Manassas National Battlefield Park
PRINCE WILLIAM COUNTY
A friend of mine does Civil War reenactments, and he was at Manassas, Va., while a tour guide was enlightening a group of little kids. “He was telling them about how the 5th New York Zouaves had been wiped out right near where they were standing at Second Manassas,” my friend said. “He asked them if they knew what a Zouave uniform looked like,” my friend went on, “and one little girl said they wore baggy red pants and blue jackets and funny red hats. When the guide asked how she knew that, she pointed to a cannon at the top of a nearby hill and said, ‘One of them was standing up there.’ “We looked, but nobody was there.”
—Jim Goldsworthy, Cumberland Times-News
BACK IN THE 1990s when I was running Living History magazine, I heard any number of stories from Civil War reenactors about ghosts on the Manassas Battlefield, and, if memory serves, many of them described spectral formations glimpsed in the misty darkness of predawn. I also talked or corresponded with a couple of psychic researchers in those days, and they confirmed their impressions of lingering spiritual energies at the site of the first major clash between Union and Confederate forces.
It certainly makes sense that if any battlefield were haunted it would be Manassas. After all, it was the site of two bloody confrontations within the space of a year—the second one far larger than the first—and thus has a double layer of psychic trauma associated with it.
Like most Civil War battles, each of the ones fought at this location has two names, one bestowed by the North and one by the South, a convention that can cause some confusion for novice historians or those with only a casual interest in the subject. Union commanders usually named battles for the nearest rivers, streams, creeks, or “runs,” while Confederate leaders generally named them for towns or railroad junctions. It is thus that the two battles fought at this site are variously known as the First Battle of Manassas and the Second Battle of Manassas for nearby Manassas Junction (a practice often adopted to this day by those sympathetic to the Rebel cause), and as First Battle of Bull Run and the Second Battle of Bull Run for a neighboring stream (the official names given them by the U.S. government). We will use the former term here not because of sympathies one way or the other but because it corresponds with the name of the park associated with it.
The First Battle of Manassas was fought July 21, 1861, by formations of enthusiastic, brightly uniformed volunteers who on both sides were confident that their opponents would turn and run and that they would that day witness the end of the war. Despite a favorable outlook for the 35,000-strong Union forces early in the day, some 32,500 Confederate troops ultimately drove their opponents from the field in rout. Credit for much of this victory has been accorded to Brigadier General Thomas Jackson, who that day earned the nom de guerre “Stonewall.” Both fledgling armies were left disorganized and bloodied, with Northern casualties of 460 killed, 1,124 wounded, and 1,312 missing or captured, and Southern casualties of 387 killed, 1,582 wounded, and 13 missing. Many illusions as to the nature and duration of the war were shattered that day in the chaos, fear, and death of combat.
The Second Battle of Manassas was fought August 28–30, 1862, between experienced armies that were considerably larger, with some sixty-two thousand men clad in Union blue facing fifty thousand in Confederate gray over an area of more than five thousand acres. It concluded in a solid Southern victory, taking the Confederacy to its high-water mark; the prospects for the rebel cause would only become steadily bleaker over the ensuing three years. Casualties far exceeded those of the earlier battle, and for the Union were about ten thousand killed and wounded and for the Confederacy about thirteen hundred killed and seven thousand wounded.
It is little wonder then that so many ghost stories should be associated with the place, especially in the decades since 1940, when the park was officially established by the National Park Service. These have been so widespread as to periodically catch the attention of various local news organizations.
“Visitors … have reported seeing house lights where there is not a house, smelled the scent of black powder and once ‘the smell of burning flesh,’” reported the Washington Post in a 1989 article, for example. “Park employees have also testified to sudden drops in temperature on muggy days and baffling noises in the battlefield Stone House.” Any number of accounts of personal experiences, sightings, or investigations can be found in numerous articles, books, and online postings.
