Nine-year-old Johnny Reid loved spring. He loved the feel of the newly plowed, cool, moist earth beneath his bare feet. Since he was five and his mother thought he was old enough, he followed Elmer or whichever of his father's hired men were doing the plowing. Johnny would dig his big toe into the coolness of the ground, stomp on clods, try to keep his balance while walking in the furrow, throw clods at crows - always hoping that he only scared them away, never hit them. When a little older, he vied with the birds for the worms for his fishing hook. Actually, the fishing was more fun in the summer. Johnny Reid loved summer but right now it was spring and Johnny loved best whatever season it was at the moment.
There were so many other things in the spring: the fresh smell after the rain, that bright, spring green of the newly sprouted wheat, the sly peeking through of the corn, the cows reveling in green grass after a winter of dry hay, the frolicking of the winter calves at their first experience of the out of doors - but mostly it was the new spring lambs. The first lamb to be born each spring became Johnny's special pet - never to become lamb chops. It would live a full life as a ewe or a ram but even in age it knew it was special to Johnny and to him, it always remained his lamb.
At nine Johnny had a vague sense of regeneration - of resurrection. They always talked about it in church on Easter Sunday but the intricacies of theology or philosophy were not part of the boy's glee. It was spring and Johnny couldn't help himself. He felt fully alive and he enthusiastically reveled in that life.
Maybe he loved spring best. It was hard to tell. Spring wasn't really the time to decide if that was his favorite season. He was so happy in spring that he couldn't possibly think that any time of the year could be better. But when he thought about it, he felt the same way about summer in the summer, the fall in the fall and the winter in the winter. Johnny was just a happy boy who loved almost everything and liked almost all the rest. The only thing he didn't like was liver. He didn't think he hated anything, even liver, even though the smell of Marie frying it almost made him sick. His mother didn't make him eat it. Johnny thought if she did, he might hate it.
Johnny's benign nature and his antipathy toward hatred was mostly just Johnny but also the remnants of his Quaker heritage. Johnny Reid's ancestors had followed their small group of Quakers from England to King Charles II's Land Grant to William Penn in the Colonies. Actually, Pennsylvania was more the repayment of a debt owed to William Penn's father than a gift but the younger Penn's intent to make it a land of Philadelphia - Brotherly Love - and Peace didn't work out exactly as he had envisioned. It was a good place, actually a wonderful place, but there had been problems with Lord Baltimore of Maryland and the Duke of York over the area called New York. William Penn died before accomplishing his dream. Actually, he died knowing his dream would never be accomplished. Not everyone was as pious as he and even he wasn't as pious as he wished he were. Penn came to understand that heaven on earth was not possible. Pennsylvania did become a haven of religious tolerance but the Quaker piety, serenity and passivism had, over the years, been diluted by human nature - mostly in Pennsylvania by German sternness, stubbornness and contrariness. But the land was fertile and the people generally congenial - each in his own ethnic manner - and the land and the society had made the Reids wealthy and little Johnny a bright, happy, gregarious boy. People who knew Johnny said that his life held such promise and, indeed, at age nine, his future promised to be
bright, happy and distinguished.
Throughout his adolescence and young adulthood, that promise held. He was always at the top of his class. He was nominated to West Point. He was a brilliant scholar and a champion athlete. He graduated with honors. Since the country was not at war, he returned to his home near Strasburg and attached himself to a well respected attorney with the intent of making the law his life and eventually assuming responsibility for his father's holdings. He married well and became the father of a beautiful, healthy son. The promise was being kept.
John found so much happiness in his family. His son, John Reid VII, was a smiling, cooing little bundle of happiness, an emotional and behavioral duplication of his father and the joy of his father's life. John VI thought he had known all the happiness life offered but holding and loving that baby took happiness to a much higher level.
Then - April 12, 1861. Troops under the command of Confederate Brig. Gen. Beauregard fired on Fort Sumter. Young Lieutenant John Reid was placed in command of a raw company of Pennsylvania recruits. He worked to train the tradesmen, the farmers and the gangly, raw-boned adolescents that made-up his company. They believed in the Union and worked hard but it was obvious that it would be a considerable time before they were ready for battle. John came to believe he could serve his country better at the front.
He asked leave to join General John Pope in Washington. John Pope, a West Point graduate, had been a contemporary cadet and good friend of one of Reid's favorite instructors. He had served with distinction in the Mexican war. Federal troops under his command had just been defeated in the first battle of Bull Run and John Reid felt it his duty to be where the fighting was - to offer his training and skills to help preserve his Nation.
The Second Bull Run was a disaster. Confederate officers proved more skillful and more willing to fight. It was Union lack of willingness to engage that changed the course of John Reid's charmed life.
Reid's Company was sent to turn the Confederate flank. A Company of McClellan's brigade was to reinforce Reid. McClellan refused to send his men into battle. Reid was surrounded and forced to surrender.
