A Night at Shiloh

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. For a few short peaceful hours, the light shone like a beacon through the black trees. Then the screams began.

By the following morning, the candle was out, and the screams had long stopped.

When Mr. Morgan arrived at the cabin and saw the result of the night, he could only sigh and shake his head. The body was pale, and the dead face still had the look of absolute terror frozen on the features.

“Put out an ad for another manager,” he told his assistant. “Someone with a strong stomach, and a stronger heart.”

The assistant wrote down the note and ran off to deliver the message.

Morgan rubbed his forehead in frustration. He looked through the trees toward the cleared plains of the battlefield beyond. Hopefully this time we can find someone who can make it, he thought.

***

Benjamin Walker watched the countryside rush by him with growing indifference. It was a beautiful view from the train, he had to admit, but there was just something… foreign about it he didn’t like.

He hadn’t been this far south in decades, and had never planned on returning. But, alas, here he was, moving ever deeper into western Tennessee. In the tried-and-true strategy of ignoring things, Walker went back to reading the newspaper.

It was a local paper, so most of the stories were meaningless gossip and complaints. But in the national news section, the upcoming presidential election was taking shape. It was looking like Teddy’s favorite William Howard Taft would win the Republican ticket, while the Democrats had settled, shockingly once again, on William Jennings Bryan. All Walker could do was roll his eyes at the news and read on.

He finally gave up and folded the paper. He tried once again to watch the scenery pass by, but now his thoughts drifted to his daughter. Lizzie had been wanting him to visit more often in recent months and spend more time with his grandchildren.

Instead, he took this job halfway across the country. Almost like he wanted to be too busy for them. For anyone. With a sigh, he pushed the thoughts out and tried the paper again.

“Next stop, Savannah, Tennessee!” the conductor called out.

Walker folded up the paper, tossed it aside and grabbed his battered old suitcase.

The one-horse town of Savannah was a far cry from his hometown of Detroit, Walker quickly noticed. He was already missing the big city as he strolled out of the train station. You’re here to do a job, then leave, he reminded himself. It won’t be for too long.

He looked up and down the street, and notice a well-dressed gentleman approaching him.

“Are you Mr. Benjamin Walker?” the gentleman asked. When Walker told him he was, the man nodded. “Good. I am Robert Morgan. I’ll be your supervisor on this project.” He had a thick southern accent, giving away his local upbringing. But his handshake was strong, Walker noticed. A fact that put him more at ease.

“Glad to do the job,” he replied.

The well-dress man led Walker to a waiting horse-drawn carriage. The view drew another eyeroll. Walker was old, 67 years to be exact, but he considered himself a modern man, and the automobiles quickly filling the streets of his hometown in Michigan had become second nature. Horses were a sign of the old century. A sign of a dying way of living. The southern way of living. Not a good sign, Walker thought glumly.

The carriage took them to the edge of the great Tennessee River. As they reached the wide waterway, Walker’s eyes immediately searched the opposite shore until he found a familiar spot – Pittsburgh Landing. His breath caught in his throat, causing him to cough.

“Everything alright?” Morgan asked him.

“I suppose,” Walker said. After a moment staring at the landing, he finally continued. “I haven’t been back here since… well, since I fought here.”

Morgan nodded slowly. As a small boat came to pick them up and ferry them to the landing, he gave Walker a pat on the back.

“We’ve had a few veterans of the Battle of Shiloh work here in the military park during the last couple years,” he said. “They all speak the of horror they saw here. Trust me, it’s humbling for us younger folk who only heard stories long after the fight. Thank you for your courage.”

It was a compliment Walker had heard many times, and while he appreciated the man’s effort, it didn’t make him feel any better. “Thank you,” he muttered. The large scar on his left thigh twitched.

A nearly overwhelming sense of déjà vu and dread washed over Walker as he stepped off at Pittsburgh Landing. It was like he was 21 again, arriving just as the Confederate attacks were ending along Grant’s Last Line. It was there the Federal men had reorganized after surviving the rebels’ attack on the first day, and prepared a surprise attack of their own, one that would ultimately win the battle for the Union cause.

When young Ben Walker walked up the hill, the booms of artillery were still echoing through the trees. Then came the distant screams of the dead and dying, and the knowledge they would be joining the fight the very next day.

A cold shiver ran through Walker as he marched up the hill from the landing for the second time in his life.

