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On this one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the get started of the United States Civil War, I think back to an inscrutable encounter I had late one summer’s night, years ago, in the mountains of the Shenandoah in Virginia. Were those two horse soldiers that I met on a dark wilderness trail Civil War re-enactors, or were they night riders of a dissimilar ilk? I can not be sure to this day. Such speculation though, requires a lot of historical background. In November, 1862, Confederate standard Stonewall Jackson moved his army, a lot of twenty-five thousand men, east, out of the valley of the Shenandoah over the mountains. The army was returning from the Battle of Antietam, the war’s bloodiest battle, where over 20,000 had been killed or wounded. They crossed over the Blue Ridge on a road called the Gordonsville Pike and camped east of the high mountain ridge near present day Syria, Virginia. In those days, the Gordonsville Pike was a main route over the mountains amongst the Shenandoah River valley and the eastern piedmont of Virginia, and from there, it connected to the road to Richmond, the Confederate capitol. Today, the high mountain section of the Gordonsville Pike remains a fire road in the back country wilderness of Shenandoah National Park. As it descends east from the top of the Blue Ridge, the Pike follows down the Rose River, which was known in the Civil War era as “Rowe’s River.” It was here, late on that mid summer’s night, underneath a place known as Dark Hollow, that I ran into those horse soldiers. Earlier that afternoon, after a family camp out, I had escorted my wife, daughter, and dad-in-law down out of the forest, back to the trailhead. They were ready to return to the comforts of the family cabin near Syria, Virginia. I then hiked back up the Pike into the mountains, back to my tent, wanting to spend one more night in a bestloved camping spot near Rose River Falls. With assorted deer grazing nearby, I cooked a meal and tried then to sleep with the onset of darkness in the forest. On warm summer nights, that Shenandoah forest erupts in a cacophony of tremulous, stereophonic insect sounds. The resonance of this aural background is stentorian in magnitude, pulsing throughout miles, from one side of the valley to the other. Many other layers of sound punctuate this symphony. The creek bubbles and babbles below, funnily surging in amplitude, the flow seeming to slow down, and then flowing more loudly. Then, clicking sounds rise out of it like rock hitting rock. Can it be the deer stepping in for a drink? The pitch black forest teems with passing eyes full of curiosity, a whistling red bird, a bob white’s quick call, and a crashing through fallen leaves just below, of, what? At night, the animals, the insects, the plants and trees, along with beings unknown, frolic and clamor just beyond the range of the dying firelight. They play with the moonlight, the breezes, the stars, and the shadows in the evening mists. Very old spirits may be more than imagined, scurrying along the ridges, moving silently through the trees. The moon rose over the ridge and flooded my tent with light. I arose and checked my watch; it was not yet ten o’clock. Not sentiment the least bit sleepy, I thought of the hot snack and cold beer that would reward an hour and a half hike down to the trail head, to the car, and back to the cabin. I broke camp by flashlight, shouldered my backpack, and headed down the trail. By then, it was nearing midnight, and the moon was arching past it is zenith. There is a point on this hike where the Gordonsville Pike drops over a ridge and descends into a deeper valley, turning through a series of sharp switchbacks. I was enjoying this experience of being altogether alone in the night forest, immersed in the insect symphony, and, even with a dim moonlight filtering through the dense forest canopy, being unable to see to the next bend, buried deep in the trees, except for the wide road to follow. One becomes lost in reverie. The immense depth of age of these mountains forms a figurative bedrock to the mystery felt while walking through the Virginia mountain forests. Foot trails are like passages through outstanding halls, all shifting in the dim moonlight and shadows, as the trees in front open reluctantly and then close densely behind. Now and then the eye is startled as a fleeting moonbeam glints off the prancing flow in the streambed below. An effigy is evoked of a middle world of a much earlier age. Just then, from the switchback above, I heard the sounds of hooves kicking along the rocky trail. I looked back up and saw no lights, but could distinctly listen now that there were horses coming down the trail behind me. My original instinctive was to jump into the trees and hide, not wishing to be forced into socializing with these intruders into my pristine private, primordial world. Then I thought how impractical that would be with my forty pound pack, and I would make such a noise in the fallen leaves that the riders may look with