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The Last of the First - Valley Forge, PA |
| Since the following story takes place in Valley Forge, you might be wondering why it appears here in a site devoted to the ghosts of New Hope. Originally, I had intended to write about "Clara" - a sad, but terrifying New Hope "ex-resident" a number of friends and I "met" recently - and I promise, she will make her appearance on these pages soon . . . I have to do a bit more research first. She will be worth it - depending, of course, on what I find out and if I'm allowed to use it. As for the story you're about to read, all I can say is if it hadn't been for what I experienced at Valley Forge, I don't think my "meeting" with Clara would have been quite so spectacular. Both occurred on the same day, only hours apart . . . and I'm sure that the first left me a bit more "accessible" for the second. Perhaps a bit too much . . . but that's another story. It began on the first "official" Sunday of Spring. Although it still didn't feel too spring-like, after the winter of 2002-03 (my first in the great Northeast, I might quickly add) I needed to get out into the fresh air and wide-open spaces. When a friend suggested visiting Valley Forge, I literally jumped at the change. Although the day started off chilly, it had warmed up by the time we got to the site of the main camp of the Continental Army and the walkways were filled with happy tourists, pets on leashes, joggers, inline-skaters, and young couples pushing baby-strollers. It was all very pleasant and my friend and I joined the "tourists" - reading information placards and wandering through the restored cabins where the soldiers had lived . . . and occasionally died. Not surprising, given the history of the place, I did get a few "feelings." I know there have been ghostly sightings in Valley Forge: From images of men in tattered Colonial dress outlined against the hills at sunset to the flicker of ghostly fires. I didn't see either the fires or the solitary watchers . . . and what drew my attention wasn't supernatural. Downhill from the first group of cabins is a raised concrete platform on which a number of free-standing walls have been erected. Behind the first brace of walls is a second, behind them, a building. My first thought was that the structure might be a stage where historical dramas are performed during the summer months. My second was to go down and get a closer look. Normally, I doubt that my curiosity would have been aroused . . . but something kept tugging at me to go down that hill. As you may have guessed by now, I give in to "tugs." Fortunately, my friend was curious about the structure, too. To be honest, I still have no idea what the structure is used for. There are indications that its currently undergoing some sort of construction/reconstruction . . . but I came away from the whole "adventure" still wondering why I bothered. My friend and I decided to follow an access road back to the walkway . . . only to discover that the road emptied onto the park's highway, no pedestrian footpath in sight, and if we wanted to go back to playing tourist (and not road-kill) we'd have to climb the hill. Oh well, it wasn't a particularly steep climb and, if I say so myself, I am in pretty good shape physically. At least, I thought so before I started the climb. I hadn't gone more than a few yards when I began struggling for breath and could barely put one foot in front of the other. I stumbled twice and each time wanted nothing more than to collapse where I was and not get up. The third time I stumbled I understood what was happening. "He died here," I told my friend. "He was trying to get over this hill for some reason - and he tried so hard, but couldn't make it. He fell here and froze to death." My friend nodded. The longer I stood in that spot, the stronger my impressions became: He was sixteen when he died, a member of the Continental Army. His clothes were in tattered and even though he had no feeling in his feet or lower legs, he kept struggling to get up that hill until his body simply gave out. I pictured him holding a musket against his chest when he fell, face first, into the icy snow. My friend, as you may have guessed, is used to my behavior. He said he didn't feel anything when I asked him to stand in the spot, and I was surprised to discover that I didn't either when I bent down to touch the patch of grass. I wondered if he, whoever the young man had been, had only wanted someone to known that he'd been there and, once that was accomplished, felt free to move on. It sounded reasonable - if you accept any of this, that is - but I still couldn't shake the sorrow and frustration he felt by not making it to the top the hill. It bothered me so much I literally bolted from the spot and crested the hill myself. "I made it." With those words echoing inside my head, I found myself looking downslope to a spot some hundred yards away. There wasn't anything there that I could see - just a grass-covered stretch next to a tree - but I started walking toward it . . . leaving my friend behind. I thought I was moving at a relatively easy pace, not too fast, not too slow, but my friend tells me I was almost running full tilt. When I got to "the spot" it felt as though I'd slammed into a brick wall and I heard "I'm back . . . an' I got meat." That explained it. When my friend showed up a few minutes later, I told him that the young solider had, unknowingly on my part, borrowed "me" so he could make it back to his regiment - with the rabbit he'd shot out in the woods. He'd been part of "The First," although at that point, I had no idea the First of what. I found out when we finally made it back to the footpath. Another information placard stated that "the spot" where I'd lost my ghostly escort had been part of the site where the First Regiment of the Infantry of Massachuset had been bivouacked during that hard winter of 1777-78. The young man who had died trying to bring food back to his cabin-mates had finally found peace. I hadn't anticipated being "appropriated," in that way, but I am glad I was able to help set a soul to rest. Later that same day - I'd experience the same sort of appropriation with a much darker outcome. But, as I've already said . . . that's another story. Back to Index Page |