The open space to his right, what had been a field filled with newly arrived soldiers lining up in formation on the night he’d arrived as a young man, was now a graveyard. Rows of military graves marked the resting place of hundreds of Federal soldiers.

I wonder if Jacob is buried in there, Walker thought. He hoped so.

At the top of the hill, along what had been the Last Line, more than a dozen young men were working, organizing several flat tops filled with metal signs painted in different colors. Overseeing the work was a well-dressed older man, about Walker’s age, with white hair and a thin beard.

“Mr. Walker,” Morgan said. “I’d like to introduce you to David W. Reed, the superintendent of the Shiloh Military Park.”

The man tipped his hat to Walker, who held out his hand.

“So, you’re our new labor manager,” Reed said, shaking Walker’s hand.

“That would be me,” Walker replied.

“And I heard you were a veteran of this battle.”

“I was,” Walker confirmed. “With the 15th Michigan.”

“That’s great news,” Reed said. “The work we’re doing here is to preserve the history of this place for future generations to experience firsthand. There is no one I expect to do a better job of that then a man who also fought and bled here.”

“Also?” Walker asked.

“Served in the 12th Iowa,” Reed said with pride. “We were right in the middle of the Hornet’s Nest on the first day. Even took a bullet to the thigh. It’s a day I’ll never forget. I can imagine you feel the same way.”

“Yeah…” Walker could only mumble. For the second time that day, the scar on his own thigh twitched.

The superintendent led Walker through the growing collection of signs piled in a massive line along the edge of the dirt road, ready to be installed throughout the military park.

“There’s been a lot of work back east to preserve battle sites,” Reed explained. “Gettysburg, Antietam, and the like. Here at Shiloh, I aim to not only preserve the land, but to teach all who come here the truth of what happened. Of the men who fought and died here.”

As they walked along Grant’s Last Line, Reed explained his vision for this project. Over 650 metal signs were to be installed across the battlefield, each marking a different unit’s position, while also teaching the reader about that unit’s part in the fight.

Each sign had its border painted a different color. Blue-bordered tablets to represent the Union Army of the Tennessee; yellow-bordered for the Union Army of the Ohio; and red-bordered the Confederate Army of the Mississippi.

To further distinguish between the units, even the shapes of the signs were different. Square tablets with ornamental corners marked where troops were engaged on April 6, 1862, the first day of the battle. Oval tablets designated the second day.

As they walked past one of the carriages being filled with signs, Walker’s eye quickly found his own unit among the pile, the 15th Michigan. Its information was stamped onto an oval sign.

Reed must have noticed the reaction because he spoke up. “What action did the 15th Michigan take part in, if I may ask?”

For a very long time, Walker didn’t answer. He looked at the sign, then stared into the forest past the field. It was the same forest he’d marched through some 46 years earlier.

“The 15th was unassigned when we arrived at Shiloh,” he finally said. “We’d only been mustered into service three weeks earlier in Detroit. When we arrived, we were attached to Rousseau’s brigade as part of the Army of the Ohio. The morning of the second day, we formed up right over there,” he pointed not more than a two dozen yards from where he now stood. His hand was shaking. “Then we advanced against those damn rebels, and pushed them back. Pushed them back clear past the creek and past the sunken road. We didn’t stop and pushed until we broke them.”

In a flash it all came back to him. The deafening noise of battle, the horrific flames of enemy guns. Smoke choking the air, and the dead falling around him. His best friend Jacob standing right next to him one moment, only to fall dead an instant later.

It took a herculean effort, but Walker kept the tears away.

“After Shiloh, we fought at Corinth – both times – then took part in the drive to Vicksburg. It was during that siege I was wounded in the leg – the thigh actually, just like you – and sent home.” The large scar on his left thigh twitched once again. It hadn’t bothered him this much in years.

“You are just the kind of man I want working on this project with me,” Reed said. “A veteran who knows the courage witnessed here. I’m glad you came, sir.”

“I’m just here to do the job, sir,” Walker said.

“I’d expect nothing less from a Federal soldier,” Reed said. “And I know that means you’ll get the job done right. Mr. Morgan, please make sure Mr. Walker has everything he needs.”

“Of course,” Morgan said.

When Reed left to the small office building next to the cemetery, Walker got right to work. He began organizing and leading the young workers to the correct locations to install the metal signs. Despite his age, he couldn’t resist helping with some of the manual work, digging several holes for the posts himself.