flashlights. When they did, I would have to explain myself for lurking in the dark. So instead, I stopped, turned and looked up the trail, waiting for them to round the bend, and I prepared for my encounter with these late night riders. What I saw, as they approached, were two Confederate cavalrymen. Now, in Virginia the sight of men dressed as Civil War soldiers is not at all unusual. It is not the kind of thing one would suppose at this hour of the night though, this far up in the National Park. Yet, in my college days, working as a leather craftsman in Richmond, I ofttimes made accouterments for clients who were members of Civil War societies and whose vocation it was to relive Civil War battles as realistically as possible. My clients oftentimes had exacting specifications for the gear they ordered from my shop. I had to work to their careful standards of authenticity. So, that leather craft work gave me a critical eye for in-authentic flaws of re-enactor regalia such as progressed blue jeans, factory-made boots, machine-stitched jackets, or a flashlight on a dark forest trail. So it was, the firstborn thing that struck me, as these two horse soldiers neared closer to me in the night, that I saw not a single flaw in the authenticity of their garb or gear. Their grimy wool uniforms, boots, buckles, and their shabby, torn and blackened trousers were the best costumes I had ever seen. I could not discern a single inaccurate innovative detail when it comes to them. And, the night was far too hot for such heavy woolen uniform jackets. It wasn’t until later that it struck me that they were carrying impressive firepower. They had, I think, Springfield short rifles along with side arms in holsters. One had his rifle in a saddle scabbard, and the other held his draped over his lap, and it waggled up and down with the weary gait of his horse. Each had ammo and powder cartridges hanging ostentatiously off their pack gear, with brass fittings reflecting moonlight. Later it occurred to me that this is the National Park. Firearms are not permitted here, not even very real-looking bogus ones. Had a Park Ranger seen these fellows, he would have ended the evening’s re-enactment very quickly. Yet, it wasn’t their firearms that I primary noticed at all. The most striking thing in regards to this encounter was that, there I stood in the dark night, on a road not twenty feet wide, the horses passing within eight feet of me, and as I said “howdy,” they just passed on by, glancing at each other now and then, as if in silent, sullen conversation. They did not utter a single word to me, nor nod at all in my direction. The empty stare of one passed all over my face, but did not focus for even a moment on me. I felt invisible. Were they just unfriendly? One might think that a lone hiker in the middle of the wilderness would warrant a good deal of slight snort of recognition from passersby in the night. They looked so weary; so haggard. Their horses staggered on, kicking rocks on the trail, and they disappeared around the next switchback. I stood there, wonderingly, alone again in my primordial world. The insect symphony descended upon me again, as if all the bugs had gone silent in astonishment at this seeming rent in time; this apposition amidst modern hiker and bygone era soldiers, and then abruptly resumed their clamorous bug business again. Yet, there was now no sound from the trail down below. I purport that this was not one thing more than a prospect encounter with two horsemen dressed in Confederate uniforms, late one summer’s night in the Shenandoah Mountains. It may though, be turned toward intriguing legend with some unfeigned history. Virginia is the land of my fathers. The Martin side of my family combined with Osbornes and Hales, have been in southwest Virginia since before the French and Indian War. As the Civil War broke out, these persons were not eager to fight, but when Virginia withdrew from the Union, the Grayson County Daredevils were gathered and fought galore of the fiercest engagements of the war. They were in the battle of Manassas, and there Capt. P.N. Hale and C.P. Hale were killed. The Grayson Daredevils included other Hales and a couple of Martins. They were beneath Stonewall Jackson’s command at Antietam, and they crossed the Gordonsville Pike with him in November, 1862. A letter survives, written from that camp near today’s Syria, Virginia, by a soldier, Earl Andis. He wrote this to his wife: “We… marched for 14 miles for six days. We are within 18 miles of Gordonsville. Our stay here will not be long for we are going someplace in the neighborhood of Richmond. Corporal Andrew Martin and Fielden Hale will begin home in a few days. Hale asks that when you write me, write how his family is doing.” On this one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the start out of the United States Civil War I pause to think of my ancestor cousins Andrew and Fielden, and of that dark summer night, years ago, hiking down the Gordonsville Pike in the Shenandoah Mountains, and of my encounter there with the Confederate horse soldiers. |
