- Joined
- Feb 20, 2005
- Location
- Ocala, FL (as of December, 2015).
From the book, Ghosts And Haunts of the Civil War, by Christopher K. Coleman, comes the following story of Confederate Hill:
"Not all ghosts associated with the Civil War are found in the South, nor did all die during the war. Union prisoner of war camps certainly did more than their fair share to contribute to the mortality rate during the war, and elsewhere in the land one can occasionally encounter singular occurrences that seem to defy easy category.
Iowa, for example, is not often thought of as a state that one associates with the Civil War--much less with phantom rebels. However, if one can give credence to contemporary reports, it was home to at least one such phantom Johnny Reb.
In the era following the War Between the States, the town of Creston, Iowa, while not the oldest, was regarded as one of the liveliest of communities in the West. The good folk of that town, as a rule, were concerned with the nuts and bolts of living, and not overly concerned with things supernatural.
The end of the war had brought an influx of new settlers from the East, many of them coming to live in one of the newer districts on the east side of town, nicknamed Confederate Hill.
The toponym for the new neighborhood had begun as something in the nature of a joke. Most of the town was evenly divided as to political preferences, but in the new part of town, the Democratic Party prevailed as the people's political preference. During the war, the Republican Party had never missed an opportunity to paint the Democrats as disloyal and secessionist in outlook, as fellow travelers with the Confederate to the South, so the predominantly Democratic district was labeled "Confederate."
At one point, a local wit had even suggested that Confederate pickets should be thrown out around the district on voting day to protect the hill from intrusion by Republicans! It may also have been that, in addition to the new district's political bias, that many of the new arrivals really were from the South. The South during reconstruction was not a very pleasant place to live for many, and large numbers of Southerners migrated westward after the war. So there may have been more than a few gray-clad graybeards who moved there to live--and die.
Some years after the war, it happened that a citizen from the Republican part of town was passing by the bottom of Confederate Hill one evening, walking home in the dark. Walking briskly along the road, Mr. Jones was suddenly challenged by a hollow sounding voice from out of the dark:
"Halt! Who goes there?" it cried.
Jones was startled by the unexpected challenge. His surprise turned to terror when a ghostly figure blocked his path. The apparition was clothed in a uniform of butternut--a brown drab colored uniform common to the Confederate forces late in the war. The uniform was butternut, alright, but its regimentals were rotting away, exposing what passed for flesh underneath--more bone than flesh. The figure was gaunt and skeletal-like, and reeked of decay and mold. The figure was armed with a rusted old musket, which he proceeded to aim at Jones. He could hear the click of hammer cocking as the phantom Reb prepared to fire.
"Don't shoot!" cried Jones.
With that, the wraith let loose a mocking laugh and approaching closer, grinned a bony smile. Then, he vanished right before Jones' eyes! In abject terror, Jones ran back towards the center of town, to a local watering hole called Summit House. A popular gathering place for the male population of town, Jones repaired there to gain reinforcements--and refreshment.
Mr. Jones related all that had befallen him that night, not leaving out a detail or fact; yet instead of sympathy, howls of laughter and scorn greeted his recounting of the late encounter. His veracity and his manhood impugned, he dared any of them to go back with him to confront the apparition again.
The crowd--fortified one suspects by liquid courage--jumped at the offer to become ghostbusters, or more likely, to extract more humor from the situation. The posse followed Jones back to Confederate Hill. By now the moon had risen, shining its pallid illumination on the scene. They hid themselves in a ravine near where Jones said he had first encountered the ghost. They did not have long to wait. In the ghostly gray lifght, the phantom sentinel was seen approaching. He was as Jones had described; clad in butternut, with tattered cuffs and collar, armed with a rusty old musket. The phantom rebel paced a full fifty yards, then turned about-face and marched back the same distance, as if on sentry duty.
One of the party suggested they get closer, to see who it is. Trembling as they crept forword, the men came within a hundred feet before the challenge rag out:
"Halt! Who goes there!" said the phantom.
One of the more quick-witted of the crowd called back, "Friends of the Cause."
With that, the apparition emitted a weird, demented laugh. Some in the crowd thought they heard him answer, "What Cause?" Others thought he said, "The Cause is Lost!" in an almost hysterical tone. With that, however, the phantom let loose a blood-curdling rebel yell and as the sound faded from their ears, so too did the apparition before their eyes. The would-be ghost hunters had been successful, but were now a far more sober bunch that before--ghosts have a way of doing that to folks.
The friends of Mr. Jones, in the end, decided to keep quiet about the affair, fearing no one would believe them, or worse, that the town would think them crazy.
Many years later, the story leaked out and was carried by a prominent midwestern newspaper. When all is said and done, the haunting of Confederate Hill in Union County, Iowa, remains a unique and unexplainable encounter with the ghosts and haunts of the Civil War."
