by Mark Nesbitt
The security guard’s attention was drawn to a looming figure approaching through the dark. As it drew closer the guard realized that it was a man on horseback. He was dressed as a Confederate cavalryman and the horse wore the tack of one of the rangy Southern “roadsters” so popular in the Confederate cavalry. Assuming it was one of the background artists, but confused as to why he would be riding his horse around in the dark, he rose and approached the mounted figure. “May I see your background artist’s badge, please?” was his question to the man. In return he got merely a quizzical look. Then the figure and his noble warhorse dematerialized before the befuddled eyes of the security guard, apparently finished with his scouting mission into the right camp but in the wrong time.
The guard abruptly resigned his position.
One night well before dawn, one of the reenactors was sleeping in his car. It was a particularly cool night, and though his tent was nearby, he curled up in his vehicle to get away from the clammy morning air. He was awakened by the sounds of metal clanking and the soft clopping of hooves next to his car and tent. Reenactor Eric Johnson, who chronicled many of these events, remembered his words: “I thought it was a reenactor waking people up in a novel new way; then I looked at my watch. It was 3:17 a.m. I looked in the direction of the noise to observe a Confederate officer on a horse. I knew it was an officer because he had the piping—sometimes called ‘chicken guts’—on his sleeve. He also had on a slouch hat.” Slightly perturbed at being awakened so early, the man in the car began to open his door to find out what the “reenactor” was doing waking people up at quarter past three in the morning. When the car door opened and the light came on, the Confederate officer simply vanished.
The man closed the car door, extinguishing the light so that he could see better in the dark. He looked all about, but saw nothing.
Interestingly enough, when conversation about the incident came up the next day, at least three other people camping in tents nearby piped up and said yes, they too had heard the noises, a little after three in the morning but didn’t look to see what it was. But they were certain of what they heard: the unmistakable sounds of horses’ hooves clopping by, and the rhythmic rattle of a Civil War sabre against a horse’s tack.
Reenactors particularly dislike thunderstorms. Not only do they make them miserable in their little canvas “dog tents,” but they provide a real danger to men outdoors in soaked uniforms and wet leather shoes holding what is essentially a very efficient lightning rod—a musket with a bayonet attached. Historically, lightning strikes on marching columns of men did occur, sometimes with fatal results. No less a personage than Maj. Gen. Joshua L. Chamberlain wrote in Passing of the Armies of just such an event as the Army of the Potomac returned to Washington in the spring of 1865, after the surrender at Appomattox:
In the middle of the afternoon a heavy rainstorm swept over us, opening with terrific summons of thunder and lightning, sky and earth meeting. I chanced to be at that moment on the summit of a very high hill, from which I could see the whole corps winding its caravan with dromedary patience. The first lightning-bolt nearly stunned me. I saw its forerunner flashing along the cannon far ahead and illuminating Crawford’s column with unearthly glare; and turning quickly towards my own I could see the whole black column struggling on and Ayres a mile behind urging and cheering his men…when this ever-recurrent pulse of flame leaped along the writhing column like a river of fire. It looked to me as if the men had bayonets fixed, the points of intense light flew so sharp from the muzzles sloping above the shoulders. Suddenly an explosion like a battery of shrapnel fell right between our divisions. An orderly came galloping up to me, with word that one of the ambulances was struck, killing the horses and the driver, and stunning the poor fellows who, unable to keep up with the rushing column, had sought this friendly aid.2
No reenactor is foolish enough to march around in a thunderstorm.
