farmhouse that stood on a beautiful 30-acre nature reserve. Just as in most all of the buildings that existed during the Battle of Gettysburg, this land had also seen its own share of fighting as it was smack dab on battleground and had been a field hospital. Union Cavalry officers had even stayed there on the night of July 3, 1863.
The farmhouse took our breath away as we drove up to it and the scent of baking oatmeal cookies did us in as we entered. We received a tour where it was noted that eight guest rooms shared the 1809 Civil War farmhouse and we were delighted to see that we were in the old part of the farmhouse, on the top floor, in General Merritt’s Suite. The one room had a king-size bed, while the other a double, and then we shared a bathroom. Connor and Micaela moaned about sharing a bed, but it was only for a couple nights and then we would make our way to Baltimore. After unpacking, we went downstairs, grabbed some fresh, out-of-the-oven cookies and cups of lemonade, and explored the trails. The kids ran ahead, while Chuck and I leisurely spent our time looking at the beautiful wildflowers and the many birds, butterflies, and squirrels that we came upon.
Just as we rounded the corner where a lily pond was, my cell phone rang. Chuck’s eyes squinted a warning, but I saw from the phone number that it was the private investigator and excused myself to the back porch.
Without even saying a hello, I knew. “Another one, Brent?”
“Yeah, it is the holiday week, after all,” he confirmed.
I sat down on the step and found Poe looking back at me, curiously.
“Did he go missing from a bar like the others?”
“Just disappeared into thin air like most all of them do.”
I could hear the frustration in his voice. Before I spoke, I checked in with Poe who nodded in agreement. “I wish I knew who it was, but I think I have more information for you. I’m on vacation with the family. Can I send it over to you when I get back?”
“Anything you have, Kristy, will help. Oh, and I am not sure if you followed the story, but the previous case we talked about, well his body was discovered floating in the river just as you said it would.”
We said our goodbyes and I looked back over at Poe, who was now in his element petting five kittens.
“If these murders are connected to past lives, or to past promises … well, how does that work?”
“If you look at an old painting, underneath the painting there might be older versions of the drawing that were painted over. The surface painting is the present one, the others are there, just never seen, but they’re part of the process. Those layers don’t take away from anything, but the original painting is aware that it is there. It is all connected,” Poe explained.
“When we reincarnate we keep a piece of our soul. And that soul continues to hold past memories, past experiences, but many times it is locked away. Do I have that right?”
“Just as with your gifts, they seeped through from the past to the present. You can ignore it, but you do a disservice to the quality of the present painting. The beauty somehow deteriorates if you don’t acknowledge the entire process.”
“Poe, why didn’t you reincarnate?” I asked him, honestly curious.
“Who’s to say that I haven’t?” he chuckled, continuing to pet the kittens that were now crawling in my lap. “The soul can split in many pieces, Kristy.”
I heard a horse neigh and the crumble of gravel underneath the tires of another guest’s car and knew that our conversation was over. Plus I saw Micaela, Connor, and Chuck walking toward me. It was probably time for dinner and some battlefield exploring.
Connor had previously panicked when he saw sparse farmland, especially when wheat was growing. I was both curious and concerned as to what his reaction to the Gettysburg battlefields would be. From a young age, Connor showed a militant characteristic. His clothes had to be folded just so, his shoes cleaned just so, and his room in immaculate condition. His sister, on the other hand, was the opposite. At the age of two, Connor began going into Micaela’s room and straightening it, as it drove him crazy for anything to be out of place. Now at sixteen years old he is still very organized and tidy, and Micaela is very messy. As the four of us got out near Culp’s Hill, the scent of death took over the air, and we held our breath and grabbed our stomachs. The stench was so strong that we were overcome with an urge to vomit. We looked around at the other tourists, all of which had a similar response, and felt relieved that it wasn’t just a personal experience.
The day lasted longer in July than during our previous October trip, but we were sleepy nonetheless. The four of us settled into the main bedroom and talked about our day and the plans for the next day when we heard a steady musical banging. Looking around and outside we saw nothing but the fireflies lighting the sky.
Connor swore he saw a young boy in the woods who darted as soon as he caught sight of him, but we were all too chicken to venture off into the woods at nighttime, flashlight or not.
Back in the room, the drumming began once again, so I perused a guest book for the room that “complained” of the same. Some noted that it was the air conditioning unit, while others called it the haunting of the Drummer Boy who had perished on that very land. No matter what it was, I hoped that it didn’t keep up all night long. Thankfully it didn’t.