At first, John was treated with the respect due an enemy officer. But as the war progressed and the resources and the spirit of the South waned, his keepers were less inclined toward civility. The Rebs were not cruel but showed considerably less deference, provided less worthy accommodation and considerably less victuals. No, they were not cruel. They had none of those amenities to give.
By late 1863, the Confederacy had to make new arrangements for Union prisoners. Union lines were pushing deeper and deeper into the South. Several prisons had been captured and those prisoners healthy enough were pressed back into the fray. The Confederacy was running short of men. It could not afford to be complicit in replenishing the Union. The prisoners must be moved further south.
Work was begun on a facility in Sumter County Georgia, near the tiny town of Andersonville. At the time, Andersonville had a population of twenty souls. The Andersonville Prison was not ready to receive Union prisoners until February 1864 and John Reid, who had been moved further south as Union armies advanced, was among the first inmates of the new facility.
The misery of life for Andersonville prisoners was to become legend. Men were poorly housed, poorly clothed and poorly fed. Disease was rampant and death common. As the war progressed and the fortunes of the South became more desolate, new prisoner of war facilities were out of the question. Eventually Andersonville contained twice the number for which it had been built. Impossible conditions became even more vile and the inmates more desperate - veritable savages carrying for nothing but themselves. Men who had considered themselves moral and cultured found themselves lying, stealing and even murdering without compunction.
And the genteel sons of the South who were assigned as their keepers also shed their cloak of gentility and even humanity. These men who in courtly manner and impeccable fashion were accustomed to refined social communion and who danced the cotillion under the fa‡ade of antebellum grace became heartless brutes. Men who had been of firm and strong character, groveled. Men who had sung hymns, cursed and men who had enforced the law broke it with impunity. Men of both sides became beasts, giving way to the basest instincts of their humanity. Just as any animal living in a sparse environment, they cared for nothing other than themselves. The deeply engrained moral precepts from their childhood meant nothing. They stole. They bullied, they fought over trifles and perhaps, most revolting to those never thus oppressed, they used each other to satisfy their prurient lusts. They were, indeed, animals. To the casual eye, there was no compassion; no civilization. There was nothing to suggest humanity. There was only the brutal survival of the fittest.
But - there were also a few John Reids on both sides. Men who in the face of horrendous conditions were able to keep their dignity, their humanity and even their compassion. John was no longer his bubbly self but he determined not to become what he saw around him. Since his capture, life had been hard. There had been physical privation and mental stress but the hardest thing for John to bear was that he was allowed no contact with his family. He spent long hours yearning for the touch of his wife and agonizing over hers and their son's welfare. And he missed them. Oh, did he miss them. He tried to envision the growing boy. By the time John got to Andersonville, his little Johnny would be four years old. Now the pacific John Reid did give in to some hatred. Not of those around him - neither his oppressors nor his fellow inmates. But he hated. He hated that he could not bask in the tender love of his wife, his son and his extended family. He hated the years he had missed of his son's growing up. He hated that he had missed the first words, the first steps. He hated that he had missed that joyous giggle and the affectionate hugs and kisses. The thoughts of getting back to his wife and son, perhaps even more than his benefic nature, gave John the strength to endure his hell. He knew the clich‚, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." But, for John, it was no clich‚. It was immutable truth.
John's bearing and his rank gave him a modicum of respect and deference among his fellow prisoners. His robust health as a youth had served him well and even though he was no longer robust, he was more fit than most. If his rank and status did not serve him in maintaining some sense of order in his immediate environment, his fists frequently did. Men learned not to challenge him. His food was never stolen and his space was respected.
John could not control the entire prison. Chaos prevailed in most of the camp. John would occasionally make a circuit of the camp just to make his presence felt and, for a brief time, bring some small order to the chaos - order that evaporated as he moved on. It was on one of those tours that Padraig came into his life.
Some distance to his right, John heard a commotion. As he moved closer, he heard one of the most fluent soliloquies of profanity it had fallen to him to experience. In this place, profanity was the norm but this tirade came from an unbroken voice. John moved closer and saw in the center of a circle of men a boy in the tattered remains of the uniform jacket of a drummer boy. The red hair and freckles stood in stark contrast to the pallid, pasty skin of the ashen boyish face. One of the surprised men held what was left of the boy's uniform trousers. Everyone in the camp knew Lieutenant Reid and the rude laughter and lewd comments on the boy's lack of endowment ebbed to an uneasy, frightened silence.
"What's going on here?"
There was no response. The men shifted from foot to foot. Together they could have overpowered John Reid but they knew that in trying at least one of them could well be killed. John did not seek out trouble but it was well known in the camp that when he came upon it, he gave no quarter. And, this certainly looked like trouble to John.
John struck a quick blow to the chin of the man holding the boy's ragged trousers. He went down and John picked up the trousers, took the boy by the arm and walked away. John knew that the object lesson of the prone man was enough to remove any thought of redress for the loss of the butt of their hilarity and, John was sure, the intended means of satisfying salacious lust.
