Singleton tells of ghostly Rebel soldier in Monroe County, Alabama

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 “Return to the hill country,” was originally published in the May 20, 2004 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Since my dear wife couldn’t find anything for me to do May 13, I decided to slip away for a few hours of wandering aimlessly around the hill country of Monroe County.

I cranked up my vehicle and headed toward the hill country of the Old Scotland area. I never get tired of traveling the winding dirt roads of this area of our county. I have traveled these roads and trails many times, and always something appears that I have seemed to miss on other previous trips.

My first stop was the old Cunningham cemetery, located only a short distance from the pavement known as the Ridge Road. As I had noticed earlier, the wrought-iron fence around the small family cemetery had been repaired and painted. Much work had been done on the fence and the cleaning of the grave markers of the members of the Cunningham family that are buried here.

It’s refreshing to know that there are those who yet see to it that the final resting places of their ancestors are kept clean and in good repair. But, much to my surprise the old cemetery needed some repair and cleaning.

Down the road, I stopped in front of the beautiful and scenic Old Scotland church. Almost expecting to hear the sounds of the Scottish bagpipes from the nearby wooded area, I viewed the historic old church and the well-kept cemetery nearby.

Noticing the recent burial site of a grand old lady who had just recently passed away, I remembered the day that this gracious and dear lady called me and wanted me to escort her to her old family home place, down the road aways from the church and cemetery. When we reached the old homesite, this dear lady sat down and cried, stating that it had been over 65 years since her last visit there.

Along the edges of the grownup yards, she pointed out some blooming jonquils that struggled to survive there among the tall weeds and brush. With tears streaming from her eyes, she told me that she had planted these jonquils many years ago when she was a small young girl and had lived there.

Returning to the church yard, she pointed out to me the graves of her family and her ancestors. She also pointed out the place where she was to be buried. This beautiful and darling old lady had gotten her wish. She now sleeps among those she loved so dearly, there in the beautiful old cemetery of Old Scotland church.

Making my way slowly down the narrow dirt road, I stopped for a moment at the old Davison burial ground. There under the protective branches of the trees that grow in the old cemetery, those who sleep here were also a part of the then active community of Old Scotland.

Making my way slowly down the winding hill that leads to the creek, I stopped for a few minutes on the wooden bridge that spans the creek. I remembered being told the story of the wounded Confederate soldier by my dear friend, now deceased, Raymond Fountain.

The story goes that this wounded Rebel had camped for several months under an earlier bridge that had spanned the creek here.

The wounded and sick Confederate had camped here for a period of about four or five months. He survived on the wild berries that grew nearby and the fish he caught out of the large creek. Those who passed this way said he could be seen during the early morning hours and the hours of the late evenings, walking along the narrow road near the bridge.

The stories state that the wounded Rebel, dressed in a torn and dirty Confederate uniform, would always be seen walking toward the west. Never was he seen walking east, back toward the bridge where he camped.

The stories go on to say that one day the wounded soldier disappeared, never to be seen again. No one knows what happened to the wounded and sick Rebel.

My friend stated that those who traveled this narrow road during the years after the terrible war had seen the ghost of the unknown Rebel, walking the road and across the wooden bridge. As always, he was seen walking to the west. I have visited this location many times, searching for the ghost of the unknown Rebel. But, that’s another story.

Slowly making my way across the low flat bottom lands, I thought of the many times that I had journeyed this way. As I started the climb up the steep hill known as Locke Hill, I thought of the many stories that had been told to me by my friends, Mr. Fountain and Mr. Wiggins.

Many times, we would come this way, and they would tell and tell again the stories of this area. Both of these dear friends had a thorough knowledge of the early history of this area. The ancestors of my friend, Oscar Wiggins, had settled up the narrow road in the old community known as the Red Hills community.

A stop for a few moments atop Locke Hill was breathtaking. Looking back across the vast bottoms to the east seemed almost as being in another world. I remembered being told the story by my friends of the family who had settled nearby, thus giving the tall hill its name. Many stories of good times and heartaches had taken place here on Locke Hill.

Stopping at the old Red Hills cemetery, I visited the final resting place of my friend’s ancestors. He, too, had fought for the Southern cause and had been laid to rest in the red clay of the Red Hills cemetery.

Walking through the old burial grounds, the many stories told to me crowded my mind. Many of the old grave markers and crumbling burial crypts brought to mind the stories of their lives and good times related to me by my dear friend. Then, too, many of those who sleep here had suffered many hardships as the dreadful Civil War took its toll on the community nestled here in the hill country.

As I mounted my transportation and head westward toward the Franklin community and Highway 41, I new that I had made the right choice by coming this way. I felt as I had on all the other excursions through this area. I had done the right thing by coming this way.

Perhaps, somewhere beyond the sunset, there are those who sleep in the old cemeteries and burial grounds along the way know that they are not forgotten. They are remembered. I was glad that I had come, if only for a short time.

(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. 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.)

