Civil War Ghost Stories & Legends

Nancy Roberts

• Editore: University of South Carolina Press
• Anno: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781611171242
• Argomento: Social Sciences
• Categoria: Folklore & Mythology

Few events have sparked more legends and stories of the supernatural than America's Civil War. The accounts of gallantry and heroism have spread far and wide. Nancy Roberts grew up listening to her father's stories of the War Between the States and she trekked over many battle sites with him during her childhood.After reading about General Joshua Chamberlain's supernatural experience at the Battle of Gettysburg, Roberts began to collect tales of the blue and gray and write them down. In her latest collection, the reader will visit famous Civil War sites such as Fredericksburg, Antietam, Johnson's Island, Andersonville, Fort Davis, Gaines Mill, Gettysburg, Fort Monroe, Harpers Ferry, Vicksburg, Richmond, Charleston, New Bern, and Petersburg. Through these stories, the reader will hear the voices of those brave individuals who lived through that dramatic era. Visit with Brigadier General J.E.B. Stuart on the banks of the Chickahominy River. Get the real story about John Brown's activities at Harpers Ferry. Hear the eerie whistle of Abraham Lincoln's funeral train.

At daybreak on the morning of March 13,1862, Federal gunboats commenced a bombardment of the shore at Slocum’s Creek about twelve miles below New Bern by water in preparation for the landing of troops. Lacking the numbers and artillery to hold New Bern, the North Carolina troops retreated inland to Kinston, but the loss of New Bern, nearby Morehead City, and the smaller ports of North Carolina’s Outer Bank was a serious blow. Troops were rushed into the state from Virginia.

THE SPY OF MOREHEAD CITY

Outer Banks of North Carolina

There was a macabre quality about the scene, as if the curtain had risen on some infernal tableau. Fog from the marsh billowed about the figures like smoke, and the light of a lantern added to the eerie effect, tinging the mist an ugly, sulphurous yellow.

Each man grappled to gain an advantage over the other. The one in jacket and seaman’s trousers was short and stocky, while his adversary was tall and attired in a flowing cloak. A sharp cry of pain came from the seaman as he reeled from a blow to the mid-section. Mist closed in to conceal the pair, parted again, and in that instant when the fog lifted the cloaked figure raised his arm high. Down came the blade of a knife like a shining silver streak.

It was March 10, 1862, the second year of the War Between the States. Unaware of the bloodshed ahead, the dunes and marshlands of the Outer Banks lay in their hushed windswept isolation as they had for centuries.

At Crab Point in Morehead City, twenty-two-year-old Emeline Pigott brought supper to the Confederate soldier hiding in her family’s storeroom. As she left him she heard a knock at the front door.

It was Mr. Edwin Forsyth, a wizened little man with a tanned face and sharp bright blue eyes, a frequent visitor.

“Come in. I’ll call my father,” said Emeline Pigott. Waiting for her father’s arrival, she cringed at the sound of a faint cough from the direction of the soldier’s hiding place. Had their visitor heard? With her back to him she quickly feigned a cough herself. Forsyth had always been a good friend but one couldn’t be too careful. Emeline did not breathe easy until she heard her father close the front door behind his caller.

A stroll would slow her rapidly beating heart. She slipped quickly outside into the darkness and mist. Her father would try to discourage her going alone at night, if he knew about it, but she would not be long. Wearing a dark coat with a fitted bodice and full skirt and covering her hair with a white scarf to protect it from the misting rain, Emeline Pigott hurried along the empty road.

Reaching the corner of Evans and Arendell, her pace slowed. Before her lay the backwater of the Newport River, and as she made her way along the narrow winding path, she heard the faint night sounds from the water. Her tension gradually ebbed.

Stopping for a minute to retie the slipping head-scarf, she thought she heard a muffled sigh, but she dismissed the sound. It was unlikely that anyone would be out here at this hour. How foolish such thoughts were! Then, in one chilling moment, a hand shot swiftly across her mouth, and a strong arm encircled her waist.

