Wili

John Reid could not remember having cried since he was ten years old. He had shed tears of love and tenderness when he held his wife and tears of awe and love when he held his newborn son. He had never until this moment experienced the lament of deep, deep grief and loss. He had never before had to grapple with the unfathomable vicissitudes of life. Even in the hell that was Andersonville he had not, until this moment, known real misery. He realized that until now he had merely been uncomfortable. Now he was truly miserable. He held tightly to Paddy and he cried.

His crying was not audible wails but deep gut wrenching sobs. He was not crying for his loss but for Paddy's. Death had taken from Paddy the sweet spirit that was only now emerging. It had taken an intelligence that was only now beginning to hungrily probe knowledge and truth. It had taken a love that was gentle and anointing and it had taken a deep, yearning capacity to be loved. Perhaps John was crying for his loss. He had lost all the beauty and potential that was Paddy and he had lost the love Paddy had given and the opportunity to give that love back.

For the first time since he had understood what the rigid coldness of Paddy's body had meant, he looked at the boy's face. It still held a hint of a smile. The boy had died knowing that he was loved and had had the experience of having loved. That thought should have comforted John but it did not. Paddy should have had a long lifetime to love and be loved. John knew the futility of asking why but he would never again take comfort from the Biblical dictum, "All things work together for good."

Perhaps they did. John did not pretend to understand God. He understood that we "look through a glass darkly" and was satisfied that some things are unknowable and had lived comfortably in the thought that God would reveal to him what of the mysteries of life were important for him to know. John's faith was not shaken but the mystery of Paddy's miserable life and premature death was important to him and he would wonder - for the rest of his life. John would never again hear that verse quoted without Paddy coming to mind.

John heard muffled footsteps. He assumed he had been missed and would now be taken back to face the consequences of the death of the guard. He turned and looked into the gentle face of an elderly Negro. "We best let the boy rest now, Sah. We's got de grave dug. I likes to think that de arms of Jesus is in dem holes. Best we now put dat sweet baby in Jesus arms."

Five other men were standing around the newly dug grave. They gently laid Paddy's body in the grave and as the old man intoned, "From de eart we came and to de eart we return dis empty vessel."

The men began to shovel dirt back into the grave but not until John had torn off a piece of his ragged shirt and covered Paddy's face. He could not abide the thought of dirt in that cute, loving little face.

The old parson put his hand on John's shoulder. "Might be he ain't in yo lap no more but he be in Jesus' lap, bein' blessed like he done them chilin what He say let them come to me. He with Jesus and even in yo sorrow, Sah, Jesus is with you so if you think on it, you and dat boy still together."

John could not remember having heard a more profound sermon.

The parson and several of the slave community had, since it's opening, kept an eye on Andersonville. Each time there had been a successful escapee, he had been given shelter. Many of the plantation owners had taken their families away from the Union advance and simply left their slaves to shift for themselves. In some places that meant chaos and plunder. In most areas, however, respected leaders, like this old parson, had maintained some order. He had organized the "gate watch." He had developed the plan to assist escapees in returning to Yankee lines.

One of the men handed John a suit of more respectable clothing. "Massa got more clothes than he can wear do he get to be a hundred. Prolly won't even know these gone. Can't have you runnin' 'round Georgia in wored out Yankee britches."

John was given a horse. "Need this back. Do Massa come back he miss this. Ain't much but it get you there. 'Bout the kind a horse a precher would ride. You just go on. The niggas will bring it back."

"But I'm not a preacher."

"You soon be."

The parson had John kneel, laid his hands on him and "ordained" him a preacher. "Now you won't be lyin' do they ax what you doin' here. You can tell them yo out savin' souls. They don't need to know the soul yo savin' is yo own. 'Course do yo get de chance, won't do no harm do yo save some other souls.

"You jes ride like I told you. Do you come across niggas, sing dis song. Ain't no nigga song 'cause white folks don't generally sing nigga songs. I hid outside Massa's church and dey sing:

"The soul that on Jesus does lean for repose,
I will not, I will not forsake to his foes.
That soul though all hell shall endeavor to shake
I'll never, no never, no never forsake."

"Dat de whole gospel, Sah. You 'member that while you mournin' over dat boy. Do you see niggas toward evenin', you sing dat and jus keep ridin'. You get to de nex woods dey call you in, give you food and watch over you while you sleep.