Many of the most prolific and convincing ghost stories involve the 5th New York Volunteer Infantry regiment, dubbed “Duryée’s Zouaves,” a Union unit that in August 1862, according to historian Bruce Catton, “lost 117 men killed and 170 wounded, out of 490 present—the highest percentage of loss, in killed, suffered by any Federal regiment in one battle during the entire war.” In the years especially since the park was established, many people have reported seeing one or more apparitions clad in the distinctive uniforms of this ill-fated formation at various locations in the park, especially near the monument dedicated to the fallen soldiers.
“There, at dusk, images of members of the 5th New York Zouaves—who were cut to pieces during the Second Battle of Manassas—have been seen beckoning by the woods at the western end of the park, clad in their red pantaloons, white leggings, and nightcap hats,” wrote Diane McLellan in Washingtonian magazine in a characteristic description of what other witnesses have attested to. Variations on this story have involved a headless Zouave searching for his head, a lost companion, or possibly his way off the battlefield he marched onto so long before.
Stories concerning the Stone House, built in 1824 and run as an inn for drovers before the railroad largely supplanted them, are even more disturbing and gruesome. Used as a Confederate hospital during the Second Battle of Manassas, an account from a northern surgeon at the site states that Union troops were not just neglected but deliberately treated badly at the facility and that many of them died lingering or degrading deaths as a result.
“These inexperienced surgeons performed operations upon our men in a most horrible manner,” testified Dr. J.M. Homiston of Brooklyn. “The young surgeons, who seemed to delight in hacking butchering [our men], were not, it would seem, permittde to perform any operations upon the rebel wounded.”
With trauma like that associated with the place, it should not be surprising that so many reports of paranormal phenomena are associated with the Stone House, and written accounts from at least the early twentieth century claim that it is cursed in addition to anything else. It would seem that some sort of unquiet spirits occupy the place, and incidents people have reported include hearing footsteps in the unoccupied rooms above them and having glasses knocked off their faces.
I have only visited Manassas National Battlefield Park once, and that was relatively recently, in November 2006, with my daughter Hayley, grandma Val, and grandpa Jim. I will not say it is unfortunate that it has been unseasonably bright and sunny during my visits to a great many of the places described in this book. But, suffice it to say, such seemingly ideal conditions have certainly allowed me to assess the odds of various sites being haunted without atmospheric distractions like wind, rain, cold, darkness, or any number of other factors that could enhance the appearance that they are. And so, for a day near the end of the year, it was strikingly warm and clear during our trip to the battlefield.
After touring the exhibits in the Henry Hill Visitor Center and watching an orientation film titled “Manassas: End of Innocence,” we decided to walk the one-mile loop trail that meanders across the rolling terrain corresponding to where the first battle was fought. During the walk we passed a number of interesting features, including a recreation of the Henry House, which had been blown up during the battle—along with the old woman living in it, who became the first civilian casualty of the war. We were also able to look northwest from a point on the trail to the Stone House, the most characteristic landmark at the park, which was used as a field hospital for soldiers
of both sides during each of the battles. It was all very pleasant and informative (especially the revelation that the remains of the now-vanished village of Groveton lie within the park, a whole separate source of potential investigation for ghosthunters).
It was not until we reached the end of the trail, back again near the visitor center, that I spotted something that gave me some pause. It was a statue of Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson that had been erected in the 1930s and was in a style that I recognized but knew was not familiar to most Americans. In it, the mounted Jackson was almost ludicrously muscled, his chest outthrust in a heroic pose, his overall appearance suggesting Superman in a kepi and beard. He was, in fact, depicted in a style of art frequently characterized as “heroic realism” that is most commonly associated with the Nazi, Communist, and other totalitarian regimes of the 20th century. It had been erected, I suspected—considering the era when it had been dedicated—by people who, like Jackson himself, had attitudes toward civil war, race, and any number of other subjects completely alien to my own. It, more than anything else at the Manassas Battlefield, gave me a sense that the dead might yet have cause to walk the ground where they fought a century-and-a-half before, the issues for which they died still unresolved.
