Free Ghost Soldier by Elaine Marie Alphin

at her for telling me I was special for seeing ghosts and then leaving me to face them alone. Too many feelings were mixed up inside of me. I needed a different kind of music. I thumbed through the music book, almost ripping the pages.
    â€œRed, I’m sorry,” the ghost said. “Are you upset because I frightened the girl? I truly did not mean for her to crack that plate. I wish I could apologize to her.”
    Well, he couldn’t! But I wasn’t going to answer him. I just clamped my lips over the recorder’s mouthpiece and stared hard at the wavering notes on the page of music. It was a book of American folk music, and I saw the song was “Dixie.” Its jazzy, syncopated lilt seemed better suited to the nervy way I was feeling, and I let the music break loose inside of me. I could feel my breathing even out as I phrased the notes, and the anger inside of me quieted.
    When the last note hung in the air, I turned the page and saw “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” You never got home, I thought at the ghost, and felt unexpectedly sorry for him. My fingers rested on the recorder stops instead of gripping the instrument, and my breathing was steady as the melody rippled smoothly.
    Then the music swelled. Not stopping, I looked up and saw the ghost blowing into a harmonica. His eyes smiled as he slid the stops up and down across his mouth, and he tapped the beat in the air with his right boot.
    We blew the last note together and smiled at each other.
    â€œMusic sure has a way of settling folks down, doesn’t it, Red?” he asked peaceably.
    I slid the pieces of my recorder apart and wiped down the inside. I could go on running from the ghost, or I could face him and find out what he wanted. I looked up, and he was still smiling faintly at me. I took a deep breath, said, “I guess it does,” and realized I’d decided to stop running away. “Okay—you’d better tell me how you think I can help you, Richeson.” I shook my head. “That’s quite a mouthful. Is that what everybody called you?”
    He grinned. “Fewer syllables than Alexander, if you’re counting. Richeson is a family name—my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side. My oldest brother, George, got my father’s name. And the Francis comes from Francis Scott Key.”
    â€œYou’re related to Francis Scott Key?” I asked, impressed.
    â€œOf course not,” he said, wiping his harmonica. “A lot of families named their sons for heroes in the War of 1812—their middle names, at least. My friends called me Rich,” he added, almost shyly.
    I put the pieces of the recorder away in their case and leaned back on the porch swing. It’s funny how you can get used to that smell of oranges and even the cold. “Okay, Rich,” I told him, “tell me what you want.”
    â€œI need to know what happened to my family,” he said. “It should be quite simple for an out-of-timer to find out, but I can’t do it myself. I tried.”
    â€œHow am I supposed to tell you what happened to your family?” I asked.
    â€œYou can hold things,” he explained. “I can’t.”
    I frowned. “But you can stand on the ground, and you can hear me and the others and see us.”
    â€œBeing a ghost can be confusing,” he said wryly. “I still have my senses—I can see and smell and hear and feel—I can feel tired, for instance, and I sleep when I do, or I can feel sore if my boots rub my feet, or feel the weight of my musket. I’m not standing on the ground, though—I’m just, well, sort of floating here. I could as easily be up in the sky, but it seems more polite to be here beside you. I could even taste if I could only eat! And sometimes I do feel hungry when I smell good food like that country ham tonight. But I can’t hold food or anything else.”
    â€œWhat do you call