A Walk at Shiloh

                                                             A Walk at Shiloh

   “Shiloh” translates from Hebrew as “Place of Peace.” It seems peaceful enough here now, but that was not always so. Today is April 6, Shiloh’s anniversary of infamy. Nights are still cold in the first week of April, even this far south. It is cold enough that a thick frost coats the grasses which sprout atop Fraley’s, and Wood’s fields at the southernmost end of the park. This is where we would begin our walk if you were here, and if you were here you would feel the heaviness of that frost, as I do. You would be grateful for the jacket that you shiver inside.

   To get here is to leave the beaten path. The fields and surrounding woods have managed to remain for the most part pristine. There is a stillness here in the hours before dawn that makes its name seem apt, “Shiloh.” There are no cars, no lawnmowers, no air conditioning units humming with non-stop racket. Even the river flows gently past, whispering in respect to these hallowed fields and woodlands. The other living souls you might happen upon this early in the morning are also respectful of the silence. They are few, those souls. There is only the occasional historian, or perhaps a photographer, but in fairness we should not discount the multitudes of white-tailed deer. This is their home. It was theirs first. It is we who have invaded their “Place of Peace.”

   If you were actually here with me today I would give you the grand tour. There would be no charge, as mine is a labor of love, but there is a cost. You would have had to set your alarm very early to be here at this hour; and no, there is no more coffee, and the restrooms are not open yet, but we must start early to accomplish what needs to be accomplished, and to see what needs to be seen. Later in the day others will come, those who try with half-hearts, those who have the curiosity even though they cannot grasp it’s significance. We must out-race those sunshine tourists before they spoil it with their “automobile tours,” and their chicken bucket picnics. But at this early hour, pre-dawn, this is the time for those of us with a need to understand. To be more than a sightseer you must make the park your own. The ones who come later we will tolerate. At least they have come. Perhaps one day those people will be privileged to see it, and to feel it as we do... perhaps. But all too often they will only see fields, woods, and pigeon crusted statues. You must do more than drive through if you want to see Shiloh for what it is. Like anything worthwhile, you must give the effort before you can reap the rewards.

   One hundred and fifty-seven years ago my grandmother’s-mother’s-father crossed these fields just as we would be crossing them now if you were here beside me. Back in 1862 Melchior Tschudi, a Swiss immigrant, had a cousin with him for company, along with forty-five thousand brothers-in-arms. They came at this very hour, only they had marched all night to arrive this early while we enjoyed the comforts of modern automobiles, and paved highways. But the sights those men saw would have been similar then as now, the river winking gold, the dark tree-lines in every direction, the frost on the fields glowing pale in the moonlight. Those men passed by here for unhappy reasons, but I was not there, so I should not judge. Their reasons are their own. It was another time, with other mores. That must be enough for me. For better or worse those men are mine. Like all men, they did their best with the hands they were dealt. I spring from them, and I would not toss them away with history’s refuse.

   The darkness is ominous here in this ”Place of Peace.” You try not to fear as you walk, although your eyes dart, and your skin pricks, but you must stay brave for the “old soldiers” who watch. You shiver in the cold mist as you feel “others” roaming the paths beside you. This is a comfortable place for them, just as it is comfortable for the deer, as it has plenty of everything they need. You cannot help but wonder, “Is the cold the source of my shivers? Or is it something else?” Regardless of which it is we are safe, the spirits here are not vengeful ones, merely curious, as we are. Some of them have names that we know, names chiseled into the nearby monuments, but most of them have been forgotten in time. For those forgotten spirits perhaps a photograph lays somewhere in a musty box, in some musty attic, waiting to be opened, and to be considered. Perhaps some curious mind will come across that photograph some day. Perhaps the person who comes across it will see a familiarity in that face, and will long to know whose image it is. Perhaps she or he will go search their state’s dusty archives, or will scroll it’s microfiche to learn more. That descendant might even find a clue there; an enlistment form, a regimental designation, a discharge paper with a scribbled name. They might find sufficient information to inspire their own face, the one they see in the mirror that is so similar to the one in the photograph, to drive all of the way to this remote part of southwest Tennessee for a visit. With still greater luck that familiar face will get out of the car when it arrives, it will don a jacket, and will walk the paths here alone. It could be that it will even feel his or her kin beside them, happy that they have come. It must be with that hope that the spirits here watch as we walk among them. It is even possible, if we want it badly enough, to see them watching us when the moon comes through the fog just so; to see them standing in their latent ranks with shouldered arms, leaning forward, peering through the mist, discerning whether we be friend, or foe. Those moments are fleeting, but they are why we come.

