Ghosts of Gettysburg III

by Mark Nesbitt

  Why would Gettysburg College have so much psychic activity? If one believes in the theory that poltergeists, or “noisy ghosts,” are actually caused by psychokinesis, or mental energy that is somehow transformed into physical energy, then the explanation is simple: the young men and women who inhabit the college merely have a great deal of energy, and some of it is manifested through psychokinesis.

  But just as plausible is the theory that, because of the college’s location on what was once the battlefield (and a graveyard), a multitude of paranormal activities would happen there anyway. Because so many students are there on the site, they have more of a chance of being “in the right place at the right time,” to witness the activity. One must wonder, if this is the case, what happens out on the darkened battlefields after the National Military Park is closed down for the night and the rangers are home safe in bed. A spirits’ holiday perhaps?

  A house on North Washington Street now belonging to the college is named in its official historical records as the Robert Tate house and dates back to 1858. Tax records suggest that the house remained virtually unaltered until 1892, and was altered periodically several times after that. Robert Tate, the original owner, was a harness-maker. His house, being near Old Dorm on the Pennsylvania College campus, was one of the first in the rear of the Union lines on July 1, 1863. Then, as the Federals were driven back in the afternoon, the Tate’s home was in the rear of the Confederate lines. Since Old Dorm was used as a hospital (and since there was a superabundance of wounded after the first day’s fighting), it is also likely that the Tate’s gentle home, as well as others on North Washington Street, became makeshift hospitals.

  And with the large numbers of wounded came the surgeons and the orderlies, walking from patient to helpless patient, from those who recently had been relieved of their limbs, to those about to be. In and out of the door they came and went, up and down the stairs from the operating rooms to the recovery rooms. It seems though, that even with the retreat of their armies, some of the surgeons and their helpers haven’t themselves completely left….

  The house is now used as a resource center for Gettysburg College, and some of the students who sign up to work there…won’t. It’s the footsteps, they say. The constant walking that won’t cease. No, they don’t get paid enough to listen to that at night!

  Even the administrators who work there have their unexplainable tales. A dean working late heard a number of people coming down the stairs. He was shocked, since he thought he was alone in the structure when he returned an hour before to work a few extra hours. It seems he was right. As he turned to confront the crowd apparently descending noisily down the stairs, the sounds suddenly quieted, and he saw no one on the stairs.

  But after dark are not the only hours when the invisible intruders arrive. One administrator remembers coming in early for work one morning in the autumn of 1990. Since they weren’t officially open, she locked the door behind her. As she settled at her desk on the first floor, she heard movements and walking upstairs. She didn’t go upstairs at first and just assumed that the dean had arrived at work even earlier than she.

  Some time passed. She had some business upstairs and ascended to the second floor. Expecting to say good morning to the dean, she was perplexed when she realized that no one was on the second floor. As she stood there, she distinctly heard the downstairs door—which she had still not unlocked—open and then shut as if someone was leaving.

  She went downstairs, and, of course, there was no one there, and no one outside the door. Finally, at 9:30 a.m., the dean arrived at the office and took his first steps through the door. Who then, she wondered—and still to this day wonders—was the mysterious presence wandering the house just a few feet above her head? Some conscientious surgeons, perhaps, returning to check on patients long dead; surgeons who have finally learned that all their efforts at saving the men were in vain, since Death invariably makes the final scalpel cut of all.

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  Chapter 14: Arabesques Upon Water

  I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds.

  —Bhagavad Gita

  A little over a mile west of Gettysburg is where it all started. Confederate infantry advancing from Cashtown bumped into Union cavalry on a ridge. It was just a few, well-spaced, dismounted horsemen and some stretched-out foot soldiers popping away at each other. But it would escalate and turn the land around Gettysburg into fields of death that have become ghost-gardens where long-gone spirits bloom unbidden.

  Frederick Herr ran his brick tavern and “publick house” for travelers along the Cashtown-to-Gettysburg road. His family had owned the land for so long that the ridge upon which the tavern stood was known as “Herr’s Ridge.” For years, early “tourists” and businessmen, weary from their travels, found rest and solace by the small corner bar in the front room and in a game of chance elsewhere in the building.

  The building was built in 1815, the same year Napoleon fought at Waterloo. Thomas Sweeney owned the building first. It was called the Sweeney Stand. In 1827 Sweeney went bankrupt and in 1828 Frederick Herr bought it, improved it, and held it until he died in 1868.

  Numerous tales have come and gone of the old building and its inhabitants and owners. Frederick Herr made his own whiskey. One of the occupants of the building was known for his ability to counterfeit money on a press in the basement of the old structure. There was David Lewis, a.k.a. “Lewis the Robber,” who frequented the old tavern and was subsequently hanged in the 1840s for some misadventures no doubt associated with his nickname. There are stories of the upstairs being used, at one time, as a brothel.

  But for the years the old tavern served passers-by with food, drink and overnight shelter, life was calm on the pastoral ridge just west of the tiny crossroads town that could be seen in the distance. Then Hell made a house call.