One night during the first few days of August a typical summer thunderstorm with lightning, rolling thunder, and a solid wall of rain advanced, like some infernal army, from the hills to the west across the encampment site. A lone reenactor ventured from his tent out into the night to watch the majesty of the battle in the sky, and was surprised and a little shocked to see a battalion-size group of Confederate infantry forming up in line and coming to attention across the road from the camp. He called to some of his friends in the surrounding tents and those who peeked out saw the same thing: uniformed men, seemingly driven by foolishness, or an inconceivably strong devotion which appeared to conquer even the fear of death by lightning strike, to reenact a Civil War era scene. They could be seen clearly through the rain, but even more distinctly during the lightning flashes, adjusting their ranks with military fastidiousness, as if in nervous preparation for battle. The men in the tents watched. They saw the battalion finally aligned; a great flash of lightning illuminated them one more time. As the observers’ eyes adjusted to the darkness after the flash, they saw that the unit was gone—vanished in an instant, called suddenly into some unseen combat, crossing through time’s illusionary wall.
Though the timing is uncertain, either shortly before or after this event, a lone Confederate battalion was seen, in swinging route step, marching along one of the camp roads through the Union campsite. Was it the same group seen in the field outside the camp? For that matter, was this phantom battalion perhaps the same one seen by dignitaries on Little Round Top years before? Or the one that continues to be seen to this day near where battalions of live men were mown like so much grass in the once-deadly Wheatfield?
There was the pastor—a minister in real life who reenacts as a man of the cloth—who had gone out of the campsite to get something out of the trunk of his car. It was around 10:30 p.m. and most of the reenactors had bedded down after a sunrise-to-sunset schedule of shooting the film. As the pastor was moving things about in his trunk, he felt a sudden uneasiness, as if he were being watched. Turning, he saw that he was virtually surrounded by a company-size group of what he thought were reenactors. But the looks on their faces seemed to indicate serious work ahead. Inconceivable as it was—for reenactors are by nature nice people—he felt as if he were about to be attacked. Nervously he asked, “What’s the problem here?” The entire group slowly melted away, back into that strange land where there is apparently no leave from duty for those soldiers caught there. The pastor realized that he had missed an incredible opportunity: the chance to help these men, en masse, to find their eternal rest.
And restless a few of them were indeed. At 2:00 a.m., one of the reenactors was at the phone bank calling his wife on the West Coast. They were discussing when he’d be coming home. He wanted to stay in Gettysburg for more of the filming and figured he’d be home in a few days, or perhaps as long as a week. Over his shoulder he saw several men in uniform whom he hadn’t noticed before. He told his wife that he must go now because there were others waiting to use the phone. He looked back and, as he listened to his wife ask again when he was coming home, the men simply dematerialized. There was an uneasy silence coming from his end of the line until he finally answered his wife: “I’ll be coming home tomorrow.”
Apparitions come to us through many senses. Visual apparitions are only the most dramatic. There have been a number of olfactory apparitions around the battlefield and town of Gettysburg as well. Tobacco, years before its deadly effects were known, was used liberally by Yankee and Rebel. With over 160,000 troops in the vicinity, it is no wonder that certain walkers upon the battlefield claim that, even though no one else is anywhere near them, they seem to have suddenly walked into a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke.
One of the main components of the black powder used during the war was sulfur. During a Civil War battle the air was thick with the smell of burning sulfur, smelling for all the world like rotten eggs. On the fields today, a visitor will crinkle his nose, appalled at the hellish smell, and will look in vain for where some eggs may have been left to rot. Like the hell-on-earth
it once signaled, the fire-and-brimstone smell rifts again across the fields of war.
Occasionally, across the clean fresh fields, or within the pristine houses of the townspeople who just happen to live on what was once battlefield, comes the hideous stench of putrefying flesh. This smell was so common after those three terrible days in July, that Gettysburgians wore masks soaked in oil of wintergreen to filter the fetidness of death. It has been written about before, and since that writing, people have confirmed that the smell continues to roll in from beyond the fields, from beyond the present time.
And there are the assaults upon the ears that seem to be very common—and very out-of-place—upon the now peaceful battlefield. Just outside the encampment for the filming of “Gettysburg,” some reenactors reported hearing twice the discharge of cannons. Walking to where the cannons were “parked” they examined them and realized that none had been fired recently; none showed the telltale grime of black powder discharge or smelled of the sulfur in the black powder.