"Yankees ain't but 'bout two days off. You be safe 'cause de Lord ain't gonna forsake ya."

The kindly old parson knelt with John at Paddy's grave, perhaps for an hour. He then said softly, "You best be on yo way, Sah. De boy in Jesus arms. He ain't in dis hole no more. He with Jesus. You go now."

The parson was right. John knew he must go. He tried to put landmarks in his mind. He was determined to come back here and give Paddy a proper burial.

As John rode he thought of another verse of that song he had sung in church since a child.

"When through the deep water I cause thee to go
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow
For I will be with thee thy trials to bless
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress."

John hoped so. His faith had never been so tenuous.

John was escorted into a Union camp a day and a half later. He was met with raucous jubilee. Word had just arrived that Lee had surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia. The war was over. John could finally go home to his wife and son.

John's return home was delayed at the order of the Company Surgeon. He was kept three weeks in a hospital, such as it was, in Chattanooga. John was anxious to write to his wife but was assured that he would arrive in Strasburg before any letter would. He was sent from Chattanooga to Washington and then on to Philadelphia. From there he had to make his own way home. He was given enough muster out pay to buy what passed for a horse. He made the fifty-six mile ride in two days. He still had not completely regained his strength and even twenty-five miles was a taxing day. He arrived in Strasburg late in the evening so he took a room in a boarding house. He would go home in the morning.

John woke to a beautiful May morning. He was immediately taken back to his childhood. The smell of new plowed earth was in the air. Even the heavy memory of Paddy seemed light this morning. Paddy would have loved the cool green of Pennsylvania. In John's mind his nine-year-old self and a happy, healthy Paddy followed barefoot behind the plow, feeling the cool, damp earth and vying with birds for fish worms. John was, in fact, riding past those very fields of his boyhood. Soon John, the man, and Johnny, his son, would be frolicking in those same fields.

He rode past the stately home in which he had been raised to the smaller but more than adequate home he had built for Dora and him at the time of their marriage. His glance was ubiquitous around the yard hoping to catch a glimpse of his son. It was early. Perhaps five-year-olds did not rise at seven. He would not just walk in. He would knock. He giggled to himself as he thought of his greeting. "Good morning, Madame. Allow me to introduce myself." And then he would take her in his arms and kiss her sincerely. Indeed, when she would be allowed to breathe again, she would have no doubt that she had been kissed. He was that happy nine-year-old again and his future was bright, happy and distinguished.

It was not Dora who answered to door. John assumed that it was a servant. "May I ask, Madame, that you summons Mrs. Reid."

"Mrs. Reid lives in that big house over there," pointing to the west.

"Sorry, I should have been more specific. I meant Mrs. Reid the younger."

"I don't know any other Mrs. Reid. You see, we just moved here to take up serving Mrs. Reid. If there is a younger Mrs. Reid, I have not yet met her."

"Are you assisting Marie, then?"

"Oh, no sir. Marie died of the grippe last December. My sister and I now serve Mrs. Reid. Both our husbands were killed in the war. Mrs. Reid was kind enough to offer us work and a fine home for our children and ourselves."

"Sorry to have bothered you. I shall go and ask Mrs. Reid of the whereabouts of the younger Mrs. Reid."

John took his leave. Why had Dora moved? Perhaps she had gone to stay with her parents or perhaps even his. That hardly seemed possible. Dora was a very self-sufficient person.

It had felt good but slightly ostentatious to be formal again. There had certainly been a dearth of formality the last four years of his life. Until his capture there had been the rigidity of military decorum but even though it felt good in a nostalgic way, his display of formality had felt pompous and unnecessary.

The person who answered his knock was definitely the sister. Twins he'd wager. "Would you be so kind as to summons Mrs. Reid?"

"May I tell her who is calling?"

John wanted to see his mother's face when she saw him. "Please just tell her an old friend."

Sadie Reid was ashen. That voice could only be that of her son. But she had the letter from President Lincoln telling her of John's death at Bull Run. Strange as it may seem, she desperately wanted the letter, not the voice, to be right. But she was his mother. She knew. It would be from her lips that he learned the awful truth.

She didn't wait to be summoned. She had been in the next room. She had heard. She came to him. "You look pale. Are you well?"

"Oh, you are still my mother. More concerned about my health than my affection. Here, let me give you a hug."

