Sharpsburg

Unlike Gettysburg, the landscape here dominates the monuments. The Park Service interpretation is hands-on (and far more helpful than at Gettysburg).

The roads, farms, fields and many of the trees are still much as they were and in September, the same time of year as the battle, grasshoppers rustled through the stubble and the peevish shrieks of blue jays echoed in the woods.

At Sharpsburg, the ghosts are not laid to rest.

I spent much of my time walking around the Cornfield, since the research I was engaged on was for a book featuring a member of the First Texas, but it was the Sunken Road that, unexpectedly to me, exuded sorrow. So much so that, entering this relatively short and shallow grass-lined trench, I felt tears come to my eyes and reacted in denial, greeting an Eastern Bluebird fluttering on a nearby snake fence with a too-loud "You're an Eastern Bluebird, aren't you? Yes, you are."

Because the feeling in that place was terrible.

I don't believe in the paranormal, but something happened to me in the Sunken Road that I can only accurately report and leave for others to explain. Now and then, as I walked, my feet felt burning hot. It was a warm day and I had sneakers on with warm socks but there was a contrast, a sudden heat. Once it happened near the monument that marks the spot where an officer fell.

It didn't happen at Gettysburg, or at Port Republic, or at any time since (and I've worn the same shoes and socks, in experiment).

I don't believe in ghosts -- I wouldn't be afraid of the spirits of Civil War soldiers anyway -- but if something does linger in the Road, I would not think it to be ghosts. Reflection; echo, channeled by the lay of the land. Memory. The pheromonal stain of death on death.

Or, of course, I may have imagined it all.

--Kyri