Unionblue
"Not all ghosts associated with the Civil War are found in the South, nor did all die during the war. Union prisoner of war camps certainly did more than their fair share to contribute to the mortality rate during the war, and elsewhere in the land one can occasionally encounter singular occurrences that seem to defy easy category.
Iowa, for example, is not often thought of as a state that one associates with the Civil War--much less with phantom rebels. However, if one can give credence to contemporary reports, it was home to at least one such phantom Johnny Reb.
In the era following the War Between the States, the town of Creston, Iowa, while not the oldest, was regarded as one of the liveliest of communities in the West. The good folk of that town, as a rule, were concerned with the nuts and bolts of living, and not overly concerned with things supernatural.
The end of the war had brought an influx of new settlers from the East, many of them coming to live in one of the newer districts on the east side of town, nicknamed Confederate Hill.
The toponym for the new neighborhood had begun as something in the nature of a joke. Most of the town was evenly divided as to political preferences, but in the new part of town, the Democratic Party prevailed as the people's political preference. During the war, the Republican Party had never missed an opportunity to paint the Democrats as disloyal and secessionist in outlook, as fellow travelers with the Confederate to the South, so the predominantly Democratic district was labeled "Confederate."
At one point, a local wit had even suggested that Confederate pickets should be thrown out around the district on voting day to protect the hill from intrusion by Republicans! It may also have been that, in addition to the new district's political bias, that many of the new arrivals really were from the South. The South during reconstruction was not a very pleasant place to live for many, and large numbers of Southerners migrated westward after the war. So there may have been more than a few gray-clad graybeards who moved there to live--and die.
Some years after the war, it happened that a citizen from the Republican part of town was passing by the bottom of Confederate Hill one evening, walking home in the dark. Walking briskly along the road, Mr. Jones was suddenly challenged by a hollow sounding voice from out of the dark:
"Halt! Who goes there?" it cried.
Jones was startled by the unexpected challenge. His surprise turned to terror when a ghostly figure blocked his path. The apparition was clothed in a uniform of butternut--a brown drab colored uniform common to the Confederate forces late in the war. The uniform was butternut, alright, but its regimentals were rotting away, exposing what passed for flesh underneath--more bone than flesh. The figure was gaunt and skeletal-like, and reeked of decay and mold. The figure was armed with a rusted old musket, which he proceeded to aim at Jones. He could hear the click of hammer cocking as the phantom Reb prepared to fire.
"Don't shoot!" cried Jones.
With that, the wraith let loose a mocking laugh and approaching closer, grinned a bony smile. Then, he vanished right before Jones' eyes! In abject terror, Jones ran back towards the center of town, to a local watering hole called Summit House. A popular gathering place for the male population of town, Jones repaired there to gain reinforcements--and refreshment.
Mr. Jones related all that had befallen him that night, not leaving out a detail or fact; yet instead of sympathy, howls of laughter and scorn greeted his recounting of the late encounter. His veracity and his manhood impugned, he dared any of them to go back with him to confront the apparition again.
The crowd--fortified one suspects by liquid courage--jumped at the offer to become ghostbusters, or more likely, to extract more humor from the situation. The posse followed Jones back to Confederate Hill. By now the moon had risen, shining its pallid illumination on the scene. They hid themselves in a ravine near where Jones said he had first encountered the ghost. They did not have long to wait. In the ghostly gray lifght, the phantom sentinel was seen approaching. He was as Jones had described; clad in butternut, with tattered cuffs and collar, armed with a rusty old musket. The phantom rebel paced a full fifty yards, then turned about-face and marched back the same distance, as if on sentry duty.
One of the party suggested they get closer, to see who it is. Trembling as they crept forword, the men came within a hundred feet before the challenge rag out:
"Halt! Who goes there!" said the phantom.
One of the more quick-witted of the crowd called back, "Friends of the Cause."
With that, the apparition emitted a weird, demented laugh. Some in the crowd thought they heard him answer, "What Cause?" Others thought he said, "The Cause is Lost!" in an almost hysterical tone. With that, however, the phantom let loose a blood-curdling rebel yell and as the sound faded from their ears, so too did the apparition before their eyes. The would-be ghost hunters had been successful, but were now a far more sober bunch that before--ghosts have a way of doing that to folks.
The friends of Mr. Jones, in the end, decided to keep quiet about the affair, fearing no one would believe them, or worse, that the town would think them crazy.
Many years later, the story leaked out and was carried by a prominent midwestern newspaper. When all is said and done, the haunting of Confederate Hill in Union County, Iowa, remains a unique and unexplainable encounter with the ghosts and haunts of the Civil War."
Unionblue
Bringing the