Near the end of the day, they were setting the spot for a particular red-bordered sign, isolated from all the other markers. A Confederate sign. It simply read ‘Burial Place - Confederate Soldiers - Shiloh 1862.’

“What is this place?” Walker asked as the group of workers approached the sign’s designated spot.

“One of five mass graves for the Southern dead buried after the battle,” Morgan explained. “Right after the fight there were huge graves dug for both sides, but in the years after the war, many of the Union dead were relocated to proper graveyards. But the Confederates remained in these terrible spots.”

A brutally cold chill moved through Walker as he approached the heightened mound of earth.

“In fact,” Morgan continued, “they were so poorly taken care of, local farmers complained for years about their pigs digging up the bones of southern solders. The complaints got so bad, it was a key reason the government decided to create the military national park here.”

“Jesus Christ…” Walker whispered, then silently scolded himself for the blasphemy.

“May this sign give them some recognition, and some peace,” Morgan said.

For a second, Walker almost said something in agreement, but he stopped.

“I suppose,” he said after the pause.

Morgan looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I lost a friend here,” Walker explained, his voice low and level. “Jacob. He died fighting the rebels.” For the second time that day, he successfully fought off tears. “I can respect the southern men who fought, but I don’t have to forgive them. I certainly haven’t forgotten them. Or Jacob.”

The young assistant stared at the old man. “The Confederate men lost friends here too, sir,” Morgan said.

“I know, I know…” Walker waved the concern away. “I’m not here to dwell on the past. We’re here to do the job, get these signs in, and go home.”

Both men were silent as the Confederate burial sign was installed.

When the sun began to drop below the trees, the work was finished for the day. All the workers were local boys who returned across the river to Savannah. However, to save money on room and board, Walker was allowed to stay in an old wooden cabin a short walk away from the cemetery and park office.

“It was built some years after the battle,” Morgan explained as he unlocked the door. “A number of gravediggers slept here during the reburial of the Union dead. No one’s used it since.” He placed an oil lamp on the small wooden table against the wall. “Well, except for the previous manager. The man you were brought in to replace.”

Walker stepped into the tiny, one room cabin. Along with the table, there was a straw cot in the corner, and two small glass windows on opposite sides.

“What happened to him?” Walker asked.

“He died one night,” Morgan answered flatly. “The doctor said it was a heart attack.”

“Comes with getting old,” Walker said, letting out a small chuckle. He looked around the cabin. “This will do me just fine. I certainly slept in worse places during the war.”

“Of course,” Morgan said. He handed the door key to Walker. “Both myself and Mr. Reed will be back from across the river first thing tomorrow morning. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Walker.”

“You as well, Mr. Morgan.” Walker stood in the cabin doorway and watched the younger man hurry toward the river landing until he was out of sight.

The shadows were growing long from the trees when Walker closed the door and locked it. He threw the keys on the small table and sat down on the cot bed with a groan.

You’re getting old, Ben, he thought. His whole body was hurting from the day’s work, and he’d mostly just been overseeing the young guns do the physical work. You’re getting very old…

The notion suddenly caused him to think of his daughter again. Her, and her request.

“I know we’ve all had a hard time since mother died,” she had told Walker. “But your family is still here for you. We want to be a bigger part of your life.”

“I know,” Walker had said. “I know,” he repeated now, sitting alone in this isolated cabin in the middle of the Tennessee woods. Saying it then hadn’t helped any more than saying it now. He was still hesitant to spend time with his family. He told himself it was because he didn’t like his Son-in-Law, and while that was true, it was far from the only reason he kept the distance.

As the last bit of sunlight stopped shining through the windows, Walker turned up the flame on his oil lamp. Shadows danced around the cabin as the flame bounced back and forth.

Suddenly, Walker felt very tired, and not just sore. He laid down on the cot, listening to the sounds of crickets and frogs outside as he waited for sleep to take him. Lingering thoughts of his daughter’s request faded away. In just a few minutes, Walker was snoring loudly.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Walker snapped awake. In the awful pitch black, he was confused about where he was. As he leaned up, his back started to hurt, reminding him of the day’s physical work and the little cabin on the battlefield.

With some confusion, he laid back down. Was I dreaming? he wondered. I could have sworn there was a great bang. As if… a cannon had been fired.