Statue of Stonewall Jackson
CHAPTER 5
Historic Occoquan
OCCOQUAN
There still are a number of old houses and buildings at Occoquan which have survived the damages of time and nature … Also surviving, and quite active today, are a host of ghosts from Occoquan’s past, so many, in fact, that it almost seems there is a haunt of one kind or another in just about every other building.
—L. B. Taylor Jr., “A Village Full of Spectral Visions”
DURING THE TIME WE HAVE LIVED in northern Virginia, my wife and I have visited Occoquan, an old and storied riverside village seven miles due south of our house, perhaps a half dozen times. It is surprisingly close for such a historic place, and always fun to walk around in and have a drink at, but is outside the sphere of our day-to-day activities, and years often go by between visits.
In the seventeen years that we have lived just up the road from the village, of course, we have driven past it hundreds of times on Ox Road, a historic thoroughfare that, from where we pick it up, runs north into Fairfax and south through Occoquan to an entry point onto I-95 that is convenient for trips to points south.
When my kids were young, I used to explain to them that the town was named for the schools of octopus that would migrate up through Chesapeake Bay and into inland waterways like the Occoquan River. As we would speed over the bridge that passes over both the river and the town, I would tell them to keep their eyes open for the octopuses frisking through the water below and leaping through it like eight-armed dolphins.
My youngest daughter, Hayley, was always a good sport about it all, and invariably claimed to see the tentacular beasts as they breached the water on their spirited romps. My oldest daughter, Lindsey, who might not have actually had a sense of humor when she was growing up, may never have truly looked to see if the creatures were there, preferring to indignantly insist that they could not be.
Ghost stories, presumably, would have not met with much more approval from Lindsey, and—if they were good enough—might very well have unnecessarily scared the hell out of Hayley. But there are ghost stories aplenty associated with Occoquan, and it would not be stretching the case much to say I might have been able to tell a different one every time we drove past the waterfront village.
“Occoquan” actually means “at the end of the water” in the language of the Doeg Indians, the aboriginal inhabitants of the area, who subsisted by fishing the local waters, hunting for the ducks, geese, and other waterfowl, and by growing corn and other vegetables in the fertile riparian soil. They were there when the first English colonists explored the area and occupied it until near the end of the 17th century, when they abruptly disappeared, probably as the result of epidemic disease, genocide, or forced migration.
Settlers, fortunately, did not let the premium location go to waste, and it soon grew into a significant commercial and industrial community that made full use of its proximity to Chesapeake Bay. A warehouse for tobacco was built in the 1730s, and the community grew steadily over the following decades. By the end of the century, Occoquan was home to forges, water-driven grist mills, saw mills, cotton mills, bakeries, shipyards, and numerous storehouses, as well as dwellings of many sorts. One of its most significant industrial sites was the Merchant’s Mill, the first automated grist mill in the country, which could be operated by a single man and used to remove grain from ships and barges, process it into flour, and return it to the vessels for transport to locations throughout the Americas. It operated for 175 years, until it was destroyed in 1916 by a fire that ravaged the town.
That fire, along with silting in the river, ruined Occoquan as an industrial and commercial district. It survived, however, and today has an economy based largely on weekend tourism, which it serves through numerous restaurants, galleries, boutiques, jewelry stores, and a marina. And many of the historic buildings in which those businesses are located are reputed to be haunted.
About midway on Mill Street, the main thoroughfare along the river on which most of the town’s restaurants and shops are located, is the Occoquan Inn, which has one of the greatest reputations for being haunted. It is a very old establishment, and its middle section and brick fireplace are part of a residence that was originally built in 1810 and which its owners opened up to travelers, so that it gradually became known as an inn. Today, it is a fine-dining restaurant, and is believed to be haunted by the last of the Doeg Indians to dwell in the vicinity of the village. According to legend, an unnamed Indian had an inordinate interest in the innkeeper’s wife and one night snuck into the inn with an eye toward visiting the object of his affection, but was found out by the innkeeper, who shot him dead. Since then, visitors have periodically reported seeing his likeness in the smoke issuing forth from the building’s chimney and at various places within the inn, particularly in the upstairs ladies’ restroom, where he has startled a number of women who have seen his face in the mirror.