   The fog thickens as the sky grays, as the sun warms the air. Jays and squirrels bark from the blinds. They are also numerous, the jays and squirrels, but are as skittish as the deer, and the ghosts. There is the Peach Orchard ahead; saplings standing in file on their night watch, skeleton sentries haggard in the thin grays of dawn. Like us, those saplings are descended from ones which withstood the fire. We have a kinship, the trees and us. I search them for fault, but I see only youth, and strength, with blossoms opened wide for a new day.

   A steady northward tramp up Sherman’s Road finds a replicated church with a very real cemetery. It is this church that gives this place its name, Shiloh. The church is merely a log cabin in a small, secluded meadow. You will find that it is good to whisper the word while you are here, “Shiloh.” It is good to hear it on your breath, and to let the spirits hear it. It is a word the “old soldiers” here know, and understand. Their ears prick when it is whispered, their heads turn. It is a good word for a good place. There are fresh graves dug nearby as proof that the abandoned church’s cemetery is real. Here lie the bodies of those who would peacefully join the ones thrown together by struggle, the whole group of them unfettered now from their earthly tensions.

   Past the church comes Ruggle’s Battery, a long line of what was then 52 bristling cannon, back in their day. They are still foreboding as they currently stand, even in their reduced strength. They are field guns, cast to deliver powerful blows before charging forward to the fray. They look capable yet, still proud in their aged patinas. Across the way wily veteran specters peek out from the woods, phantom soldiers who wisely duck behind what is left of eroded parapets just as they had ducked long ago, waiting for the whistling steel to rain in amongst them.

   The sun has risen high now, glistening white off of marble monuments. Bronze statues show soldiers frozen in murderous poses, giants wanting only a kinetic touch so that they might rush back into the fight. The park is extremely well-marked. In the sunlight it is easy to find the markers of my ancestors, of the 4th and the 15th Tennessee Infantry regiments. We can walk a short distance across to see which enemies in blue opposed Melchior Tschudi’s, or W. D. Lusher’s infantry regiments. We can feel love for those Union men too, those who were called here to right a wrong and found themselves staring back across this patch of grass… the ones who heard the whiz of my ancestor’s musket balls, or even felt their heat. Today we might laugh at having been “spooked” by Shiloh’s uncanny settings mixed with our active imaginations, but when these men lived, no matter what color jacket they wore, they knew genuine fear in this place. Our morning battlefield stroll had been their hell. As we walk along the shaded lanes and the bridged paths it is easy to imagine how it must have been for them as they scurried frantically about on these same trails, their shoulders hunched as though from a rain storm that spit steel and death rather than droplets of water. It requires little imagination to understand the confusion and panic many of them garnered from the darkness, from the woods, and from the fiery tempest of battle, just as it takes little to appreciate the brave soldiers on either side who found the resolve within themselves to stand firm. Those were men worthy of calling ours.

   It has been a long day, but when we arrive at the visitor’s center beside the landing we stroll over to the Union Cemetery beyond. The sky is electric blue here, the dogwoods pink, and white. The sweet scent of honeysuckle drifts on the swirling currents of air high above the swirling currents of muddy water. A flag on high pops proudly on that same scented breeze. We walk through row upon row of seemingly endless marble markers, some with weathered names, most without, every marker a man, every man a dream, every mother a tear. Coins line the marker’s marble tops, tributes from those with minds like our own. We search our pockets after finding a marker with none so that we may pay Charon, the ferryman, in that soldier’s honor. “Take this one across next, Charon. He deserves the rest.“ But who knows the old soldier’s mind? Our payment might indeed free his spirit from its endless roaming, or he could opt instead to stay here among his friends, and his enemies. 

   Finally, at the northeastern end of the cemetery, we find seats on the low rock wall. We sit quietly, watching the Tennessee River roll down beneath us. It is a peaceful scene until we begin to imagine ghost ships crowding the landing, the arrival of Buell’s twenty thousand men to save the day for our flag and country. In the morning the guns will begin anew.

   And so goes Shiloh’s contradiction, the “Place of Peace” that is forever at war.