Not everything is as it seems, and as a Keeper of Secrets I know this much better than most.
Before I share the next story of the dead allow me to delve a little into the world of secrets, and why certain things should never come to “Light”.
First allow me to introduce you to “Light”, a word that is actually a symbol, with a meaning that would seem to have an opposite, dark. But the “Light” we are talking about has NO OPPOSITE, its impossible. Even the label of “Light” causes one to assume there is an opposite, its the way we roll.
Light versus dark, cold versus hot, east versus west, on and on we go creating opposites. As a Keeper of Secrets I do not necessarily see the way you do, by transcending dualism, the world of opposites, death and life are now. Light allows me to see even in what you perceive to be dark, my ears hear clearly, my eyes see clearly, and I feel clearly what you perceive to be dead. There is no death.
“Death is a stripping away of all that is not you. The secret of life is to "die before you die" --- and find that there is no death.”...The Power of Now
Now allow me share with you the story of Stephen Wentworth, a young man that should not be forgotten.
Every grave tells its own story, and not all stories are filled with sugar and spice.
As is the story of Stephen Wentworth, a very young Lieutenant, Gilmore Medal winner, and forgotten hero who is buried in Forest Glade Cemetery, a soldier that holds no bitterness towards those that forgot him.
I first came upon the grave of Lieut. Wentworth very early in my wanderings. The sadness I felt that very first encounter still remains within my being.
Stephen's Own Words - As Received by Obadiah Storm
Although I consider myself a man of little words, I feel compelled as of late to articulate the sorrow I feel for the many losses the families of my fallen comrades have endured,
My family, like many of those of my fallen comrades after me, sadly endured the loneliness of burying one of their own without the usual pomp and ceremony accorded those who fell early in the war between the States, a time when the body of the fallen hero was escorted by color guards, Mounted Marshal’s, and a town of mourner’s. By the time of my death the war had taken its toll, the people of Somersworth no longer found the burial of a fallen soldier a solemn event.
How soon they forget.
Yet I hold no bitterness, just sadness, a sadness reserved for my parents, a loving couple that bore the loneliness of burying a child two months before his twenty first birthday, a hero in their eyes, and yet just another loss in the eyes of a war weary community.
I will speak no longer of the events of my burial; suffice to say it was a sad day for my family.
As to the events of my death, one link of the chain leads to the next, the end of the chain coming in Deep Bottom.
Two months before my death I was wounded in the Battle of Cold Harbor. It was at this time I felt the deep premonition of impending doom enter my bones; the date was the 6th of June, 1864. The trenches were hot, dusty, and miserable, but conditions were worse between the lines, where thousands of wounded Federal soldiers suffered horribly without food, water, or medical assistance, Hell was on earth, and cries filled the air.
Our General, Grant, was reluctant to ask for a formal truce that would allow him to recover his wounded because that would be a signal he had lost the battle. He and Lee traded notes across the lines without coming to an agreement, and when Grant formally requested a two-hour cessation of hostilities, it was too late for most of the unfortunate wounded, who were now bloated corpses. On June 4, Grant tightened his lines by moving Burnside's corps behind Matadequin Creek as a reserve and moving Warren leftward to connect with Smith, shortening his lines about 3 miles. On June 6, Early probed Burnside's new position but could not advance through the impassable swamps. It was during this time I was wounded.
Although not serious enough to return to the rear, the battle was over for me, and a lot of my fallen brothers.
The Battle of Cold Harbor was a victory for Lee's army, and doom entered my mind.
My young body would heal rapidly, yet I could not shake the feeling that bad things were just around the corner, and I was right.
August 13th, 1864 we had arrived “North of the James”, it was here between the James River and Malvern Hill we were sent to engage a rebel defensive position protecting Richmond.
A shiver raised every hair on my body as I looked over the map; the place was called Deep Bottom, adjacent to a river and another southern swamp.
After a sleepless night of nerves and chills we made our way to the rear of the rebel stronghold, a flanking strategy General Grant would become famous for. At nightfall, without rest, we were ordered to relieve Gregg’s Calvary on one of the main roads to Richmond.
We didn’t stand a chance; the rebel sharpshooter’s pinned us down, and riddled us to death.
How I got home was a courtesy from my enemy, a few days after that fatal day the rebels returned my body to the Union, in an exchange only a warrior would understand.
Here I lay now a forgotten hero.
A small note from Obadiah: On the day Stephen Wentworth died 1,844 Union soldiers were killed, 9,077 were wounded, and 1.816 was missing or captured. That is 12,737, almost the same population as Somersworth today.
No comments:
Post a Comment