My wife and I had our own odd experience at the Occoquan Inn in September 2007, when we had dinner there to celebrate our anniversary. Whether it was indicative of a ghostly presence I am really not sure.
The restaurant was not crowded, with no more than two of the other tables occupied at any given time, and we were sitting at a corner table in one of the Inn’s little dining areas, so we had a good deal of privacy. Both the food and the service were good, and we enjoyed our champagne and each other’s company throughout most of our meal without noticing anything out of the ordinary.
Toward the end of the meal, however, we heard something that caught our attention, and almost simultaneously looked up at the spot on the ceiling above us from which the sound seemed to be coming. There, just beyond the intervening layer of plaster, we could distinctly hear what sounded like the pitter-patter of little feet, scratching, and other activities too obscure to clearly identify.
At the time, we thought these sounds might indicate rodent inhabitants of the inn, although we were by no means certain. We didn’t say anything to the restaurant staff, both because it enhanced our visit rather than detracted from it and because we did not want to unleash any sort of retribution against any little animal that might have been making its home in the inn. Upon reflection of the inn’s haunted reputation, however, we had to reassess to some extent what we had heard and wonder if it might have indeed been something paranormal. I couldn’t help but recall the classic H.P. Lovecraft horror story, “Dreams in the Witch House,” in which a Colonial-era house is haunted by, among other things, the rat-like familiar of an ancient sorceress.
Numerous other buildings in Occoquan are reputed to be haunted as well.
The 18th-century house at 206 Mill Street, for example, which faces the river and the old town common, is c
urrently occupied by a boutique, an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, and a life coach. It has long also been occupied by a ghost various residents have dubbed “Charlotte,” who seems to become excited whenever new merchandise is brought into whatever store is at that time doing business in the building. On such days, she has sometimes been heard clattering noisily down the stairs, as if to get a look at the new items. She has also been known to have rearranged new inventory at night when the store is closed, presumably to display it in a manner more becoming to her own taste. And, perhaps even more mysteriously, she has been known to leave behind a single flower, which proprietors have found when they opened up the next morning.
At 302 Mill Street is the building built in the 1860s that was long known as Leary’s Lumber and Hardware Store, and which supplied the town and the surrounding area with general merchandise. Old Mrs. Leary is reputed to have not liked noisy children much—but then who does?—and to have frequently chased them off and tried to keep the area around her store quiet. People have reported seeing her, typically after the store is closed, standing behind the original sales counter that is still set up inside the store’s front window. Some claim to have seen her shaking her finger at unruly passersby. Today, the corner store is occupied by four different shops, among them two art galleries.
Since 1997, the old wood-frame building at 307 Mill Street has been occupied by Brambles, a store that specializes in artsy home and garden accessories. It has apparently been occupied since long before that by a female ghost who has been spotted by some people carrying a lighted candle. She has also been known, especially during the winter, to leave a lighted candle sitting on the counter during the night, which the store owners have found burning when they arrived to open up in the morning.
Seven businesses are currently located in the building at 309 Mill Street, including an artists’ cooperative, an art gallery, a jewelry store, a number of engineering or construction firms, and a law office. It was once a successful funeral parlor that served the needs of a two-county area. Local legends say severe flooding once smashed open the store front and washed out a number of coffins—with or without bodies in them is somewhat unclear—and swept them downstream, which could certainly contribute to some ongoing spiritual agitation. At least one ghost is believed to haunt the property, and some people believe it is the former undertaker, clad in the formal dark frock coat of his trade, looking back in on his former establishment. Among other things, people have reported hearing footsteps in parts of the building when it is empty of living occupants.
Ghosthunting Virginia Page 4
