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| George 'Buster' Singleton |
The story started shortly after the end of the Civil War.
One of my maternal great-grandfathers came home from the war a wounded and
broken man.
Due to a serious saber wound in the left thigh, he was not
able to perform many of the duties that were required of a dirt farmer of west
Alabama, who had to dig his very existence from the poor red soil that was his
farm. So, during the times when he was not able to do manual labor due to a
flare-up of his wound, he would try to write down some of the happenings around
his small farm.
To the west of my great-grandfather’s farm was one of the
highest hills in that part of the country. So it was appropriate that this large
and steep hill was named the mountain.
An air of mystery
There was a certain air of mystery about the mountain. Many
times when the local folk would turn to hunting to assist in the supply of food
for their families, those who went to the mountain would return with all kinds
of tall tales.
Very few of the local hunters would let darkness overtake
them there on the mountain. Those who were unfortunate and were caught by
darkness near and around the mountain would always come home with wild stories
about ghostly figures dancing around campfires and hearing the sound of drums
there on the mountain.
There is a tall limestone cliff on the northeast side of the
mountain. At the base of the cliff was where the fires were always seen and the
shadowy figures from another time would always be gathered.
The sightings were especially common during the time of the
month when the moon was full. Also during the fall months and those of the
winter when the air was cold and the trees would shed their leaves.
Ancient drums
To add further to the firelight mystery there on the other
side of the mountain, those who witnessed the ghostly gatherings always told of
hearing the dreadful sounds of what seemed to be some type of ancient drums
that came from the darkness from behind the firelight. The sounds were told to
be flat, not carrying far on the evening winds. Sounds that seem to be calling
to the spirits of another time to come forth and join in their evening of
fireside reunion, before the coming of the morning light that would push the
darkness from the limestone crevices there on the side of the mountain.
The stories of the drums and the ghost dancers were passed
down through the families of the area as they sat around the warm fireplaces on
the chilly winter evenings. The older members would sit for hours and relate
the exciting tales to the young grandchildren, who sat wild eyed and
breathless, dreading the time when each had to depart to that dark room and to
bed.
It was during one of these fireside gatherings that I first
heard of the ghost drums and the fire dancers and the fires that flickered and
leaped on the face of limestone cliff, there on the mountain.
Many years have passed since, as a young boy, I vowed that
someday I too would witness the spiritual happenings there on the mountain.
Gone are the members of my family who kept alive all the tales that would keep
a small boy wide-eyed and spellbound four hours on end.
Tired of this world?
During the family’s annual cemetery cleaning and dinner on
the ground this past year, I recalled the vow that I had made as a young boy.
As I stood beside the final resting place of my great-grandfather I wondered if
the ghost dancers had, too, grown tired of this world and had returned to that
place in time that they understood and were free to enter.
So, during the full of the moon last October, when the cool
evening winds blew across the hill, I made my way across a rough ravine that
separated Highway 69 from the high hill that is commonly known as the mountain.
The evening shadows had begun to creep into the crevices
along the cliff. I picked myself a spot where I would have full view of the
base of the cliff. I then ate my meager supper of a dry sandwich and water from
my canteen. I settled to wait for the darkness.
Over my shoulder to the east, the full moon began to rise
slowly as though it didn’t want to expose itself to the chilly evening air. The
shadows on the face of the cliff began to give way slowly as the moonlight
crept ever so quietly down the smooth side of the cliff.
Waiting for what?
I was already hearing the muffled sound of the beating drums
before I became aware of what it was. The sound was there as though it hadn’t
started at all. I edged closer to the huge rock that I was leaning against. Chills
crept over my body. I pulled my poncho tightly around my shoulders and waited.
I realized then that I didn’t know what I was waiting for.
I listened for the usual night sounds. There were none –
only the sounds of the drums that seemed to creep from the darkness.
Then I realized that I was seeing a small fire at the base
of the cliff. Then there was another, and another. The flames seemed to reach
upward, grasping at some unknown object.
It was during this time that I noticed the ghostly figures stepping
from the shadows. The drums had now ceased; only the slight movement of leaves
on the evening air gave evidence of any movement around, other than the flames
of the ghostly fires.
As the five ghostly figures squatted around the fires, each
in turn would stand as though speaking to the others. The hands of the one
standing would point and gesture as though the subject of discussion had
reached a critical point.
They joined hands
About 20 minutes had passed when the sound of the drums was
heard again. Then, as though a signal was given, the ghostly figures from
another time all stood up around the dying fires. At this point, all hands were
joined as the drumbeats quickened. Then they started to circle the fires,
dancing.
The drumbeats quickened once more; the dancing grew faster.
The dance lasted about three minutes. Then, as quickly as one could snuff out a
match, the dancers stopped their dancing. The drums became silent. The fires
flickered and went out. And the ghost dancers disappeared as quietly and as
quickly as they had come. The limestone cliff was bathed in moonlight again, as
though nothing had happened, and the sounds of night rode the winds once again.
The story was true. I had fulfilled the vow that I had made
as a child. I thought of my grandfather. The night was long and cold; sleep did
not come for a long, long time that night, there on the mountain.
(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.)
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