“Mom!” I heard screamed from the next room.
Grabbing my glasses, I quickly, but carefully so not to fall down the steps, walked to the kids’ room. There, Connor and Micaela sat up in bed pointing to a doorway in front of their bed. We had noticed it before they went to sleep and tried to open it, but it was locked and it was assumed to be a door to the attic.
“A soldier woke me up. He stood right there, Mom,” Connor claimed. He went on to describe the ghost’s attire, his hair color, and even what his boots looked like. Thankfully, he had all of his limbs. “I grabbed my own glasses to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming. He was still there when I put them on.”
“Cool?” I asked in question.
Micaela shook her head and responded, “Not so cool.”
“Want me to sleep here or you in there?” I murmured, feeling tired and wondering what time it was.
“Nah, we will be okay. It can’t hurt us,” Connor reasoned logically. Micaela didn’t look as convinced, but she stayed put.
After using the washroom, the drumming began again and I just laughed. I was paying for the experience.
The next morning’s breakfast was nothing short of amazing. Everything was home cooked. The eggs were farm fresh, the orange juice was freshly squeezed, and the scones were warm out of the oven. After breakfast we were gifted with an amazing history presentation that kept all of our attention, and afterward the kids and Chuck shot a real musket—that was after the owners made sure to put the kittens away so they didn’t scare. We had one more day of exploring and then were off to Baltimore. I was nervous and apprehensive, hoping that I would be able to put some missing pieces to the puzzle of Edgar Allan Poe. Chuck finally got to indulge in his Rita’s Italian Ice and was happy that I didn’t have an encore presentation in the Wheatfields, albeit I wasn’t.
That evening was another ghost tour, this time with a different company as Chuck was still sore about his stolen pop. Although Micaela wasn’t thrilled with going, she trudged with us like a trooper. We all had varying experiences along the route, and the tour guide even stayed with us afterward to explore some woods by the battlefield.
“Stay real quiet and turn off your flashlights,” she instructed. “And then wait.”
Trying hard to not make a noise as mosquito bit, it was maybe only a minute when we witnessed several soldiers, all holding lanterns, run fast through the woods right past us. I looked at everybody to see if they saw what I did and their faces confirmed that they had. It was normally only me who saw the physical features of a ghost or spirit and I oddly felt comforted in having the camaraderie.
Exhaustion and darkness blanketed us as we made our way back to the B & B. Well after midnight, we quietly crept up in and up the stairwell. We said our good nights and prayed for serenity. Neither the Drummer Boy nor the soldier appeared in the suite, which gave us a much more sound sleep. We awakened once more to a fabulous breakfast of homemade biscuits and sausage gravy. And again, another historical presentation, before we made our way to Fell’s Point, but first we paid our respects to the soldiers in the battlefields.
The kids, Chuck, and I were sad to leave Gettysburg. I felt a bit empty, as if I hadn’t discovered all that I had hoped. I tried to explain to Poe that it wasn’t all about him, but he didn’t agree. He was eager to get to Baltimore. So we reluctantly checked out and began another adventure. Maryland bound.
Poe’s excited energy kept draining my phone. It was only a couple hours before we checked into the Admiral Fell Inn in the historic Fell’s Point, but beforehand we stopped at Poe’s House. The row house that Poe stayed at for many years is now a museum. A police car waited across the street as we looked at where to park. Poe whispered in my ear that our car was going to be stolen and that it wasn’t important to see the museum. I was really disappointed in not going in, but I didn’t really want the hassle of a stolen car. The neighborhood lent a lot to be desired.
Fell’s Point was a bustling port in the early 1900s, but the surrounding neighborhood was filled with unsavory characters and businesses, such as warehouses, saloons, and brothels, that catered to them. In the center of the city was the Anchorage, built in late 1900, and was a boarding house for seamen to find a safe and Christian refuge. The mission was to encourage the traveling men to join a church and stay in a comfortable, safe boarding house, while staying away from alcohol. The Anchorage was turned into what is now the Admiral Fell Inn, what would be our home for the next few days. I found it ironic, if not coincidental, that the historic mission for the Anchorage had a very close likeness to the Sons of Temperance, and that it was steps from where Poe was last seen alive.
Attached to the hotel was a small bar called the Horse You Came In On Saloon. Noted as the very last place Edgar Allan Poe was seen alive, I decided to make that our lunchtime stop.
“Can I get you a beer?” our bartender asked as we sat down at a high-top table. A guitarist was setting up in the corner and the kids gave me a look as if to say why are you bringing us to a bar?
