The battle of Shiloh began on Sunday morning, April 6, l862. It lasted two days and was fought all around a small log church called "The Shiloh Meeting House," hence the name of the battle. At the end of two days of bloodletting, the Union casualties would number 13,047, and the Confederates would suffer 10,694 in losses. For many of the soldiers who fought in this battle it would be their first time to 'see the elephant.' And many would come to change their notion that war was a glorious thing. About the battle, one Confederate soldier would write: "..too shocking, too horrible. God grant that I may never be the partaker in such scenes again...When released from this I shall ever be an advocate of peace."

Throughout the night after the first day of battle, the wounded lay between the lines. A cold wind, bringing torrents of rain, swept over the dark field. Bolts of lightning lit up the horrible scene, and every fifteen minutes the shells from the Union gunboats on the river would come screaming through the sky, sometimes landing among the wounded. A small pond north of the Peach Orchard was turned red by the blood of the wounded and dying who had come to bathe their wounds and quench their thirst. Thereafter, it would be called the "Bloody Pond."

Some of the heaviest fighting took place in a sunken road bed, where dead bodies thickly carpeted the ground. The Confederates amassed their cannons across from here in an effort to oust the Federal foes. It would become known as the "Hornets Nest."

When the battle was over, the weary Confederate army retreated back to Corinth, Ms., leaving the Federals in posession of the field, along with the unpleasant task of burying the dead. The Union soldiers were buried by companies, while many of the Confederate soldiers were buried in mass burial trenches. Some graves were so hastily and shallowly dug that limbs could be seen protruding from the earth for several days afterwards.

The row of cannons across from the "Hornets Nest" are cold and silent today, the pond no longer red, and the burial trenches are carpeted with grass. Is it any wonder that a visitor to this battlefield might find it a place of solemn reflection? Indeed, Shiloh holds a certain fascination and mystique all its own, described by many visitors as a place where the quiet stillness descends upon you like a thick cloud.
 
 

It was a warm Spring day. And I was pleased to find there were very few visitors to the park that day, as I had come to take photos and didn't want tourists in the shots. I had been to the park on several occasions and knew my way around pretty well. I parked the car along the road, not wanting to accidently capture it in my photos, and walked a short distance to what was called the "Bloody Pond."

I soon became intent upon focusing and capturing just the right angles of light, so the noise did not register at first. As I swung my camera back to the opposite side of the pond, still trying to focus the lens, I heard a splashing sound. My first thought was "darn! a tourist has happened by." Hopefully, they would stay out of the camera's view until I'd taken my shot.

Too late -- through the lens I saw a man bending over the water's edge. As he came into clear focus, I noticed immediately that there was something odd about him. He was not dressed like a tourist but was wearing strange garb. The floppy hat, the loose fitting pants -- I had seen them before on the reenactors that had portrayed a living history camp here at the park. I decided it would make a great shot if I could capture him completely motionless. Still looking through the lens, I watched as he dipped a battered tin cup into the water and drew the cup to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered the cup and as if suddenly becoming aware of my presence, he stared straight into the camera lens. It caught me off guard momentarily, but my nervous finger pressed the button and captured the shot. As I did so, I dropped the lens cap, and fearing it had fallen in the water, I bent over to retrieve it. When I stood up and looked over to where the reenactor had been, he was already some distance away -- making his way into a grove of trees.

I skirted around the pond quickly, hoping he might return and I could ask him to pose for a few shots. Although I waited there for a short time, listening for his footsteps in the dry underbrush of the woods, he had seemingly vanished into thin air.

As I walked back towards my car, I decided I'd find out where the reenactors were encamped and ask if they might agree to having their photos taken. I stopped in at the Visitors' Center to inquire. When I made my request to the park ranger seated behind the counter, he looked puzzled. As I relayed my story to him, he knowingly smiled and nodded his head. "So, you've seen our thirsty soldier then?"

Realizing that I hadn't mentioned the part about the person I saw dipping his cup into the water, I asked: "How did you know he was thirsty --that he was drinking from the water at the pond?"

In a very matter-of-fact tone, he replied: "He's been seen there before by visitors --always at the pond getting a drink of water." 
"You mean he's not a reenactor then but a....?"
It finally dawned on me what the park ranger was telling me. 
"Call him what you want, ma'am...a restless spirit, a ghost -- we have a few here, but he seems to want to be seen by the visitors more than the others."

I hurried away from the park with my prize roll of film, anxious to see what I had captured. I was sorely disappointed when I looked down at the developed photos and found nothing there but the edge of the pond. Since that time, I have returned to that spot several times in hopes of catching another glimpse of the thirsty soldier but to no avail. Or perhaps he is there -- but, like my camera... I am only seeing the water's edge of the pond.