Recently, I visited Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield near Springfield, Mo. I was interested to see how accurate I had been as I wrote about the battle in my latest book. Historical descriptions are very good, but are no substitute for the thrill of walking the ground where my characters fought alongside real men and feel what they felt.

There is something mystical about battlefields. I’ve walked many of them, and they all have something in common for me. I feel the presence of those who fought there.

Thousands visit battlegrounds every year. Is it only for the history, the facts? I think not. Most want to connect with the past, to be part of it, and battlegrounds let you do that, if you let yourself.

I try to be alone for a few minutes, to stand still, be quiet and feel. The men and women who fought on these fields are there. They are long past, but they have left a bit of themselves behind, not as haunts, but as reminders; we’ve been here, we’ve bled here, some of us died here. I’ve felt it at Little Bighorn, Vicksburg, Port Gibson, Wilson’s Creek, Pea Ridge, Fort Morgan and just up the road in Spanish Fort at the battleground in Fort Blakeley State Park.

The battle at Fort Blakeley was the last fought in the Civil War. Ulysses Grant referred to it as an “ineffective contribution to the Union war effort” since it was fought after the surrender at Appomattox Court House. Tell that to the 689 Union and 2,900 Confederate causalities there. There were 32,000 Union troops in the area, more than Grant had at the siege of Vicksburg, faced by only 4,000 Confederate holdouts.

As the family and I walked through various redoubts, battlements and rifle pits, I was able to separate myself from the group for a little solitude, and there they were, the feelings of the presence of the soldiers. I could almost smell the cooking fires, the burning gunpowder, hear the songs and laughter of men gathered in a cause, the clash of bayonets on rifles as they massed to face each other.

I walked along the redoubts and imagined the earth moving with the firing of each artillery piece, and the subsequent impact of the shell some distance away, and those directed at where I stood. I imagined the difficulty of fighting in such conditions while wearing heavy wool uniforms and hob-nailed boots, fighting mosquitoes and lice, hauling drinking water from the bayou, and sleeping in the mud, fighting in the heat and shivering at night. It’s all there if you allow yourself to feel it.

Why bother, what difference does it make, what’s the point? Whether you agree with the politics, or who was victorious or defeated, battlefields are part of each of us who claim allegiance to this country.

Each battlefield represents a part of our personal and collective persona. We are who we are, our society is what it is, our country stands free for all of us because of what happened on these fields of contest. Here, the game was played for keeps. The stakes were high, and the cause was worth dying for. We all should want to connect with that.

As I walked the battleground at Port Gibson, Miss., the place where my great-great-grandfather fought and was captured, the feeling was much more personal. I stood in the house that doubled as a hospital that day, the place where he gave up his freedom after helping a wounded comrade to get medical attention. I could feel his presence, and those of his wounded fellows. I felt of his anguish at giving up his freedom that was so precious to him.

There is mystery on the fields, and ghost stories, and passion, and tears, and if you will let yourself, you can become part of it as you honor those who fought. Their cries echo still, and you can hear them if you listen, “We will be free.”

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.