During the filming of the scene at Devil’s Den, after all was quiet, from the thick woods across Bloody Run on the slope of Big Round Top came the unmistakable sound of two cannons discharging and the crackle of scattered musketry. It was as if the spirits of the patriotic slain rose from the earth, fooled into thinking they were needed once more to fight and die yet again.
While walking through the Wheatfield where 6,000 men were beaten down by the uncaring fist of combat, a lone reenactor was taking in the evening air. Faintly across the field wafted the sounds of a drummer-boy, still rapping the men into battle, rhythmically, closer and closer toward death.
It was late in the fall, after most of the reenactors had gone home to their jobs and families that a handful remained to help out the camera crews if they needed it. Again near Devil’s Den, some reenactors lounged about after all the others had gone back to the base camp, and quiet descended with the sun on the greatest battlefield on the North American continent. They heard, on the gentle breeze coming from the thick woods near Big Round Top, men talking. Then, familiar to them as they were familiar to their forbearers, across the valley came the old tunes of the war—”Lorena,” “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” or perhaps the soldiers’ favorite “Home Sweet Home,”—sung by men who had been trying but were unable to find their way home again after 130 years of uneasy sleep.
A young woman wrote to tell of her experience with the 6th New Hampshire reenactment regiment on the 130th anniversary of the great battle. They were encamped on the 4th of July not far from the wooded area in the campsite. It was a week of record high temperature in Gettysburg, aggravated by the lack of any breeze on that particular night. She and a few of the regiment were gathered around the cooking fire, finishing off some dinner. Suddenly, one of the men stopped eating and cocked an ear. “Listen,” he said. He stood, looking toward the darkened wood-line. As the others stopped eating and put down their plates, from the woods came the unmistakable sounds of a large body of troops moving. There was the clatter and clank of bayonets against canteens, the rattle and murmur of thousands of men shifting and adjusting personal things like packs and rifles, the low rumble of what sounded like a wagon, and random but rhythmic shuffle of feet as men moved wearily through the woods.
The reenactors looked at each other with anxiety—they all heard it. One nervously suggested that it was only the wind, but his theory was belied by the motionless, oppressive heat around them and the campfire smoke rising in a straight column. From less than a one hundred yards away—the young woman thought the sounds came as close as only fifty yards at one time—echoed the rumble of an invisible army. The sounds apparently came so close that someone in the group nervously suggested that perhaps they should go for a walk to another part of the large campsite. Though no one admitted it at the time, the young woman later frankly said that the stroll was prompted not so much for the exercise, but by fear.
In the several pages recounting paranormal activities at the reenactment sent by Eric Johnson there is the cryptic note on page two: “Date unknown. Supply wagon heard going thru [sic] camp.”
Late one night on the site that had been constructed to look just like the famous angle—the High Water Mark of the Confederacy—someone saw a lone campfire flickering near the exact replica of terrain that saw so much bloodshed. The reenactor found a friend. Then they found two security guards. Obviously, some reenactors were camping in an unauthorized area and presenting a fire danger, since the summer had been hot and fairly dry. As the four of them approached the site, the flames began to flicker lower and lower and finally disappeared as they approached to within several yards of the spot. They walked directly to the site to make sure that the fire that had been burning was indeed completely out. Strangely, as they reached the site, there was no sign of a fire—no burned embers or smoldering earth or smoking fire pit. There had never been a fire where they had so recently just seen one.
Another brief note in Eric’s manuscript states, “Security guards investigate ‘men with torches’ at the corner of the camp.” Could this be the same event, or perhaps another, like the numerous fires sometimes seen along the South Mountain range where the Confederates once camped, or the fires seen in the Wheatfield that also left no ashes?
Since even Hollywood cannot recreate some of the fabulous terrain where heroes fought and died at Gettysburg, some of the scenes for the movie were to be shot “on location,” on the battlefield where the events actually took place. The reenactors’ reaction was beyond ecstatic: most felt a deep reverence and were sincerely honored to be able to march, literally, in the footsteps of their heroes.