The hug was affectionate but stiff. "You know that's not true. I have always loved your affection and I have missed it dearly. Sit down, John dear. I have much to tell you."

"Can't it wait, Mother? I so want to see Dora and Johnny."

"No, John. We must talk."

"It's dad, isn't it. He has died."

"Yes, your father died in November of sixty-three. He died as he lived. No fanfare. No hesitation. He just fell over and died. Heart, the doctor said."

"I'm so sorry, Mother. How have you fared?"

"You should know that I miss him deeply. He was a good man. You should also know that I have bucked-up. Marie became more than a maid. We became good friends and she was a good support in those early days. She too died last December."

"Yes, I know. The lady living in my house told me. Why has Dora moved?"

"Perhaps you should have a bit of brandy."

There was a touch of indignity in John's voice. "I do not want brandy. I want to know where my wife and child are."

"Don't get haughty with me, Lieutenant. I am your mother, not one of your soldiers. Or, perhaps you are now a general."

"I am neither. I am out of the army. I am sorry for my impatience but, please, Mother, where is Dora?"

Sadie Reid went to the desk and retrieved the letter. She gave it to John and watched as horror swept across his face. "She grieved you, John. She waited three years. Isaac Martin is a good man. He patiently courted her for two of those three years. She put him off. She could not forget you. They married a year ago. Just last week she bore Isaac's twin daughters."

John had to steady himself on a chair.

"Now do you want that brandy?"

"I think I would rather die."

"You don't mean that. You are John Reid."

"I am, indeed - a brokenhearted John Reid."

"Mother, what can I do?"

"I cannot tell you that. I do not envy you your dilemma. I do not believe even Solomon in all his wisdom could easily resolve this. As your mother, I know what I want you to do. I want you to claim your wife and son. Yours is the legal marriage. Yes, John, I know what I want but I do not know what is best."

Before John could think more, a little boy bounced into the room. "Grandma, I want to go home and see my sisters."

"Not yet, Johnny. We have a guest. Where are your manners? Bow and say hello to our guest."

The exuberant little five-year-old did an exaggerated bow. "How do you do sir? My name is John Reid the Sixth. May I ask yours?"

Sadie watched intently. This was the moment of truth. She wished her son had had more time to think but he must make his decision now. Would he reclaim his family and by doing so break up another?"

There was what seemed to be an interminable pause. John had lost all color. He coughed, took a deep breath and said, "Well, you are a very mannerly young man. I'm proud to tell you that my name is the same as yours. My name is also John..."

Sadie waited to see if he would add the surname. He didn't"

"My name is John Reid the sixth. Don't you have more names than just John?"

"I have been in the army, son. We go by numbers, not names."

"My first daddy was in the army. The Rebs killed him at Bull Run. I have a new daddy now. My mama says that I am a very lucky boy. I have two daddies. I have a daddy in heaven helping God take care of me and I have a daddy at home helping my mama take care of me.

"Did you know my first daddy?"

"Why, yes, I did. I knew him quite well."

"I don't hate the Rebs for killing my daddy. Mama said my first daddy would not want me hating the Rebs."

"Your mama is right. I'm very sure your first daddy would not want you to hate anyone."

"That's what mama said. I like you. Can I sit on your lap?"

"I would be most happy if you did."

John took the boy in his arms. He didn't think. He held the boy, his boy, in a long hug.

"Do you love me? You hug like my daddy. He loves me a lot and my first daddy loves me too but he's in heaven so he can't hug me.

"Do you want to go to my house and see my baby sisters?"

"Oh, I think it's too soon for your mother to have visitors."

"I guess. Grandma says it's too soon for me to go home. I have to wait until mama gets her strong back."

"Strength, Johnny."

"Oh ya, sorry Grandma. I have to wait until mama gets her strength back."

"Do you want to see me climb a tree? My grandma says that my first daddy used to climb that tree and I can go up just as fast as he did. Do you want to see me?"

"I would love to see you but not today."

"OK, I have to go. Don't go away before I get back."

Johnny ran from the house and Sadie looked at her son. "So, you are going away?"

"What can I do? The boy loves him and she loves him. They have already grieved me. I just can't make them grieve again."

"That was a rather quick decision."

"It was the only decision.

"I don't want Dora to know. I would like to write you but I don't want Dora or Johnny finding my letters."

"I can't post a letter to you. This is a small town. It will get around that I am writing letters to John Reid.?"

