When I was a Boy Scout and working on my ranks, one of my obligations was to take a 14-mile hike. I had known about this since I was a Cub Scout and had thought about it, talked about it, and made plans. My plans did not come to a solid conclusion. There was no allowance for a scout to make a hike by himself. There were several of us in our troop who had agreed to do it, if only we could agree to a time and a destination that our scout master would accept. Finally, in April, the scout master announced that on a May Saturday and Sunday, we would hike to Camp Beauregard.
We all knew about Camp Beauregard. It was a site on a hilltop 7 miles from our town. During the early months of the War Between the States, a platoon of riflemen from a Mississippi regiment had been assigned to camp there and intercept any Northern troops who might venture into our part of the Mid-South. My father had driven us there a couple of times for picnics. From the camp site, anyone could look in most directions. A railroad track ran through the valley to the west of the hill. A country road led up to the hilltop. A trickly spring oozed out at the base of the hill. On one side of the hilltop were a couple dozen tombstones. Some of them had fallen over. The ones we could read stated a name, the number of the platoon and regiment, and dates in the spring of 1862. Later that year, before one of the first massive battles took place in southern Tennessee at Shiloh church on the Tennessee River, the Mississippi regiment was pulled into the Confederate forces who won on the first days, lost on the last one, and retreated into Mississippi. Some 80 years later, a sign on the camp site explained that the deaths came from diseases and not from any engagement with Northern enemies. We never knew what happened to the rest of the platoon. On Memorial days, some neighbors would put flowers on the Camp Beauregard graves.
So our hike was planned. On Saturday, 10 of us would hike out the railroad line from our hometown and cut off on the road to the hilltop. We would carry food, water, and pup tents and stay the night, walking back on Sunday morning. The scout master had to work on Saturday, but he promised to drive out and camp with us. When we started, it was a warm, sunny day. Two of the scouts did not come along. It took about 4 hours to make the 7-mile hike. So we raised the pup tents. By mid-afternoon, it was getting cloudy. So we decided to cook our dinner early. The scout master drove up, bringing some food. He assured us that it would rain. We could sleep in the tents. He would sleep in his car.
By about midnight, we were awakened by lightning and thunder. The rain began to pour and the pup tents began to leak, because we had not ditched them. Lightning hit a tree on the peak of the hilltop. It split the trunk and the tree toppled across the road leading up to our campsite. One of the boys began to cry and got into the scout master’s car. The rest of us wished we could too, but there was no room for eight of us. At dawn, the rain began to ease and it stopped a couple of hours later. We could not make a fire for breakfast and we had to help pull the tree branches away from the road so that the scout master could get his car down the hill. He stayed until we were ready to go. Then he drove to a nearby country store and bought some moon pies, which he brought back as we reached the bottom of the hill. Two of the younger boys asked to ride home. The rest of us started along the railroad track. The rain started again. The track roadbed was muddy. We were still wet from our night-long soaking. On the six of us slogged. A mile out of town, there was a road crossing, and parked there was the scout master, my father, and one other father. “You boys have qualified for your hike,” said the scout master. So we dumped our packs in the trunks, climbed into the cars, and we were home in just a few minutes.
I took a bath, ate some breakfast and, 14 minutes later, I was asleep. A few years later, when I could drive a car, I remember taking a date for a picnic at Camp Beauregard and telling her the dramatic story about our hike. I have never been back. My sister, who still lives in our hometown, tells me that Camp Beauregard is still there. I wonder how many people know about it, or care the least.