After waiting to see if there was another sound – perhaps the lads across the river were setting off fireworks? – nothing but silence met his ear. He sighed, annoyed at whatever dream he’d been having for waking him, and rolled over in his cot.

The moment he closed his eyes, there was indeed a great boom in the distance. Then another, and another after that. A chorus of thundering sounds went off. Walker recognized it immediately. That was an artillery battery firing.

In a flash, he jumped out of bed and fumbled for the box of matchsticks. The small light of a match led the way to the lamp, and soon the whole cabin was filled with orange light.

The great blasts stopped.

“What the hell is going on?” Walker asked out loud. Could it be fireworks? No, he realized. His was an unfortunate soul who knew the difference between fireworks and cannon. “What the hell?” he repeated.

His knees were hurting, but Walker forced himself to shuffle over to a window and looked out into the night. A Gibbous moon gave some silver light, allowing the black outline of treetops to stand out against the sky, but everything below was cast in heavy, inky shadow.

A minute passed. There were no more distant booms. Walker relaxed and chuckled to himself. “You’re going crazy in your old age.”

As was an old habit of his, Walker stared at the moon. He enjoyed studying the many shadows curving along its surface, but then he realized something. Something he had experienced several times in his youth, during the war. The great blasts had sounded like a battery firing, and now they had gone silent. Back in his army days, he’d seen that. It was how many fights opened; hammer the enemy with the big guns, then attack with infantry.

A cold chill moved down Walker’s spine. “It must have been a dream, right?” he asked, but no answer came. On instinct, he blew out the flame in the lamp, plunging the cabin once more into darkness. He made his way back to the cot and laid down.

Despite his best attempt, Walker couldn’t get back to sleep. The silence that followed the mysterious sounds unnerved him, even more than the sounds themselves.

Get a hold of yourself, Walker, he ordered. You’re too old to believe in ghost stories. Despite the advice, he pulled his covers up to his face. Through sheer force of will, he kept his eyes closed, hoping sleep would find him.

Just as he finally started to nod off, there was a sound outside. Walker’s eyes carefully opened and stared at the ceiling. He strained to listen. Another sound outside, like rustling leaves when the wind whips them around or even when… when someone is walking through them.

Heavy footsteps walked outside past the cabin. Walker jumped out of bed, white as a sheet. Is this a dream? A quick pinch of his hand proved he was still awake.

He was spooked, but Walker knew he had to look and see what was out there. Slowly, he edged to the window and peaked out. The moon was higher in the sky, shining its light through the trees. Then he saw them, standing some 30 yards away. Three dark figures, half hidden by the long, black shadows of the forest.

They stood still, facing the cabin with obscured features. After a wave of panic, Walker’s fear gave way to anger. These were clearly no ghosts rattling their chains, these were men of flesh and blood. Someone was trying to pull a prank.

“Damn southern rebels,” he muttered as he grabbed his lantern and relit it. “Can’t just let an old man get some sleep!”

Walker charged out of the front door with righteous fury. “Hey, you damn fools better leave me alone!” he shouted. “I need to get my sleep. Now get out of here, or I’ll report all of you to Mr. Reed!”

The three figures held their ground, and silently watched Walker approach.

“Did you hear me?” Walker asked. “I’m telling you to leave!”

When the three men refused to move, Walker angerly stormed right up to them.

“Listen here, you…” The light of his lamp shone on the figures, and Walker stopped dead in his tracks.

The figures were not men. Not anymore. Three pale corpses with white eyes and black teeth stood before him. As the shock hit Walker, the three figures smiled at him with horrific grins. Despite the panic filling his mind, Walker managed to notice they were wearing dirty, tattered old Confederate army uniforms.

“Rebels,” he whispered.

“Damn… Yankee…” the center soldier wheezed out.

Walker froze in fear until the three ghouls reached out to him. He turned to run, but slipped and dropped the lamp with a crash. The flame went out immediately, plunging everything into black.

For several terrifyingly long moments, Walker expected to feel the skeletal hands of the soldiers grab him. He stumbled over his feet, trying to locate the lamp in the darkness, but couldn’t find it. Walker decided to abandon it and ran as quickly as he dared through the oppressive night toward the cabin.

In his panic, Walker got turned around. After a good hundred yards, he realized he should have reached the cabin already. He’d missed it in the dark.

“Damn,” Walker said. He was breathing heavy, and his heart was racing. His blood pounded in his ears. You need to get a grip on yourself. You need to find the cabin and lock them out.

