Free 7 Never Haunt a Historian by Edie Claire

Confederate and Union flags raised high above the melee. None of the men were on horseback, but one prominent figure stood out from the rest. He forged ahead of the Confederate line, lofting a sword high into the air with a hat perched on its tip.
    Harvey pointed at the figure in question. “Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead,” he announced with reverence. “Battle of Gettysburg, July 3rd, 1863. The weather was hot. The task, impossible. General Lee ordered all fifteen thousand troops in Pickett’s division to charge across an open field and break the Union lines. A mile and a quarter they marched, straight into enemy fire. Two thirds of them fell upon the field. But General Armistead would not turn back. He pushed ever forward, holding his hat high before friend and enemy alike. And he did reach the stone wall at the other side, charging bravely over it and penetrating the Union lines just as he was commanded. But tragically, only a handful of men had survived to follow him. And no sooner did he reach that wall than he himself was shot down—with a wound that later proved fatal.”
    Harvey cleared his throat and returned to his chair. “Our friend Theodore Carr was a witness to this, one of the single most catastrophic events in the bloodiest war in American history. When Armistead stepped over that wall, the 71st volunteers were there to face him. One of their own bullets could have killed him. We don’t really know.” He leaned toward her again, his voice dropping in secretive fashion. “What we do know is that one of those Union soldiers left that blood-soaked battlefield with a little… shall we say… souvenir.”
    Leigh leaned forward herself. “Like what?”
    Harvey smiled. “The sword of Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead.”
    Leigh’s eyes fixed again on the figure in the portrait.
    “That particular soldier,” Harvey went on, “turned the sword over to a superior. Nearly half a century later, at a reunion of the survivors of the Philadelphia brigade and Pickett’s Division, the sword was ceremoniously returned to the South. It resides to this day in the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond.”
    Leigh’s brow furrowed. “Then what—”
    Harvey raised a hand. “The sword was found and returned. Armistead gave his personal effects to a messenger before he died. But one significant item was never recovered.” His eyes lifted to the portrait again.
    Leigh’s gaze followed. “You don’t mean… his hat?”
    Harvey nodded gravely. “The stuff of legends, my dear. This painting is hardly the only one depicting this epic scene. Whole books have been written on the Battle of Gettysburg. Poems penned. Movies shot. Every year thousands of people gather in the very spot where it occurred to reenact the entire scenario. Civil War enthusiasts scour flea markets and estate sales, looking for precious relics: A frock coat. A haversack. A rifle. A belt buckle. The artifacts market is robust and still growing. The hat of General Armistead, were it ever to be recovered and authenticated, well…”
    “The Holy Grail?” Leigh suggested.
    Harvey tented his fingers again. “Quite.”
    Leigh sat back and took a breath. “And Theodore Carr was there. But surely that’s not enough for anyone to think—” she broke off at Harvey’s crooked grin.
    “Oh, I daresay there’s more,” he continued. “Although frankly, until you mentioned someone digging, I didn’t give it much credence, myself. There’s another legend—a much less well known one—unique to the Civil War buffs in this area. When I joined the county historical association in the sixties the ranks were still abuzz about how, some years before, a newcomer had started asking questions about how much the general’s hat might be worth, where it could be sold, that sort of thing. The members became suspicious that this person might actually know something of the hat’s whereabouts, that it might even—joy of joys!—have found