George Singleton's 'Somewhere in Time' from Feb. 15, 1990

George 'Buster' Singleton

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Returning to Shiloh battlefield,” was originally published in the Feb. 15, 1990 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

As I have said many times to my readers, each year during the closing days of March I have this strong desire to venture forth to the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh, Tenn. I cannot explain this feeling; only the fact that my paternal great-grandfather fell in battle during the bitter fighting, there on the banks of the beautiful Tennessee River.

I have traveled to Shiloh many times during my adult life. I have walked over just about every foot of this historic site, but always the desire to return haunts my memories. So, the time is fast approaching when the thoughts of returning to Shiloh by the river will be constantly on my mind.

From its sources in the mountains,

Gushing forth from many a glen,

With its many crystal fountains,

Far beyond the haunts of men;

Swelling fast and roaring louder

In its mighty power and glee,

Sweeping on by lonely Shiloh,

Flows the grand old Tennessee.

Each time that I go forth into the lonely battlefield site where thousands of young men, both the Blue and the Gray, died fighting, for whatever reason, I feel that somewhere, some time, maybe in another life, I was there. Lectures by the guides at each location or point of interest seem to fall on deaf ears. Why? Because for some reason that I can’t explain, I seem to already know what they are going to say.

Sunshine beams in tender glory,

Springtime breezes softly blow

O’er the spot that soon in story

A bloody name is due to know.

April showers fall like teardrops

Where men’s graves are soon to be,

On the grass grown sod of Shiloh

Near the shores of the Tennessee.

And as I visit the several mass graves where the Confederate dead are buried, I feel that somewhere within the deep burial trenches my blood kin sleeps. There is no way of knowing that he is there, but each time I stand there, I feel that I have fulfilled my duty with that visit to Shiloh, and I’m glad that I have come; I believe with all my heart that I was led this way.

As the day grows shorter, and the evening shadows begin to fall across the places with names such as “Bloody Pond,” “Sunken Road,” “Hornets Nest” and the “Peach Orchard,” I realize that the names are familiar; they are not new to me. They were in my mind, even as a small child; long before I had any knowledge of the events there on the banks of the Tennessee River.

Sunset shed its parting splendor

O’er the landscape calm and still,

Stars come out and gaze in tender

Pity o’er the death doomed hill;

Midnight falls, and white-winged spirits,

Flitting o’er the world in glee,

Pause and gaze on lonely Shiloh,

Near the shores of Tennessee.

Then, as I stand silent, on the cold and deserted battlefield, the sounds of the cannon fire and the sharp cracks of the sharpshooters’ rifles seems to ride the fading winds of the evening. And my mind wanders back across the years to reach into its memories and knows that soon the fighting will stop, and the Southern armies will make that fatal mistake to fall back for a rest. And, if one listens closely, the sounds of muffled oars can be heard on the waters of the mighty Tennessee River as General Grant brings his reinforcements across that will turn the tide of battle in the dawn of the coming morning.

But with sunrise sounds a death note,

E’en the cannon clear and loud,

And in fierce and deadly combat

Face to face two armies crowd!

Louder, hotter grows the battle,

As the men on both sides see

They must fight like men at Shiloh,

On the shores of the Tennessee.

History relates how the tired and wounded soldiers of the South returned to battle that morning of early April to be faced by fresh Union troops that had been brought across the Tennessee under the cover of darkness. But I know too, because in my mind, I feel that I was there.

I know the rag-tag army of the Confederates slowly began their withdrawal back inland toward the railroad yards at Corinth, Miss. I know the death and confusion on all sides as the rear guards tried to stall the rapid advance of fresh troops from the North. Then, I know too, that here is where it seems that my mind departs from the fighting at Shiloh; I know too, that the time is at hand when the place of death and dying is committed again to memory. And all will be well within me until the time comes once again, that becomes me to return to Shiloh on the Tennessee.

Once more midnight’s holy breezes

Kiss the upturned faces there,

As many a manly bosom freezes,

Many a death-groan cut the air,

Many a wife is left a widow,

Many a mother’s heart will be

Broken as the news from Shiloh

Is wafted down the Tennessee.

Angels through the air seem wailing

O’er the world that faints in tears,

For in blood and dust lie trailing

Hopes that once could feel no fears,

And they drop their wings in sadness

As in blood they bend their knee,

Bow their heads and weep o’er Shiloh,

Shiloh on the Tennessee.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)