It was late summer when they were to film the reenactment of that great conflagration of souls known to history as Pickett’s Charge. The day was sultry with the temperature approaching the 90s as the men lined up along Seminary Ridge. Modern reenactors are relatively savvy about the event in history they are about to portray. No doubt, some of them were remembering their history as they stood and sweated under some of the same trees that once sheltered those who, a century-and-a-third before, were soon to leave orphans behind and were, themselves, about to be adopted by Death.
Perhaps they thought of the two-hour cannonade preceding the charge and the story of poor Jere Gage of the 11th Mississippi, lying with his arm nearly torn off by a Federal shell. When the surgeon approached to look at his arm, the boy told him, “Doctor, that isn’t where I am hurt,” and pulled back the blanket to reveal that there was nothing left of his abdomen. Before he took opium to ease the pain, however, he wrote a note to his mother and sisters and released “Miss Mary” from some personal promise. He dipped the finished letter in his mortal wounds, consecrating it with his own blood.3
Perhaps some of them recalled Federal artilleryman Alonzo Cushing, mutilated in the crotch and thighs by a shell doubly cruel to a young man, as he walked up to his commander holding what was left of himself together with his hand. Brig. Gen. Webb may have thought he was about to request to go to the rear, but perhaps feeling that now there was little to live for, young Cushing asked if he could place his guns at the wall and fight to the finish. Webb knew what he was asking for, and granted his request. Cushing took a bullet in the mouth a short time later and got his wish.4
The heat was stifling as the reenactors stepped off across the broad plain. As anyone who has crossed the field of Pickett’s Charge knows, it is not as flat as it appears. Especially near the Virginia monument, the land dips and rolls into several swales. They marched along the same route where men were liquefied by exploding shells or bashed to the ground by concussion, without a mark on them, dead. They maneuvered over ground where entire lines of men were obliterated by crossfire from the batteries on Little Round Top, whose gunners thought the firing was as easy as target practice.
Over the crest of one of the little ridges and down again they marched, dropping into a little valley where they could no longer see cameras or directors or modern film crews. Suddenly, from the stifling h
eat of the modern field of Hollywood recreations, they plunged into the frosty cold of another world. It was as if the entire marching line had walked into a deep freeze at the bottom of that swale. Individuals began to look around at the others to see if they were experiencing the same thing; indeed the incredulity upon each face told them they had passed into someplace not of this world. Some swore they saw their own and other’s breath condensing in the cold air. Then it was up the other side and back into the hell-like heat of the sun-beaten field. They finished their march and the filming, but with a renewed respect for the undeniable and unpredictable power of the unknown.
And finally, from the camp where modern reenactors so faithfully and convincingly portrayed the long-gone battle’s counterfeit, comes the story of a local who was contracted to shuttle the reenactors to and from the town. This woman owned a pick-up truck and had just driven some “soldiers” into Gettysburg from the campsite and was returning. It was one of those fog-filled nights so common on the battlefield, where the mist assembles itself in long, militarily precise lines, then stands, as if at attention, across the road to Emmitsburg, or Fairfield, or Cashtown, in mocking imitation of real lines of infantry cut down in those exact spots.
The woman was returning to the reenactors’ campsite with her empty truck to see if there was another group that needed a lift. She had been driving non-stop through that strange fog and was still a few miles from the camp when she began to hear a tapping that she described as coming from the truck bed or perhaps the roof just above her head.
She looked in the rear-view mirror. The mirror gave her something more than just a look back from where she had come; it suddenly was looking back in time, for there, in the formerly empty bed of the truck, were several Civil War-era soldiers. They sat, half a dozen historical anachronisms, weary and tattered, riding from the town where the woman had just dropped off their imitators, back out into the darkened fields of sacrifice more familiar to them than the neon-lighted modern town of Gettysburg. They said not a word, but just stared with that strange look in their eyes—the “thousand-yard stare,” they would call it in a later war—or as one poet put it, with the sad eyes of a newborn beast of burden.