  Sometimes it seems that certain places have been marked by fate for renown. This of course, can be seen perfectly in retrospect. But the collision of two great armies outside of Gettysburg was an accident. Neither commander wanted to fight here; neither pointed to Gettysburg—nor to Mr. Herr’s tavern—and said, “Here’s where the greatest battle of the war will be fought.” Once the battle was joined, however, the two armies began the slaughter with a hideous will. No one ever thought that the battle begun around Frederick Herr’s brick tavern would itself become a Waterloo.

  Videttes of the Federal cavalry under Brig. Gen. John Buford encamped the night of June 30, 1863, along Herr’s Ridge. The next morning they were pushed back as Maj. Gen. Henry Heth’s Confederate infantry advanced from Cashtown. From Herr’s Ridge, Heth launched attacks upon the cavalry, and then upon the Union infantry of Maj. Gen. John Reynolds who replaced them. Artillery shells from near-sighted Willie Pegram’s Confederate guns whizzed over and past the old tavern, and Lt. John Calefs Federal guns replied, sending their shells to explode near the ancient brick walls. One exploded in a corner of a second floor room. Where weary travelers once lay down to rest for the next day’s journey, dying soldiers collapsed in heaps to rest for their journey to the next world.

  All day the killing and dying went on as Confederates attacked from west of the tavern and barn—then from the north and finally the east—toward the Union lines closer to Gettysburg. Robert E. Lee rode past Frederick Herr’s tavern, as did generals A. P. Hill and James Longstreet and dozens of other high and low ranking officers. It was probably just beyond the tavern, a little closer to Seminary Ridge, where Lee realized that his men were winning the battle at that point, and so made his decision to continue the action, making the name “Gettysburg” as famous and imperishable as his own.

  After the fighting died down, the tavern and barn filled rapidly with the cast-offs of battle, and the surgeons came with their scalpels and saws, and the gravediggers closely following in the pale footsteps of the grim scythe-wielder, Death.1 The 33rd Virginia, as well as the 11th and 26th North Carolina Infantry regiments, left half a dozen men buried in the hat
ed Yankee clay around Frederick Herr’s tavern. A traveler to the tavern shortly after the battle wrote that he thought a company of soldiers was “put up” after the battle in the tavern. He and his companions used the water in the well of the tavern, but after a while they began to get sick, and the water began to smell. Thinking there were dead frogs in it, they pumped it out: “By and by here comes up a little piece of wrist and thumb….”2

  Frederick Herr’s tavern was eventually sold and became the Reynolds Hotel, then, by 1910, a school of music operated by Maude Bucher. Later it was private housing. Finally, in the tavern’s long and storied history it was purchased by Steve Wolf, who began the laborious task of restoring the building to its original look and use as a “tavern-stand and publick house.”

  True to the pattern of increased paranormal activities during a restoration, strange, unexplainable events began to occur. One of the restorers, as she began removing wallpaper in the old tavern, began to feel what she described as a distinctly unfriendly presence. Once, as she was working alone along the stairs, she felt a rough shove, as if someone unseen were trying to push her down the stairs. Frightened, and a bit angry, she unconsciously shouted—to no one—”I’m just trying to turn it back into a tavern again!” After that confrontation with the invisible entity, she said she felt accepted. Other than a few more “feelings,” she never had another threatening event.

  The Herr Tavern as it appeared in 1882

  One day Steve, the owner, and another fellow were standing at opposite ends of the bar. No one was in the bar at the time, but both men looked to the center of the empty bar, for they distinctly heard someone ask for a beer. The puzzlement displayed on their faces convinced them that they had each heard the thirsty spirit of a tavern customer apparently long since departed.

  Once, as they were relating this weird story, a disbelieving patron ridiculed them. His laughter was abruptly halted, however, when he felt what he swore was a hand on his shoulder pushing him off the stool where he sat.

  Unexplainable activities at the tavern are commonplace. They have been reported by employees and patrons of the bed and breakfast. Much of the activity centers around the two front rooms.

  A family of three was sleeping in Room 1. The woman was sound asleep; her son was sleeping on a cot right next to her. She was awakened by someone grabbing her hand and shaking it. Thinking it was her son, she turned immediately to him, but he was sound asleep, facing away from her toward the wall. She slept uneasily the rest of the night with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

  The light at the top of the stairs on the second floor has been seen flicking on, then off. Occasionally, the employees will turn off lights as they exit the building for the night; looking back, they see some of the lights still burning and must reenter the tavern—some of them reluctantly—to extinguish the lights once again.

  Much of the activity reported is audible: chairs are heard moving around in adjacent rooms, sometimes sounding as if they are being thrown about. One patron of the Bed and Breakfast asked who had been moving furniture in the attic in the middle of the night. Of course, no one had, and when the manager was requested to inspect the garret, nothing had been touched.

  One of the most violent times of activity was when two women were doing a photo shoot on ghosts for a tabloid newspaper. Apparently, there wasn’t enough psychic activity for them and they “spiced” things up; when the article finally appeared, it had some fabrications. On the morning they were to check out, some of the employees thought they were having a fight in Room 1: it sounded as if they were throwing furniture at each other. The employees checked the guest register. The pair had checked out hours before. The manager and employees ascended to the room. When they opened the door, in spite of the tremendous racket, everything remained untouched, exactly where it had been placed when last inspected.

