The King’s Gambit

James Rada, Jr.

9: Emmitsburg

Lou Preston’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted the receiver and dialed the Gettysburg Police. His voice felt small in the quiet kitchen, white walls humming with the hum of the refrigerator. He reported the break-in at his house, every word careful and measured. A half hour later, an officer arrived, his boots clicking on the worn linoleum, and swept the rooms with a practiced eye. Lou stood by the front door, clutching his coat sleeves, offering only what he knew for certain. He didn’t mention the knot of suspicion in his chest that pointed to Douglas Reaver—his great-grandfather’s protégé—who had insisted on a long lunch at O’Rorke’s Restaurant in Gettysburg. Still, Lou dropped Douglas’s name into the report, hoping it might spark something.

The officer, polite but reserved, scribbled notes but made no promises. Lou tried not to think about the missing heirloom clock, the broken window latch, or the smooth way Douglas had steered him away. He only wanted an official record—something to show if darkness returned again.

When the patrol car’s taillights winked away down the street, Lou retreated upstairs to his den. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, painting the walls in stripes of gold and shadow. At his heavy oak desk, he spread out the yellowed maps he’d discovered tucked inside his great-grandfather’s leather-bound journal. The paper was fragile; the edges curled like old leaves. He snapped photographs, the camera’s flash startling him each time, then printed crisp black-and-white copies. With a fine-tipped pen, he traced precinct lines and annotations.

He sat back and studied the maps from every angle. Thirty-two monuments marked: equal numbers for Union and Confederate, equal tributes to men and regiments. Why that symmetry? The thought twisted in his mind. Had Douglas known the hidden meaning? Was there some code buried in those white granite stones dotting the battlefield?

He rose and fetched the journal, its spine creaking like a voice longing to speak. On the couch, nestled among pillows, he opened it again, turning yellowed pages. Maybe the story would tie in with the maps.

July 3, 1863

Now that I trusted Col. Donaldson, I wasn’t so suspicious about what he was doing or the trips that he made south. I can’t say that it allowed us to make better progress, but it didn’t hurt. What did hurt was every time there was a battle and lives were lost, both sides were more reluctant to give up anything and more anxious to find a way to make peace.

Some evenings, Col. Donaldson and I would sit in his office, whiskey in hand, dissecting the peace proposals, swapping roles like actors rehearsing every twist. We uncovered phrases and clauses that could reignite war. In arguing both sides, we have discovered what I believe to be the fairest path to lasting peace.

He presented the agreement to both presidents, Lincoln and Davis, and their response was mixed. They had other motives than simply finding the best path to a lasting peace, and neither man fully trusted the other, but progress was made.

Four days ago, Col. Donaldson strode into my quarters clutching a bottle of brandy in one hand and a small stack of papers in the other. His usual stern jaw was slack with a grin I can’t recall ever seeing. “We have an agreement, Maj. Preston,” he declared, voice brimming with triumph. “Lincoln has signed off. All that remains is Davis’s signature.”

I felt the world shift beneath my feet. He set the brandy before me; the amber liquid caught the lamplight like a captured sunset. “We inform the generals first,” he continued, eyes alight. “July 4 seems fitting—Independence Day reborn in peace. We ride to Emmitsburg. You must pack quickly.”

“Emmitsburg?”

“It’s a small village in Maryland, just below the Mason Dixon Line.”

“Why there?”

“We consider it neutral ground. It is home to the Daughters of Charity, who have given fair aid to both sides in caring for our wounded. Gen. Meade also arrived there today with the Army of the Potomac. Gen. Lee is heading towards Harrisburg with the Army of Northern Virginia. So time is of the essence to reach them both and not only stop the war but to stop an attack on Harrisburg. Pack your bag. We ride within the hour.”

We rode north on dusty roads winding through orchards still bare of blossoms. We reached Emmitsburg the next day. As we neared the town, we saw rows of white tents and rifles stacked in orderly pyramids. Somewhere in that sea of white, Gen. Meade held court.

The main road into the small village passed between the camp and St. Joseph’s College. The three-story stone building, walls mottled with ivy and time, was the largest building in the region. It looked out of place so close to a small town.

“It is a college for women,” Col. Donaldson said.

“Didn’t we pass another college further south?” I asked.

“That is Mount St. Mary’s College. It is for men.”

“How can a town support two colleges?”

“They are church schools. Their students are Catholic.”

While the town could support the two colleges, it was doubtful it could support the Army of the Potomac for too long. It would have to move on soon. Hopefully, it would move toward Washington and not toward the Confederate Army.

We were directed to St. Joseph’s College, where Gen. Meade had taken up a temporary residence in the school, which looked to be nearly abandoned of students. Inside, a Catholic sister in a crisp habit led us to a room lined with bookshelves and lit by two tall windows. Dust motes floated in the shafts of morning light. The air smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood.

General Meade entered, his uniform immaculate, stars on his shoulders glinting. We rose, but he waved us to remain at ease. Donaldson produced a crisp copy of the peace agreement. Meade’s steel-blue eyes measured every word as he sank into the leather chair. After a slow, breathless moment, he looked up. “Is this genuine?” His voice held awe.

Col. Donaldson nodded. “Signed by President Lincoln. President Davis’s signature will follow. I have been working on this under the direction of the President for more than a year. We now finally have an agreement. Once President Davis signs both copies, I will return a copy to President Lincoln.”

“And this will happen in Emmitsburg?”