 

Singleton writes of historical society visit to old Claiborne in 1987

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 “An afternoon in the old town of Claiborne,” was originally published in the May 7, 1987 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Sunday, April 26, 1987 was a perfect day. At 2 p.m. the members of the Monroe County Museum & Historical Society gathered in front of the old courthouse for an afternoon outing in and around the old town of Claiborne.

Our first stop was the old Jewish cemetery. Nestled back in the woods near where once was the southeast corner of the town, the remaining markers and tombs stand in almost forgotten memories of the Jewish people who once lived here in Claiborne.

As we moved among the headstones, many of which had fallen over or had been broken due to neglect, one could feel a certain sadness or a feeling of helplessness that seemed to filter from the faint impressions there in the ground.

Many of the ones who slept there among the underbrush and briars had traveled from the far corners of the earth to a town called Claiborne atop the high banks of a mighty river. They came this way looking for a better lift, a life of freedom, a life without fear.

And in the quietness of the moments there among the final resting places, one had only to look around, after all these years, to know that tragedy and heartbreak had been present in the town by the river.

Isaac Jacobson had been a successful merchant in the growing town of Claiborne. His store was growing along with the town. His business required many hours of work, even after hours when the doors were closed to his customers. Many nights he would work into the early hours of the morning, ordering the goods that would be shipped up the river by boat. Life was being good to Isaac. He traveled from Posen, Prussia to Claiborne. He had worked for another merchant until he had saved some money to open his business.

Then one night as he was closing early to go home and enjoy an evening meal with his family, an unknown assassin stepped from the shadows and killed him in cold blood. The faded epitaph relates the gruesome story of Isaac Jacobson’s tragic death that November evening long ago.

Many of the headstones sway drunkenly, leaning this way and that. If you look carefully among the underbrush, your eyes fall upon the small markers of the Metzger brothers, who fell victim of the dreaded yellow fever. The two young brothers were buried within two days of each other.

Pass in review, all the memories
That dwell within my soul.
For now is the time of remembering,
And the ghosts from another time
Cry out to be heard.

Our tour carried us northward to the old town cemetery atop the high banks of what was once known as the north gorge. Beneath the tall, majestic pines, the quietness lay over the few remaining headstones like a heavy blanket. As times passes, I have noticed that the markers within the cemetery have decreased in number. It seems that nothing is sacred anymore in our modern society. When vandals destroy and carry away the old markers and large headstones that have stood for well over a hundred years as guardians in this city of sleep, our priorities and values have reached an all-time low.

A moment’s pause, a quiet recital, the faded epitaph on the tomb of the broken-hearted stranger bring to mind once again the many tragedies that lie hidden in the many graves of the old cemetery.

“I am a stranger,” I heard him say.
“Broken-hearted and lonely, I came
This way – in search of a love who
In anger fled. Too late, too late,
I found her dead.”

Few of us care to known or try to remember the old story of the stranger who came to Claiborne in search of his lost love, only to contract the dreaded fever. As he lay on his death bed, alone and among strangers, he wrote the words of the epitaph that is to be found carved on his headstone:

A doctor, a lawyer, a governor’s wife,
Too, sleep peacefully by a soldier true.

Here on the high banks of the North Gorge, the many victims of the dreaded yellow fever sleep and wait for the final roll call of eternity. The town that they lived in, which boasted at one time over 5,000 people, sleeps in its past memories. Only the sound of the rushing traffic, crossing the new, modern bridge that spans the mighty river, jolts ones mind back to the present and the commitments at hand.

(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. 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.)

George Singleton takes a motorcycle, ferry trip in April 2002

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 “That vagabond blood flows again,” was originally published in the April 24, 2003 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

A few days ago, the urge to wander began to come over me as though a slight chill of some sort had entered my body. After giving it a little thought, I rolled out my trusted iron horse and headed toward the nearest crossroad. Many times I never really know where I’m going until I come to the first intersection in the highway.

I was up near the community of Tunnel Springs when suddenly I turned to the west and proceeded back to the road that would take me into the Old Scotland area. As I made my way down the narrow road, I was amazed at the many mimosa trees that were just beginning to bloom that dotted the countryside. Their raw primitive beauty was something to behold as they spread their branches like large colorful umbrellas near the old forgotten house places. As I rode along the narrow dirt road and marveled at the beauty of the mimosas, I reaffirmed that the Master’s hand was in all things of beauty that dotted the landscape around me.

Stopping in front of Old Scotland church, I looked out over the cemetery and noticed that as always, there were fresh flowers on many of the graves. I never grow tired of visiting the beautiful old church and the well kept grounds. As I have stated many times before in my writings, somewhere in my mind, I almost expect to see a couple of Scottish bagpipers step out of the tall timber, playing “Amazing Grace,” the most beautiful hymn that man has ever written. As always, my ancestral Scottish blood seems to rush forth and I enter into another time.