“Don’t scream. There is no one to hear you.” Emeline felt a terrible thrust of fear. He was right. “Nod your head, if you promise not to scream, and I shall drop my hand.” She nodded vigorously.

Standing before her—as if he had either descended from heaven or sprung from hell—stood a tall figure in a long dark cloak. Emeline did not cry out.

“Are you a Confederate sympathizer?” he asked.

She looked at him, realized that he was a Federal naval officer, and didn’t answer. He asked her again more kindly. Now she heard the traces of his Southern accent, and she managed a faint, “Yes, sir.”

“You don’t know me, ma’am. I have relatives in New Bern, and I came to warn the Confederates. The Union commander plans to burn the Trent River Bridge and attack the town.”

Emeline gave a shocked gasp. “When?”

“In twenty-four hours, perhaps less.”

“Where, sir?”

He hesitated but only for a moment. “Our forces will go ashore at the mouth of Slocum’s Creek.” And with that he wheeled and strode off into the darkness. In a few minutes she heard the creak of oarlocks somewhere out on the water.

Suddenly she found herself at the edge of a dim yellow circle of light. As she stumbled and almost fell, her foot encountered something far too yielding to be a log or a piece of driftwood. Sputtering, almost out, a lantern lay overturned on the ground. When she turned up the flame, she was barely able to stifle her scream.

She had stumbled upon a man’s body. The eyes were wide open and staring directly up at her. It was a Yankee seaman who was very dead. Had he encountered the officer in the long dark cloak and become suspicious of his presence here? She realized that the Union officer had been searching for someone to take his warning to the Confederates, seen her, and waited until she reached this desolate spot.

Death and intrigue sometimes went hand in hand, she thought. It was a night when a chance encounter was pointing her life toward a great destiny and perhaps great danger. She shuddered.

Then Emeline straightened her shoulders, and it was as if a more determined young woman emerged from within the girlish figure. Now she had a mission. She must reach the Confederates with the Union officer’s warning. She would take her father’s swiftest horse.

Reaching her home at Calico Creek, she hurried to the stable. “Saddle Duke,” she called out to the stable boy and then headed for the house to change into her riding habit. The dark green jacket set off her creamy skin and auburn hair. As she mounted the big roan a voice at her elbow suddenly spoke and someone grasped the reins.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

For a moment she was afraid it was her father. But it was only her brother, Levi, whose voice already was taking on a similar deep timbre.

“Tell Papa I left to visit Mary Belle at New Bern and will be back in the late afternoon.”

“Emeline, where are you really going?”

“I’ll tell you later. It’s an emergency.” He squeezed her arm affectionately, “Good luck, Em.” She turned the horse toward New Bern.

She had not ridden far when a voice shouted out of the blackness, “Halt!” A rider cantered toward her, and she was terrified that it might be a Yankee. It was only a Confederate picket who let her go. The moon was brighter now, the trail easier to follow.

Her horse whinnied, catching the scent of wood smoke from camp fires borne on the fresh salty wind from the sea, and she asked herself, Our boys or Yankees? She began to keep to the center of the trail so Duke’s feet wouldn’t snap the twigs of the brush at either side. She prayed he wouldn’t whinny again, for though they were safely downwind, if the men who had built the fire didn’t hear her, their horses would. Suddenly Duke whinnied and reared up in fear. Emeline began to talk soothingly, reaching down to pat him. As she did her hand touched that of a man.

Terrified, she forced herself to speak boldly.

“Take your hand off my horse’s bridle,” she said, her voice curt. “You’re endangering the lives of our men with the smoke from your fire.”

It was another Confederate sentry. “One of our girls are you? Well, you might be right, ma’am, if the Yankees weren’t miles away from here.”