“Near here. I don’t think he is brave enough to enter a town occupied by the Army of the Potomac.”

Meade’s gaze drifted to the window, where his men stood silent in the morning haze. He chewed his lip, then turned back. “After this signing, both armies withdraw?”

“That is the plan,” I said. “The Army of the Potomac returns to Washington, and Gen. Lee takes his men to Virginia. Then both presidents announce peace.”

Gen. Meade reached for a cigar, but then he thought better of it and put it back. “The sisters asked that there be no smoking in the building.” He stood up and walked to one of the windows and looked out to where his army was encamped. “Do you think it will be that easy?”

“I don’t think it will be easy at all, sir, judging by how long the negotiations took. For the peace to hold, both sides must trust each other and uphold their part. However, I think what I described will be easy compared to that.”

“I want to send a telegram to the president confirming this.”

Col. Donaldson took out a sealed letter and passed it to the general. “He wrote this for you. I believe it will confirm the legitimacy of the agreement.”

Meade took it in one hand and slapped it repeatedly against his other palm.

“Regardless of what this letter says, I will stay here until Lee turns back south. I will not risk Harrisburg if he refuses the peace.”

“But the letter…”

“Colonel, if General Lee continues toward Harrisburg, then there is no peace agreement, and I must act to defend that city, that commonwealth, and this country.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When will this exchange take place?” Gen. Meade asked.

“I am riding out to meet him after I finish here.”

Meade nodded and looked out the window again. “Then Gen. Lee should have the agreement by this evening. I would expect his men to break camp and head south tomorrow morning. We should know by tomorrow evening if we have peace.”

“Yes, sir.”

Outside, I asked where we were headed next. Donaldson gave only instructions: He was going to meet his Confederate counterpart where the Waynesboro Pike crossed into Pennsylvania. I was to stay at the Emmit House and wait. No names, no reasons—only I didn’t like it, but Col. Donaldson hadn’t told me who he met, let alone asked me to meet him. He was protecting the man’s identity, as I assumed the Confederate man was doing for Col. Donaldson.

The town’s single main street bore scars of a recent fire: charred timbers still blackened against splintered brick. Smoke had long since cleared, but the smell lingered in the air, reminding me of war’s fickle mercy. At the Emmit House, Donaldson tasked me with finding brandy to celebrate peace. The tavern was dim, scent of roasted meat and sawdust underfoot. I found a bottle tucked behind dusty whiskey jugs; its label faded but the glass intact.

I paid the innkeeper and carried the bottle upstairs. Its weight was promise and burden both. I set it on the bedside table and gazed out at the road where peace—or its opposite—would emerge. Every minute that passed brought me closer to a future none of us could yet see.

Will You Dare Enter the Cellar of the Gettysburg Orphanage?

Are you afraid of things that go bump in the night?

Nearby Gettysburg has been called one of the most haunted places in the country, largely because of the famous Civil War battle fought there and the thousands of soldiers who died because of it. Not all the paranormal activity is due to the war dead, though.

One of the most haunted sites in the town is the National Soldiers’ Orphans’ Homestead. It opened in 1866 as a beacon of hope for the war’s fatherless children. But hope quickly turned to horror. Under the tyrannical rule of matron Rosa Carmichael, the orphanage became a house of cruelty: children chained in a dungeon-like cellar, starved, beaten, and broken. The institution that promised refuge delivered nightmares instead.

Today, visitors, ghost hunters, and paranormal investigators report disembodied cries of children, shadowy figures in tattered clothes, slamming doors, and the oppressive presence of a woman in black. EMF spikes, moving objects, and chilling EVPs captured in the infamous basement suggest the orphans—and their tormentor—have never truly left.

Award-winning author James Rada Jr. and debut author Felicia Rizzo have released a new book that looks at the history, both physical and paranormal, of the orphanage.

“The children who were there had already lost their fathers in the war, and then they were taken from their mothers to be placed in the orphanage, sometimes a thousand miles away from their homes,” Rada said. “Then, on top of that, they wound up being abused by the matron. If any place was bound to be haunted, it was a place like that.”

Rada is the author of 50 books, most of which are non-fiction history. Historic Haunts is his first foray into paranormal non-fiction.

“I write about stories that fascinate me and I hope will entertain and inform readers,” he said. “The story of the orphanage caught my attention, especially with some of the stories that Felicia was able to find.”

Rizzo is a teacher who has been published in anthologies, but this is the first book she has authored.

“I’ve always had an interest in the paranormal, and being a sensitive runs in my family,” Rizzo said. “I also love Gettysburg, so putting the two together for a book seemed a natural fit.”

Besides stories of paranormal activity in the building going back more than 150 years, Historic Haunts includes some first-hand experiences Rizzo experienced.

During one tour of the building, she said, “I saw two boys and a girl appearing near the tour guide. They were distressed and told me, ‘Please make them stop. Every time they tell this story, they make us relive it.’ Later, when we were in the cellar, a lone balloon, initially motionless, began drifting toward me with apparent intention, settling at my feet. An EMF detector placed nearby began flashing rapidly, lighting up as if mirroring the unseen activity.”

From Civil War battlefields to modern ghost hunts, Historic Haunts: The Gettysburg National Soldiers’ Orphans’ Homestead is a tale of innocence lost, justice denied, and spirits that refuse to rest.

The book contains dozens of pictures, showing the history and hauntings of the building. It is the first in a new series, and Rada and Rizzo are already working on the next book.

Historic Haunts is available at your favorite local bookstore or online bookstore.