After absorbing the total peace and beauty of the old church for about an hour, I knew that I must go on to other places. Stopping at the old Davison cemetery for a few moments, I then proceeded on down the road. A quick stop at a couple of old homesite brought back to mind that day when I brought to one of these old homesteads a dear elderly lady, now deceased, who had been born here and raised here as a child. I remembered her telling me that it had been 65 years since she had visited this place of her birth and childhood home. I remembered her weeping and saying that this would probably be her last visit here. I assured her that I would bring her here anytime she wanted to come; all she had to do was to let me know that she wanted to come and again visit the old homesite. I remembered her picking some blooming jonquils that grew near the old yard. Weeping openly, she said she remembered planting these jonquils as a child.

Turning down the steep hill and down the narrow road that would eventually lead to the creek, it seemed as if I was going through a narrow dark tunnel. The heavy overhead branches of the timber covered the narrow dirt road completely. Slowly, making my way across the bottom, I stopped at the old wooden bridge that spanned the large creek. Stopping again, I turned off the engine of my motorcycle and stood looking down at the flowing waters of the creek. As I had many times before, I remembered the story of the wandering Confederate soldier who, wounded and sick, had camped for a considerable time here under the wooden structure. I remembered my dear friend, Mr. Raymond Fountain, telling me about the ghost of this Rebel solider being seen walking across the old bridge during the early morning and the late evening hours. I remembered the story of how one could stand on the old bridge during the hours of the late evening and smell the odor of food cooking. As I made ready to depart this place of mystery, I vowed to return here again, as I had done several times before, during the late hours of the evening and try to witness for myself the stories that I had been told by my dear friend. As I rode to the west, the story of the Rebel’s strange disappearance raced through my memory.

Crossing the low bottom lands and another wooden bridge that spanned yet another large creek, I soon found myself climbing up into the hill country. As I approached the crest of beautiful Locke Hill, I knew that I had to stop and spend a few moments and absorb the vast beauty that lay in the bottoms before me. Here, I was re-affirmed once again, only God was capable of creating such beautiful handiwork with such vast magnitude of colors.

As I traveled the narrow dirt road toward the old Red Hills cemetery, I thought of the many dollars that had been spent on traveling to distant places in search of nature’s beauty. Since leaving Highway 21 at Tunnel Springs, I had witnessed nature beginning to show her grandest colors, except perhaps during the fall months, and it had cost me almost nothing, perhaps a quart and a half of gasoline.

As I stopped in front of the old Red Hills cemetery, the memory of another dear friend came to mind. I remembered how I used to come here with my friend, Oscar Wiggins, and wander for hours through the old cemetery. I knew by heart the names of his distant ancestors who rested in some of the graves nearby. I had been shown many times the final resting places of several Confederate soldiers who had departed this world and now slept in the red clay of the old cemetery. Never did we visit here that my friend always went first to the grave of his grandfather who had worn the Rebel uniform. And, always I would hear the story of his return from the dreadful war, a wounded and sick man. After his return from the war, he spent the remaining years of his life digging a living out of the red clay soil of the Red Hills area.

As I proceeded across the high hills toward Highway 41 and the Franklin community, I knew that I had to make up my mind real soon as to the direction I would take. Looking at my watch, I knew that the noon hour was fast approaching. Turning northward, I twisted and turned on the winding and scenic highway until I soon found myself approaching the town of Camden. A quick stop at a fast food place satisfied my hunger and soon I was on my way again.

Not knowing for certain as to where I was going, I found myself in the community of Possum Bend. It didn’t take but a minute to view the sights here, so I proceeded on toward the river and the paper mill on the highway that would carry one to the town of Pine Hill. Just past the paper mill, I turned to my left and soon I was at the intersection of the road that would carry me to either the community of Sunny South or turn left and travel toward Lower Peach Tree. Turning left, once again the memories began to flow as I swept past old familiar landmarks that brought back many hours of research and adventure.

I knew if I wanted to cross the Alabama River on the ferry, I had to be there before the 4 p.m. deadline. Stopping in Lower Peach Tree, I fueled up my motorcycle and drank a quick cold drink. I had heard many stories about this community and how a terrible tornado many years past had almost wiped out the surrounding area. I remembered a lady who lived near where I grew up had been blown up into a tree during this terrible storm when she was a small child. The rest of her life, she was a cripple, almost unable to walk or to do anything.

The river crossing was very pleasant as I talked to the operator, whom I knew. Warning me to stay out of trouble, I said goodbye to my friend and climbed the east bank and began the climb to the top of Nancy Mountain. Looking at my watch again, I knew that I had no time to waste if I was to get home before my darling wife came home from a day of shopping. With just minutes to spare, I stabled my iron horse and began the “honey do” work that she had instructed me to do. This vagabond blood of mine is going to get me into serious trouble yet.

Contentment is for those who have
Reached their goal and are satisfied no
More to wander. Happily, I have not reached
Mine, and have no intentions of doing so.

(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. 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.)