Ghosts of the Southern Mountains and Appalachia

The Letter

The Letter South Mountain, Maryland James Ramsay stood in the fading sunlight. He was surrounded by the bodies of the Confederate dead and, who knows, perhaps their spirits. The battle of South Mountain was over, for the Confederates had come out of a thin line of woods scarcely two hours before, helpless and with empty muskets. His own New York regiment, taking cruel advantage of the situation, had shot them down as they stood there not twenty feet away. Most of the dead Confederates were from the coastal district of North Carolina. They wore "butternut " uniforms, the color ranging all the way from deep coffee-brown to the whitish brown of ordinary dust. He looked down into the poor, pinched faces, worn with marching and scant fare and his anger toward them died. There was no "secession" in those rigid forms nor in those fixed 91 The Letter 93 eyes staring blankly at the sky. It was not "their" war anymore. Some of the Union soldiers were taking the finer powder from the cartridge boxes of the dead and priming their muskets with it. Except for that, each body lay untouched as it had fallen. Darkness came on quickly before there was time to bury the dead. Ramsay and his comrades unrolled the blankets of the rebels and went about covering each body. The air was full of the fragrance of pennyroyal, an herb bruised by the tramping of a hundred feet, and he would always remember it as part of this day. It was Sunday, September 14, 1862, but the air was chilly, and after munching on some of their cooked rations and listening to the firing which continued until about nine o'clock that evening, the men drew their blankets over them and went to sleep. It was a strange sight, thought Ramsay. Stretched out here in the narrow field lay living Yankee and dead Confederate, side by side, nor could one be told from the other. Sometime after midnight, James Ramsay awoke very thirsty. He reached for his water flask to find it empty, and then he recalled that he had forgotten to fill it at the stream. He must have said this aloud to himself for the figure next to him rose on one elbow and extended his own water flask. Ramsay drank from it gratefully, thanked him, and was about to lie back upon his arms when a voice said, "I have a letter in my breast pocket. Would you see that it gets to my wife?" "Ofcourse," replied Ramsay, and exhausted he fell asleep once more. He awoke at daylight as he The Letter 95 had for so many dawns during the past few months and began to recall where he was and what had happened the day before while he waited for the rest of the camp to stir. Then he remembered his buddy next to him who had given him a drink during the night. What was it the man had said? He had asked him to carry a letter to his wife, that was it. Poor fellow . Like all of them, he knew that each day might so easily be his last. Ramsay glanced over at him curiously to see who it was. Then he realized that the man on his right was not from his own regiment but was one of the dead Confederates they had not had time to bury the night before. It must be the fellow asleep on the other side, then. He turned. This, too, was a dead Confederate. Nor was there any water flask on the body. He could not believe his eyes. He was certain it had been no dream for he clearly remembered the man raising up to give him water. One thing would tell him. He peeled the blanket back from the Confederate and reached into his breast pocket. In it was a letter addressed to "Mrs. John Carpenter." He opened it and began to read: "My dearest wife, I think of you daily and in the event I am not able to return to tell you. I want you to know that ..." Ramsay read no further. He was not a superstitious man, but he knew that his experience was too real to discount. He would never forget the night he had met the spirit of a Confederate...