Hiking through the Blue Hills I find myself transported back 140 years to an early fall day in the Shenandoah Valley in northern Virginia marching along a wooded road in a unit of blue-clad Union infantry. Had I been born a century earlier I would have been 23 in 1862. We are an army on the march searching for a rebel force.

Emigrating from Ireland to escape the potato blight, I arrived in Boston in 1858. Finding work was difficult so I enlisted early in the war. After training in Readville, my regiment boarded a train for Washington then marched to face Gen. Stonewall Jackson in the valley campaign.

Capt. Ethan Hatch of Dorchester commands our unit composed mainly of Irish immigrants like myself; poor, uneducated lads but strong and eager to fight in what we viewed as a grand adventure. Some plan to return to Ireland after the war, seasoned veterans to face the English oppressors.

The army stretches out for miles along the road. Like something alive, it undulates and pulsates with energy and a ceaseless rhythm that propels us forward. The sound of thousands of marching feet, creaking of leather, clanging of canteens, muttered complaints and occasional laughter dulls the senses and absorbs you into the creature. Officers ride by offering encouragement and urging us to stay alert.

I think of the enemy; young like myself and just as determined. This is their land. They know the terrain and can attack us at will. Like me, some are Irish born who just happened to board a ship bound for Charleston, South Carolina, or New Orleans to flee starvation. Now we all face death of a different kind.

Our unit marches near the head of the column. We pass an occasional farm in this lovely and fertile valley now being consumed by the creature. As the afternoon shadows lengthen there is the rattle of musket fire from the woods to our left. Capt. Hatch orders Sgt. Devlin to form a picket line and advance toward the smoke now curling over a stand of trees.

The creature stops as we detach ourselves and advance several feet apart toward the trees. The smell of powder reaches us as we cautiously move forward. Is it a large force, a cavalry unit or a band of irregulars? That is what we are supposed to determine.

As we advance there is a flash of musket fire from the woods. Smoke obscures the area as we respond with a volley. Sgt. Devlin orders double-quick forward and we run toward the trees. I fire at a fleeing shadow and hear the sound of a galloping horse. What turns out to have been a small harassing unit of rebel cavalry, escapes.

Returning to the road we notice three men are down. Young Ronan Manion from Cork, only 18, is dead. The other two are wounded in a war where any wound can be mortal because of the danger of infection - the dreaded gangrene. The creature stirs and again begins to move. God knows, to where. The generals don't confide in lowly corporals.

Only a brief skirmish but the serious business of war silences the good-natured banter that passes for conversation in the ranks. For a time we march silently reflecting on how random death can be. How many more of us will fertilize this rich Virginia soil before the year is ended? We continue to search for Jackson's army knowing when the creatures meet the slaughter begins in earnest.

The shadows lengthen as evening approaches and as we pass a field, an order to make camp is passed down the line. The creature disintegrates as its parts separate, begin to make fires and raise tents. As night falls the stars appear to be but a reflection of our campfires and the campfires a flickering sign of how temporary we all are.

It will be a long and bloody war, I think, as my hike ends and I climb into my truck for the drive home.

(James W. Dolan is a retired Dorchester District Court judge who now practices law at Dolan & Connly, 50 Redfield St., Dorchester, e-mail jdolan@dolanconnly.com)