“She’s a Poe fan,” Chuck told the twenty-something guy. I laughed because if he only knew.
“Oh, so you will want a Poe!” he exclaimed and explained that it was their signature drink—the last drink Poe himself had, or so they spouted.
I glanced to see if Poe was with us, and he was, but at the end of the narrow bar by the back. He snickered at the memorabilia—photos and T-shirts that sported his mug.
“No thanks, I don’t drink, but I would love an iced tea.”
We ordered and enjoyed the music while we waited for our food. I saw Poe wandering around the small saloon. A group of young women sat at the table next to us and Poe sat next to a pretty blond until she jumped and hollered that a bug must’ve been crawling on her leg.
I was laughing so hard that I had to excuse myself to the washroom. As I exited, the bartender asked me if I wanted to hear some stories. So, I sat down at the end of the bar and he asked me if I believed in ghosts. I tried once more to hold back a giggle and just nodded and said that I did. Feeling comforted, he went on to share several stories.
“Even in death, Edgar is known to be a trouble-maker. The chandelier swings by itself and the cash register opens and closes as if it has a life of its own. I have had employees who have denied that Edgar’s ghost exists or tease that they will never believe only for moments later the bar stool pulled out from under them or a glass to be pushed out of their hand. I can’t tell you how many beer bottles have just dropped to the floor.”
“Does it frighten you?” I asked him, looking over at Poe and wondering if he was playing ghost at his old stomping grounds when he wasn’t around me. He just grinned wide.
“We make sure to say hello to Edgar when we come in and good night to Edgar when we leave. It’s his place, he has made that known.”
I nodded and was happy to hear that they were respecting the history and the haunts.
“What do you think he died from?” I asked, curious as to what the locals believed.
“Murder.”
“Really? Didn’t he die from rabies or from that alcohol over there,” I pointed, trying to sound impartial.
The bartender shook his head. “That might be what the history books say, but without a doubt I believe that he was murdered. Oh, your food is ready,” he said, smiling at me as if relieved to have a confidant.
“Well, did you see him?” Chuck asked me.
“Who?” I asked, still playing the fool.
“Edgar Allan Poe. Did you see him?”
“Nah, probably just a ghost story to get people in the door,” I smiled and ate my lunch.
After a delicious lunch, great music that even had Connor tapping his foot, and a happy and content feeling, we headed to Westminster Hall.
Chuck, the kids, and I stood looking at Edgar Allan Poe’s gravestone. It wasn’t as hot as it had been during our previous visit, but the energy seemed different within the city. Instead of the hustle and bustle, the streets were vacant, making us feel unnerved. Chuck once more took some pennies from his pocket and handed them to us all to pay our respects.
I thought back to a report that I read several years back in 2009 when hundreds of people attended Edgar Allan Poe’s funeral to celebrate the two hundredth anniversary of his birth.
“You’re dead again with a funeral revisited,” I had teased Poe. “What will you wear to your own funeral?”
Poe’s cousin, Neilson Poe, had never announced his death publicly and so fewer than ten people attended
his service. And just as in his life, his death caused drama. Poe’s tombstone was destroyed before it could be installed when a train derailed and crashed into a stonecutter’s yard. Then Rufus Wilmot Griswold, a vocal enemy of Poe’s, published a libelous obituary that damaged Poe’s reputation for decades. And maybe to this day still does.
Poe had already been dug up once in 1875, and I thought how appropriate since he wasn’t at rest during his life, and certainly not after his death. This time, however, they created a mannequin of a corpse to look like Poe and laid him in state at the old house. A procession on a horse-drawn carriage carried him through the town of Baltimore. With bagpipes playing and church bells ringing, participants wore period and modern clothing and listened to eulogies from various actors for his long-awaited funeral. Unfortunately ironic, an actor playing Rufus Wilmot Griswold read the scathing obituary to the crowd, continuing to remind all how well sensationalized his life was and still is.
Somberly, we all stepped away from the graveyard and silently drove back to Fell’s Point for a nap.
It didn’t take long for me to slip into sleep, if not mere minutes that ticked by like a stopwatch, and a familiar darkness crept around me once more, but this time it felt heavier.
“We are leaving for Charleston in the morning, Edgar,” I said with tears springing to my eyes. “Edward has found a position that he will be quite happy with. And I do love Charleston much more than Philadelphia, albeit Edward isn’t sure. I hope that he isn’t doing this to appease me.”
Poe nodded and took my hand, “Charleston. That is where we first met, Sara. Ah, how I remember being so spry,” he laughed. “Edward is a lucky man.”