“Not so far as you might think,” replied Emeline less sharply, for now that she could see the face of the soldier, her fear subsided. He looked more like a boy with his small pinched features and beardless face. His butternut uniform was shabby, and he wore no overcoat to protect him from the cold. Feeling a sudden wave of sympathy for him, she reached into the saddlebag and gave him her brother’s old woolen gloves. He accepted them gratefully.

“How far am I from the commanding officer’s headquarters?” she asked, explaining that she had an urgent message to deliver.

“’Bout three miles, ma’am. When you reach the big oak take the fork where the trail bears left.”

The clouds thinned, and now she could see the moon—a pale galleon sailing in a wispy trough of clouds. Temporarily the forest trail was drenched by its light. When she reached the fork she was challenged again, this time by an officer who rode out from among a group of Confederates and reined his horse in beside hers. Before he could speak, Emeline demanded to be taken to the commanding officer.

“I’m sorry, but Colonel Taylor doesn’t have time to see you. He’s much too busy,” replied the young captain in a courteous but firm voice.

“If he wishes to avoid another disaster like Roanoke Island, he will find time to see me.” The captain gave her a hard stare, and she flushed realizing her words had been impertinent. But she was tired of the obstacles in her path. Observing her determined gaze and her beauty, the officer smiled and motioned for her to follow. He introduced himself, and together they rode through the woods to the commander’s tent, receiving permission to enter.

Colonel Taylor listened with interest, and then his grey eyes bored into hers as if trying to read her true character. “You might be able to help us a great deal. Would you be willing to gather more information for the Confederacy?”

Surprised and tired, she hesitated.

“Think about it,” he said. “I’m not asking for an immediate answer.”

“The answer is yes. I can tell you that now.”

“Before I accept that, young lady, I warn you that if you are caught with any message on your person, you will be executed as a spy.”

“The Yankees would shoot me, sir?”

“Hang you or shoot you, one or the other. The fact you’re a woman would be no protection.”

“Then I must keep from being caught,” she said gravely, and he nodded.

“I’m not able to ride this far often without attracting attention. How could we solve that?”

“Let me suggest you relay information to your fellow townsman Captain Josiah Pender, or to whomever he recommends.” Emeline nodded, her large black eyes shining with excitement. Before she left the colonel insisted that she have a glass of sherry and a biscuit. He poured the wine himself from a Waterford decanter, and she sat for a few minutes sipping it before the fire while he asked friendly questions about her home and family.

Then his mood changed and he shook his head. “Well, war clouds continue to darken over our coast.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You’re tired, young lady. McRae, accompany Miss Emeline back to Morehead City, or as far as you deem wise.”

McRae did as he was ordered, charming his attractive companion on the way. He was a Virginian and knew many important people in Richmond and Washington. Emeline was fascinated by the stories of intrigue. In the capital city top officials in Lincoln’s cabinet still socialized with those who secretly sympathized with the Confederacy. She had heard her father and his friends talk of how a woman spy had brought information to General Beauregard of the route the Yankees would take to Manassas and Centreville. Because of her the Confederate victory became a rout, and Beauregard boasted that he had known not only who the commander would be but also how many enemy soldiers there would be, to a man!

Emeline Pigott listened enthralled. Yes! She wanted to be a spy.

Not only intelligent and fearless, she also possessed a sense of destiny. Convinced that the purpose of her meeting that night with the officer beside the marsh had led her to this opportunity to help the Confederacy, she acted without hesitating.

Two days later Emeline waked to the steady roar of heavy cannon fire. It came from the direction of New Bern, and she knew the Federal fleet had gone up the Neuse River to attack just below the town. She remembered Captain McRae. His face had been in her thoughts often. They had discussed how he might come to town dressed as a civilian and serve as a contact himself between her and Colonel Taylor. But in a small village the presence of a stranger was always suspect.

On Friday Emeline spent most of the morning doing needle work, but it was not cross-stitch or embroidery. She was cleverly sewing pockets into one of her petticoats. Noon came and she heard her father’s foot...