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| 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 “Grave of the wandering Rebel
soldier is peaceful” was originally published in the Nov. 30, 1995 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
On Tuesday, the 21st of November, I wandered again to the
north end of the county, looking around as I have done many times. Since I was
in the area, I decided to go by and pay a visit to the grave of the unknown
Confederate soldier who is buried near where I was resting.
There were no hunters in the area that I had seen thus far.
So I decided that this would be a good time to stop there, if only for a few
moments.
I parked my trail bike off the little-used trail and walked
over to the grave site. The fallen leaves from the trees around had formed a
golden carpet over the final resting place of this unknown soldier. The faded
tomb leaned at a drunken angle as it had when I was here on my last visit a
year ago.
Not having anything to work with, I used the heel of my shoe
to pack dirt around it and try once again to straighten up the faded marker. As
I packed the rich soil against the leaning marker, I was satisfied that the
gravestone looked a little better. As I worked to straighten the marker, the
thought rushed through my mind as to the circumstances of the one who slept
here in this lonely grave, whose location is known only to a few.
What was his name?
What was the story behind this fallen Rebel? What was his
name? There was no name on the tomb; only the words “Confederate Soldier.” And,
in the middle of the tomb, was the word, “Unknown.” Standing there beside the
faded marker, I wondered if this soldier could have been on his way home from
the war, perhaps wounded or sick, when death had stalked and overtaken him here
on this lonely road. Perhaps, someone had found his body and buried him, later
to return and place a marker here at his final resting place.
As I stood there, I remembered the many hours that I had
studied and researched this bloody war and its terrible aftermath. How many of
those wounded and hungry soldiers had left the scene of battle, trying to reach
their homes and loved ones before death overtook them? As I remembered, there
were many who fell by the wayside, never to reach their destinations. Many,
like the one who lay before me, were to never see home again.
I thought of my maternal great-grandfather who, though
wounded severely during the bitter fighting near Lookout Mountain, Tenn., made
his way home in an agonizing journey that took almost three months. I
remembered the story that he was taken prisoner by the Union Army, but due to
the seriousness of the wound in his hip, was told to go home. Maybe this
solider who slept here had suffered similar circumstances and was trying to
reach home and family before the ghost rider of death overtook him.
Why did he join?
I wondered, too, what his reason was for joining the
Confederacy. Did he have visions of gallantry and glory as he left his home to
join the cause? Or was he seeking a decent meal and a place to sleep? Did he
leave behind a wife and perhaps children, never to see them again? Could this
be, by some strange coincidence, the only son of Nancy Haines, who was trying
to make his way those final few miles to his home on the high hill by the
river, only to die this short distance from his destination and be buried by a
stranger who didn’t know his name? Did “Crazy Nancy” continue to wander the
roads and pathways in search of her lost husband and only son when perhaps he
slept only a few miles from where she took her nightly walks and later vanished
from this life?
The slight ripple of the tree branches reminded me that the
silence found here and around the unknown grave would give no story as to who
this was. The stillness settled down like a large blanket and cover the one who
now rested in the soil below.
The tall pines seemed angered at my thoughts of trying to
identify the lone, sleeping solider that they had protected and watched over
for these hundred or so years. As I looked up into the branches of the tall
pines, I felt that I was the intruder. What business did I have here, searching
for answers and disturbing the endless sleep of this gallant warrior?
Protective branches
The wind had risen; the protective branches tossed to and
fro as though telling me that this lonely grave was theirs and in their
safekeeping.
Looking to the skies, an apology was whispered upward. It
seemed that the angry winds had begun to grow quiet and the stillness settled
across the hillside once again. The words of an almost-forgotten poem rushed
forth in my mind, as if it was requested by some unseen force that lingered
nearby.
Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless son shall tell,
When many a vanquished year hath flown,
The story of how you fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor times remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light,
That gilds your glorious tomb.
The golden leaves from a nearby sweetgum tree fluttered in
the evening winds as they gradually settled in place on and around the grave of
the sleeping Rebel soldier. Searching around, I found a few wild goldenrod that
I placed beside the faded and weathered marker. Perhaps the wild, beautiful
goldenrod had been his favorite flower, as they were mine. As I stood there
beside the marker, I was glad that I had come this way.
Time to depart
The shadows were lengthening as the time approached for me
to depart from the graveside of this unknown Confederate soldier. As I turned
to leave, I looked toward the heavens and saw the stillness of the protective
branches of the tall pine trees. I knew that all was well, and peace abounded
here within these surroundings. I knew, too, that I was welcome to return, and
I vowed that I would at my first opportunity.
Looking again into the branches above me, this sleeping
stranger, whoever he might be, was in good hands and in safekeeping here in the
quietness of this lonely, rocky hillside.
(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 and
served as the administrator of the Monrsoeville National Guard unit from 1964
to 1987. 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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