  At breakfast one morning, one of the guests asked if the tavern does door checks, having heard her doorknob rattle in the middle of the night. One after another the other guests in the dining room piped up and said, yes, they had heard their doorknob rattle, all at about 3:00 a.m. Needless to say, no one at the tavern checks doors at 3:00 in the morning; no living being employed there, anyway.

  The manager’s first experience with whomever it is that stalks through the tavern was on a Sunday morning. No one was checked into the bed and breakfast at the time, about 10:30 in the morning. From upstairs came the heavy pounding of boots on the floor. Her first thought was that someone had come quietly in the door while she had been distracted. She bravely “armed” herself with the closest thing she could find—a heavy water pitcher—and ascended the stairs to confront the intruder. Expecting to see a large, booted man around any corner, she cautiously, systematically checked everywhere: in every room, behind every door, behind every shower curtain, and found not a soul. She returned to her work downstairs, worked for twenty minutes, and had nearly convinced herself in that time that she must have imagined the relentless stomping. Suddenly, from upstairs, came the heavy sound of a booted man walking. She distinctly heard him walk, pause, walk some more, then pause again. Finally, the restless, rogue entity ceased its walking.

  Doors already locked are heard to close and lock again: a couple in Room 4 thought someone had walked in on them in the middle of the night. When they jumped out of bed to face the intruder, no one was there and the door remained locked. Another time the manager and her husband were stranded at the tavern by a heavy snowstorm. They decided to make the best of it and ensconced themselves for the night in Room 5. At 1:00 a.m. they were awakened when they heard the locked door to Room 5 close and lock again. The husband was certain that the door had been locked when they had ascended, and so the sound was puzzling. He checked the door again to ensure it was indeed locked. At 9:00 a.m., the couple heard the locked door below them open and close, and heard the distinctive sound of the latch falling in place. It was as if, 130 years after his death, an unseen innkeeper was still securing his property.

  Doors locked after business hours, when checked one last time, will be found unlocked, as if someone, somewhere, were expecting a late arriving guest.

  One night a woman staying in Room 3 was angry. “I thought you didn’t allow children here,” she complained to the management. “Someone has a baby in Room 4.” She had heard a baby crying and a woman singing softly to it to sooth it. She distinctly heard the woman and the baby walk past her door and into Room 4. At that moment the man in Room 4 emerged. He and his wife had no child in their room and even invited them in to check. And the manager assured the woman that no one with a baby had checked into the bed and breakfast.

  Previous research, however, seems to have indicated that Frederick and Susan Herr had tragically lost a beloved baby to some childhood illness.

  The manager was working away from the bar area late one night after everything was closed up. She heard the bar door open and close and the water turn on. Thinking it was the owner coming in for a late snack, she decided to play a practical joke and scare her boss. She took off her shoes to sneak up on him. When she got to the bar, she flipped on the light, but no one was at the sink; the water was off; all the doors were closed and locked. Her little prank backfired. The only one she managed to frighten was herself.

  It is indeed a distinctive, unmistakable sound of water running in the stainless steel sink. A waitress has heard it so many times while alone in the tavern that she ignores it by now, realizing that when she checks it, she will, as in all the times past, find no water running. It’s as if to quench some invisible thirst, invisible water runs.

  The kitchen seems to retain a lot of unexplainable activity. The pastry chef said she once heard what sounded like an entire metal tray of dishes being dropped and shattered, but inspection around the kitchen indicated that not a thing had fallen. Later she heard the sound of pots and pans being dropped into the sink. When she went to the sink, she found no pots and pans there.

  Modern machines and convenie
nces are affected, as if someone who cares about the old building is experimenting with them to make sure they are not harmful to the place. One night the electric credit card machine began spewing several inches of tape on its own. Televisions have come on by themselves in the middle of the night in Rooms 1 and 4, awakening the guests. Heaters have been turned on and telephones, which are nightly turned off to incoming calls, ring or have message lights burning when no message exists.

  Most of the people who have worked in the tavern and have experienced some of the entity activity agree that there are both male and female presences: at least two and possibly three entities.

  They seem to be friendly—even intimate—with the employees, for a number of them have heard their own names called out. One waitress heard someone calling her name from upstairs. Answering to the beckoning, she went upstairs to find no one, guests or employees, on that floor. Another waitress heard her name called from upstairs. It sounded, she said, as if someone was calling her name through a long tunnel. It sounded so weird, in fact, that instead of finding the source upstairs, she ran from the building.

  The dishwasher came out of the kitchen to confront the manager one night. “What?” he asked, having heard his name called and assuming it was the manager who wanted him. She, however, hadn’t called him. Two more times he emerged from the kitchen, growing more agitated each time, as each time he was told the same thing: no one—at least on this side of reality—had called him. Apparently, the name-calling continued: the manager said she never saw him wash dishes so fast.

  The sightings people have had in Herr Tavern seem to confirm the dual entities’ presence. The manager says that often you’ll see something out of the corner of your eye. When you turn to focus, it goes away.