He’d faced death before. In fact, Walker had faced it in these very woods more than 40 years ago. Surely, he could face it again and triumph!

In an instant, one of the ghouls charged out of the darkness with arms outreached and let out a loud groan. The dead soldier’s hands tried to wrap around Walker’s throat.

“No!” Walker cried as he tried to push away the attacker. His hands went right through the dead man’s chest, causing him to lose balance and fall through the ghost. His face was hit with freezing cold air, and an overwhelming sense of anger and hatred.

These things want me dead, Walker realized. The old scar on his leg twitched once again.

The ghoul seemed to disappear as Walker fell to the ground.

Walker heard a crack as he landed on his hands with great force. He immediately knew his left wrist was hurt. The pain hit him just a second later.

“Ahh!” he cried out.

“Yankee…” several hollow, broken voices called from the darkness.

Grabbing at his wrist, Walker struggled to his feet. In the rush, his foot slipped, sending him crashing to the ground again.

“Damn it!” he cursed and looked up to see the three figures approaching him again. They surrounded him, repeating the word over and over again in their raspy voices.

“Yankee… Yankee…”

“What do you want?” Walker asked, his voice breaking.

“Yankee… die…” all three corpses raised their rotting hands and closed in around him.

“Come at me!” Walker said. “I’m not going without a fight!” Despite the pain from his wrist, he put up his fists, ready to defend himself.

As the three ghouls reached him, they began to groan with horrific wrath.

Just as Walker was ready to throw a – likely useless – punch, the three stopped. Their heads turned in unison, looking at something in the dark. The old man looked at them, confused. In a sudden, jerking motion, the dead soldiers stepped away from Walker.

Looking past them, he saw what they were staring at. Another group of walking corpses, wearing the faded blue uniforms of the Union Army. With shocking speed, the blue men rushed forward in silence against the three rebels. Walker’s attackers immediately retreated, disappearing into the darkness of the thick forest. The anger on their twisted faces as they looked back at Walker was a sight he knew he’d never forget.

The blue-clad ghosts pursued them and disappeared. Walker was left alone in the dark, his wrist hurting and his breath short.

Footsteps came behind him, and Walker turned in renewed fear. But the fright left him when he saw the familiar face.

“Jacob,” he whispered.

His old friend’s face was unnaturally pale. A large blood stain soaked through the front of his uniform. Jacob smiled warmly and held out a hand caked in black soil.

“Ben… Walker…” the ghost said.

Walker reached out, still shaking uncontrollably, and took the outreached hand. He was easily pulled to his feet by the dead man. There, he found himself face to face with the ghost of a friend.

“Jacob,” he whispered again. “I’m… I’m sorry. About what happened to you here. About… all of it.”

The ghost looked around at the now quiet woods around them. He had a sad expression on his pale face, but nodded to Walker and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Jacob,” Walker said. “Thank you.”

The pair walked in silence through the night. Jacob led them to the cabin, which Walker was glad to see again.

Still hurting from the attack, Walker sat down on the bed with a loud moan.

“It was good having you fighting next to me again,” he said, but when he looked up, Jacob was gone.

He searched around for his friend but noticed the sky beginning to lighten in the east. “Oh…” he said. He really wished he had some whiskey with him. Whenever he was in town, he’d have to get a glass. And maybe a second one to honor his friend.

“Thank you, Jacob,” he said, not sure if there was anyone listening.

As the sun rose, Walker’s thoughts turned to his daughter. You should visit her, he told himself. Life is too short to spend away from the people that mattered. Maybe even try to be nice to her husband. At least make a little effort. He chuckled, and realized it hurt when he laughed. “Ow.”

When the workers arrived that morning, they were surprised to see Walker in such bad shape. Mr. Morgan, on the other hand, seemed surprised to see Walker at all.

"Hopefully your night was not too eventful,” he said.

Walker wanted to punch the man in the face, but held back. “Only a little,” he said. “Just some trouble with the locals. I’m sure you know how that goes.”

Morgan looked at the ground and didn’t offer a reply.

“Well, I do believe it's time for me see a doctor about this wrist. And then I think I’m going to head back home,” Walker said, walking past the workers.

“You’re leaving with the job half done?” one of the young workers asked.

“Oh yes,” Walker answered. “I don’t think I could survive a second night at Shiloh.” He laughed out loud as he strolled to the river landing.