I'll see your spectre and raise you a shot of muscal.
As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
I ran across this story and it reminded me of Jacob Marley's ghost.
This took place during the Mexican American War and is from the Confessions of Samuel Chamberlain, and I'm not enjoying it very much, and pleased I did not spend the money for the sold copy.
My other adventure in the Zacatecas pass happened in broad daylight, and was more than my philosophy could account for. I was on the outpost one afternoon, the sun a good hour high, the air clear and calm. I was in good health, with excellent digestion, had not been on a spree for a month and I had drunk but little muscal that day. I could see for miles in my front, and the ground was so dry and parched that the jump of a Rabbit a mile off could be told by the dust. I was thinking of nothing in particular when I caught sight of an object moving on the plain about two miles off. It was moving at right angles to the road, and seem‘d to be moving at a slow walk. I thought it must be some Ranger who had lost his horse while on a scout and was making his way to camp on foot.
I started down to meet it, when the fact that the advancing figure raised no dust caused me to hesitate in wonder. On it came, until I could make out a figure of a man, or what resembled a well-got-up scarecrow broke loose from some Yankee cornfield and taking a promenade out in Mexico for the fun of the thing. Its method of locomotion was peculiarly its own; it revolved like a top in a most unaccountable and mysterious manner.
My steed showed symptoms of affright, pawing and snorting, and tried to bolt with me. I slung my Carbine and waited, my predominating feeling being that of curiosity. It appeared to be a man dressed in the stereotype stage costume of an English clodhopper, a slate-colored smock frock, knee breeches, hob-nail shoes, and a slouch felt hat. Its hair was long and tow colored, and the face! No tongue can describe the awful ghastliness of the features,
and the terrible despair that glared from its stony eyes. It was horrible, unearthly!
I rubbed my eyes to see if I was really awake and when the thing was within a few yards of me I hailed it, but in silence on it came, whirling and twisting around, its long hair and arms flopping, and its legs twisting around each other. It seem’d all smashed up, every limb out of joint, the head twisted over the shoulder. I could stand it no longer but gave rein to my frightened horse who dashed off for the reserve.
Shame made me rein up and look behind. The phenomenon was moving on in the same slow, silent, mysterious manner. I got desperate and driving spurs into my horse charged down to within ten yards, and after ordering it to halt, I fired on it. Though I was satisfied my shot passed through it, it produced no effect. I tried to run it down, but I could not urge my horse near it. I rode round and round it, firing on it as fast as I could load, and shouting with sheer affright. The galloping of horses on the road toward the pass drew my attention in that direction, and to my great joy Sergeant Gorman and ten men of the reserve rode up at speed.
“What in the d——l have you got there, Jack?” cried out the Sergeant.
“The old boy himself, I believe!” I replied as I gave it another shot.
Gorman exclaimed, “Hold all! It’s an old friend, Tim McCarty from the old country!” and tried to ride up to it.
Holding out his hand, he said, “Tim, my boy, how are ye, how came ye out here, and what in the d——l do you mean by twisting about in that ridiculous manner for?” but Tim or whatever it was made no reply but kept on its vortical and erratic way.
Gorman caught one look from the thing's fearful eyes, turned pale, and yelled out, “A ghost! A ghost!” and went off at a run followed by all but four.
We laid several plans to bring the thing to terms. We formed about one hundred yards off and charged down on it, but our horses, that would dash on a line of bayonets, would wheel when within a few yards. We tied our lassos together and with a horse- man at each end rode around it and pulled the rope tight, which passed through the figure without disturbing it in the least. We fired volleys again and again into it. The bullets would pass through, knocking up the dust on the plain beyond. Finally, getting desperate, Jack Decker (Happy Jack of Company A) and myself dismounted and dashed on it with our Sabres. Our blades passed through and through the object, while Happy Jack, who closed with the figure, was whirled off his feet and thrown to the ground.
It had now reached the foot of a high craggy mountain, which it ascended, moaning on in the same manner until a distant peak hid the horrid thing from our sight. We looked in each other’s faces with fear and amazement, and our unanimous belief was that we had seen some being of another world.
We all went back to the reserve and found the Sergeant quite sick from his scare. He insisted that it was the ghost of Tim McCarty, come to warn him of his approaching death. I tried to reason him out of this absurd idea, saying that if it was a warning to anyone it must be me as it came to me first, but Gorman shook his head and replied, “Whist, Jack, what does Tim McCarty know about you?” Superstition so worked on his mind that our strange vision came near being the cause of his death for before morning he was in a critical condition.
Next day on our return to the ranch the ghost story was told and reached the ears of our officers, and we were separately examined by them, but we all agreed on the main points. Yet Lieutenant Buford swore we were all drunk, that the ghost was the effect of too deep potations of muscal, and Sergeant Gorman was reduced to the ranks for seeing a Ghost. The canteens of the Picket Guards
were closely inspected after this, and all strong liquors confiscated, and we were troubled no more by whirling, twisting ghosts of Tim McCartys in the Zacatecas pass.
agtG