THE GHOST OF GETTYSBURG

Tuesday, August 6, 2019. The sky at daybreak was overcast and grey. And an early morning mist covered the fields in the valley below McPherson Ridge.

This is the spot where the battle of Gettysburg began. The deadliest engagement of the Civil War. Three days – July 1, 2, 3, 1863. Casualties – 46,286 killed, wounded, captured, or missing. And there I was, standing in that same lush green pasture. They say these fields still look the way they did 156 years ago. They also say these fields are haunted by the tortured souls of those who died there.

There was no one else around. At least not yet. It was still too early for the buses and mini-vans and crowds of wide-eyed tourists. So when the morning afforded the light I trudged through the grass and down the hill, into the middle of the field. You see, I don’t like to just view history from a distance, I like to immerse myself in its surroundings and look from the vantage point of those who were there when it happened.

During those three bloody days in 1863 the fields of this quiet little community were overrun and turned to shambles. Rations ran low. Union and Confederate soldiers pilfered homes and decimated crops and orchards in search of food. Wheat fields were strewn with the dead and wounded. Horses as well as men.

Its a stirring and otherworldly place to be. And I won’t lie, it was slightly unnerving to be standing there by myself. But then again, that’s what I like to do. That’s why I was there, wasn’t it? To get a sense of what it was like back then.

Besides, I’ve never been “in tune” with the paranormal. And although I’m VERY skeptical of ghost hunting reality shows on the Travel Channel, I do believe in the possibility of spirits. And I believe some people attract the supernatural but I’ve never had an experience that I can remember. (Although there was that one time with the lid to the peanut butter jar when I was a boy. I still remember that.). So even though I felt a little on edge, I was confident that if this town was haunted I was pretty much safe.

It was about 6:30 in the morning as I stood there admiring the beautiful scenery and breathing in the country air when I heard a rustle of leaves coming from a tree behind and to the right of me. At first I didn’t pay it much mind. I figured it was just birds or a squirrel. A few moments later, a louder, more agitated rustle of the leaves. And a cold chill came over me. I turned to look but all was quiet and still. Must be a raccoon, I thought to myself. Then as I stepped to leave a hoarse voice whispered from behind me, “Begging your pardon, sir. Might I get a sip from your canteen?”

Startled, I nearly jumped out of my flip-flops! I turned around and saw a shadowy figure appear from behind the tree. As he stepped into the light I noticed he was wearing the soiled, grey uniform of a Confederate soldier. Mismatched, as they were. With navy blue pants, a tired, dusty hat misshaped from years of work on the farm. And bare feet. He had a model 1841 percussion rifle musket slung over his shoulder and wore a haversack on his back. Soaked in sweat, he looked about ready to collapse.

Whoa! A Civil War actor, I thought! But why’s he out here already this early in the morning? Then I noticed the wet burgundy stain that soaked the front of his jacket and trailed down his legs. This wasn’t theatrical make up. This man had been shot in the stomach! But it was worse when I took a closer look. His entrails had fallen out and were now exposed and hanged there like a slick bloody apron below his waist.

And that wasn’t the most horrifying part. He didn’t stand before me as a man of flesh and bone. More as a semi-physical presence somewhere between solid and holographic. Definitely a ghost!!

He reached, with a weak and shaking hand, for the water bottle I held.

Stunned, I took an involuntary step backward.

He stepped closer, “Sir, please, my throat, it’s parched.”

Without a word I cautiously handed over my water.

He took three long pulls from the bottle then passed it back as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Much obliged” he said, “Henry Raison, 7th Tennessee. And you might be?”

Still trying to recover from the confusion and shock of only moments before, I could only manage to say, “You know you’ve been shot?”

The ghost of Henry Raison didn’t react as if he’d heard me. He merely stood beneath the tree’s canopy and stared straight through me. As if he didn’t even know I was there now.

He said, “My family’s in Clarksville. I have a wife, Elizabeth, and two young boys at home. Can you get a message to them?”

Before I could answer he continued, “Tell Lizzy I love her and not to worry, for I’ll be home before first Winters freeze.

“Tell her I miss her truly but as of late the Confederacy has been in Gods favor and we’re driving the Union troops further toward the north each day. This cursed war will be over soon then I’ll be home to hold her embrace once again.

“And tell her to hug the boys for me. I miss them terribly and love them with all of my heart.”

And with those last words he turned and gingerly ducked under a limb then slowly vanished behind the tree.

I was still unsure whether I was dreaming or awake. Trying to comprehend what my eyes had just seen, I replied, more to myself than the spirit, “Yes, Henry, I’ll see to it that your message gets delivered. Thank you for your sacrifice. Rest In Peace.”

(Henry Raison was a real-life soldier in the U.S. Civil War. I read about him recently. He was the first Confederate soldier killed when the battle of Gettysburg began.)