I smiled at Poe. He was always quite complimentary and innocently flirtatious.
“What will you do now?” I asked. “About the Brotherhood?”
“I have a plan in the making as we speak.” Poe looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. Nobody was, so he continued. “For exposure of the killers, I will assist with the slaves.”
I gasped.
Recognizing that I was misunderstanding him, Poe continued. “I am not selling slaves, Sara. I am saving them. I have the intention of sneaking several slaves on the train with me from Baltimore to New York and from there to an abolitionist’s home. I’m the least likely candidate to be looked at,” he said, puffing his chest out.
I sighed with relief, however something still felt off to me. “Please be careful,” I cautioned.
“There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told, Sara. They must be discovered. Look,” Poe said, leaning over and picking up five black bird feathers. “Someone got into a fight, now didn’t they, Sara? I wonder who won?”
I paled.
“I will visit you, Sara,” Poe promised, offering me a farewell hug.
“I believe you will, Edgar,” I murmured.
The nap left me feeling unnerved and on edge so when the kids and Chuck decided to go to the convenience store across the street, I decided to wait instead by the bar.
“Please be careful,” Chuck cautioned. “This area is a bit shady.”
The fireworks were going to be over the harbor and crowds were already beginning to form, along with street performers. I wished for a peaceful place where I could connect with Poe, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. Standing against the brick wall, I telepathically called for him, but he was already standing next to me.
“Movies depict that you were found on a park bench.”
His laughter rang in my head, “If only so lucky,” he smirked.
“I’m here now, Poe. Help me help you … ”
“I was going to expose the Brotherhood. The murders of young men were happening more and more frequently, but it was being attributed to alcoholism and accidents. The brutality of the murders weren’t seen. Not like the Jack the Ripper killings. Their throats weren’t slit. Their necks not choked. Instead, they were poisoned and dropped in a local river, harbor, or whatever waterway there was.”
“The Sons of Temperance promise!” I exclaimed, thinking back to the meeting that I saw in my dream.
Poe smirked and nodded.
“Pinkerton was going to help me in exchange for help with a group of slaves in Baltimore that needed refuge.”
“So you didn’t miss your train?” I jested.
Poe rolled his eyes, “No,” he flatly said.
“So you were found out or Pinkerton’s group snitched on you? Were you double-crossed?”
Poe sighed, “I don’t believe that Pinkerton’s group had anything to do with it, but I did wonder.”
“So you went to the bar … ”
“I did. And I admit that I had a drink. I was an anxious mess. I didn’t want to get married, I mainly just wanted to be free to write and marriage offered me that. So before our evening meeting, I ordered a drink. I thought that I would blend in with my outfit.”
“You thought you were undercover,” I laughed. “I don’t think you realize how famous, or infamous, you were then.”
Poe shrugged, “Regardless, it did me in. I saw a man in the back of the bar looking over at me and I thought nothing of it. Until later when I realized it was the same man … ”
“At Loss’s Tavern,” I finished for him.
“I already had my drink, but the bartender must’ve poisoned me with some concoction. He probably thought I would die instantly, but it took several days. Thus the story of my life—pain and agony.”
Now it was my time to roll my eyes at Poe.
“And now the Brotherhood continues … ”
The answered questions of Edgar Allan Poe’s death didn’t help me put anything to rest, because he was correct, the Brotherhood continued.
The man rapped once.
Leader: When the crusaders of olden times went to war, they used their swords to kill their enemies. We use the sword also; not for the shedding of blood, but as a sign of warfare against Strong Drink, and an emblem of the law which is to destroy its great stronghold and headquarters: the Saloon. Comrades, what is a Saloon?
Comrades: A place where alcoholic drinks are sold and where drunkards are made.
Leader: Is it a good or an evil place?
Comrades: It is evil always and everywhere.
Leader: How do we know that it is?
Comrades: A tree is known by its fruits.
Leader: What are the fruits of the Saloon?
Comrades: Drunkenness, vice, poverty, crime, disease, murder, death.
Leader: And what must we do to protect this from happening?
Comrades: Anything. Everything.
Leader: For how long?
Comrades: Forever.
Leader: Who are we?
Comrades: The Brotherhood.
The fireworks over the harbor that evening were a beautiful sight for a day of cruel awakening. On the rooftop of the Admiral Fell Inn, I held the hand of my husband and watched my two wonderful children as Fell’s Point, Baltimore, became a happy memory through so much pain and horror that stayed within the tapestry of the past.