"I will arrange with friends to use another name. I will tell you of it when it is decided."

"Promise me something."

"If I can."

"You can. That English poet, Lord Tennyson, has just published a new poem. It's called Enoch Arden.¹ Do not ever read it."

"Why?"

"Please do not ask. You must trust me. Please promise me that you will never read it."

"If it's that important to you, I do promise you, Mother."

"What will you do?"

"For now I will go back to the army."

"I love you John Reid."

"And I love you, Mother. It seems that you are all I have left to give me love back."

"Dora has never stopped loving you."

"That's a comfort to know but can never be a present comfort."

"Will you marry again?"

"Right now, I think not. I have lost too much." He could not bring himself to tell her of Paddy. The loss she knew was enough.

Johnny came bounding back in. "I can wipe myself now and not get any in my pants. I will go to school in the fall and mama says that boys big enough to go to school must wipe themselves clean. I did too. Do you want to see?"

"Johnny, I think our guest will take your word for it."

John smiled. His heart was again breaking but he had at least been party to one growing up vignette of his son. How many had he missed? How many more would he miss?

Johnny was once again in John's lap. "Do you have a wife?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a little boy."

"Yes."

"Does he have friends? I have new friends. Marie died and Grandma got Lucy and Irene. Their daddies got killed in the war too." The boy took on a puzzled look. "The ones who got killed are Jimmie's and Amy's and all them other's daddies. What are they to Lucy and Irene?"

"Husbands."

"My mama's got a husband. His name is Isaac Martin. My mama's name is Dora Martin. My name is John Reid the sixth. I think when you have two daddies; you have a different name than your mama."

"I think you are right. I also think that you are a very smart boy."

"Ya, I am. Grandma said so."

John was glad the boy had moved the conversation from wives and sons to friends and husbands. He did not know how he would have answered more wife and son questions. Perhaps he could have moved the discussion back to clean bottoms.

Johnny soon went back out to play with his friends. The boy left John with a long, loving kiss and a prolonged, hard hug, John sat alone with his broken heart. Sadie knew her son. He would hurt all his life but he was strong. He would not die of a broken heart. He was John Reid, not Enoch Arden.

John stayed for dinner then rode back to Strasburg. He was much better mounted. His mother would not have a Reid on such a nag. She gave him her favorite three year old bay.

He was riding away from his life but he knew it would always be with him. He knew there was no benefit in asking why. But he had been told and he himself had known that his future was to be bright, happy and distinguished. How did it all fall apart? He knew that he had a physical future but could he ever have an emotional one? If he were to have any kind of future, he had to build it himself. What would it be? How could he build on nothing but loss? That wasn't exactly true. He had been given much. He had his father's wisdom and his mother's strength. He had been assured that he would have the bulk of the Reid fortune but that Johnny would not be forgotten. But, right now, fortune meant nothing to him. He didn't have Paddy. He didn't have Dora. He didn't have Johnny. He didn't have hope.

He did have memories. Even though Johnny didn't know who he was, he could feel the boy's love. He had that. His mother had said that Dora had loved him. He had that. Paddy had loved him. He had that. He had love even if he no longer had the people who had loved him. No, he didn't have the people but he could still feel the love. If after all that had happened he could still feel love, he could again find hope.

The army kept John in Washington for two years. When most of the Indian wars in the lower prairies were solved, the government needed a strong administrator in Denver. John had respectfully refused the offer that he be made a General officer. He wanted to be closer to the men than to a desk. The active life allowed him to keep looking. The desk gave him too much time to think.

Colonel John Reid was never sure if he had found hope. He had learned to live with his losses and he had learned to be generally happy. He did not live with despair. Was that living in hope? He didn't know. He did know, however, that even though the wounds were now over five years old, taking in Wili could still knock the scabs off. He had done well with his hurt. He was proud of himself. But, they say the third time's a charm. If he were to love and lose a third boy, would that third time be his ruination? He just couldn't risk it.

He followed that lumbering wagon back to Denver

____________

¹ Enoch Arden is a narrative poem written by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It is the highly melodramatic tale of a seaman whose wife had been told that he had been lost at sea. He returned to find her married. He lived in the same town, never revealing his identity. He watched his happy wife and happy children and fell into deeper and deeper despair until his spirit was crushed. He died of a broken heart. John's mother did not think that would be a healthy read for John.