"Damn uppity officer. Gonna keep that pretty little arse all to hisself."
John continued walking. The man's implication was of no import but did prove the intent of the mob. John kept his quick fist for protection of his person or that of others. He did not need to protect his honor from this rabble.
The boy, not understanding that he was being rescued, continued his profane haranguing. How could that frail little body produce such volume and how could the brain behind that wan but sweet face produce such vile discourse?
"You gonna do my arse, you gonna give me your supper first."
"How old are you, boy?"
"Seventeen."
"And I'm Abraham Lincoln. By the size of you, you're eleven or twelve at the most."
"It ain't that small."
"What isn't?"
"What you're after."
"I'm after you, not any particular part of you. Besides, is that the only part of you that you can think of?"
"It's the only part of me that men care about - that and my arse. I know what you want."
"No, you don't know what I want. What I do want is to know how old you are and don't say seventeen. How old are you?"
"Don't know. Me mum never said nothin' about them things. She was all fluttered tryin' to do for us. Hardly seen me Pa. Mum run him off 'cause he took all the money for booze. She run me off when the last baby come. She cried some but said she couldn't do for ten wee ones. Don't know how old I am so I can be any age I want. I'm seventeen."
"How did they ever let you in the army?"
"They was like you. Wouldn't believe seventeen so I went to sixteen. Wouldn't believe that either but they did take fifteen after I got a cop to swear to it. He knowed I weren't fifteen but he wanted me off his streets so he lied for me.
"I like the army - even getting' shot at. Better'n getting' poles up your arse everyday."
"Where are you from?"
"New York."
"You sold your body?"
"What you mean?"
"You let men use your arse?"
"Make more money than stealin' and the cops don't care. Carry you off they catch you stealin' but leave you be if you give 'em a free one some."
"Good Lord!"
"What you prayin' about."
"I'm not praying. I'm shocked."
"What's shocked?"
"I had no idea boys did what you say you were doing."
"Peddlin' arse?"
"Yes."
"Ain't you been no wheres? They do it everywhere. Since I been in the army, I talked to boys from Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore - all them cities. All of 'em peddle arse. Gotta put something if you gonna put something out and can't put nothin' out 'less you get some money to put somethin' in. Like I said, peddlin' better'n stealin. Cops don't care none 'bout peddlin'. Stealin' can get you killed. I knowd 'bout a boy who kept getting out of jail and just steal again. Cop got tired of cartin' him off and jest kill him.
"Army's good. They give you clothes and you eat regular. Mostly sleep warm and don't have to look out to see no one try to steal your arse. Least, when you ain't in no prison. This worse than New York. Nobody got nothin' to give you but they food and most times when they say they give you that, after they do you, you see they was lyin'. You gonna give me your supper 'fore you do me."
"I'm not going to do you."
"What for you take me then?"
"To protect you."
"Protect me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're a boy and from what you've been telling me, you need protection."
"You ain't gonna' do me?"
"No."
"You too sick to get it up?"
"Boy - What's your name? I need to call you something other than boy."
"Paddy."
"Paddy, you have met only one kind of man. Most of us don't want to hurt children."
"Don't hurt after you done it a while."
"There are more ways to hurt a child that just hurting his body."
"How?"
"It will take a while for you to understand because you understand only survival. You don't understand living."
"What's understand?"
"It's like knowing."
"I'll tell you one thing I know. I don't know what the hell you're talkin' 'bout."
"Well, learn to know this. You stay near me. Never go off into the camp unless I'm with you. If you don't do as I say, I'll wear that arse of yours out. Not by putting something in it but by putting my hand on it good and hard."
"You gonna whip me?"
"If you don't stay with me."
"What for. You already said you ain't gonna do me."
"Because you're a boy. You don't belong in here. Until I can get you out of here, I don't want anyone 'doing' you."
"Why."
"Paddy, look at me. Do you like having people 'doing' you?"
"Don't I let them, they take my food."
"You stay with me. No one will take your food."
Paddy was confused. Well, not really. He didn't think that he really believed the man. He knew what every man wanted. But, this one was somehow different. Maybe he did just want to protect him. But why? No one had ever wanted to protect him before.
"Where I sleep?"
"In my quarters."
"Them guards think I try to escape and beat me."
"I'll tell the guards where you are."
"You gonna let me keep my food?"
"Of course."
"And not do me?"
"Paddy, there are people who will like you for just you. I'm one of them"
"Why?"
"Just stay with me for a while. I think you'll understand."
What did Paddy have to lose? Even if this man did do him he didn't think he'd mind it. For the first time in his life he felt something he didn't understand. He liked and almost trusted this man and since that had never happened to him before, he had no idea what that feeling was, but it felt good.
John had no success with the commander of the guards. "I didn't know we had a boy that young but I can't let him out. A Yankee's a Yankee and if he gets out he'll be killing Southern boys. Maybe he didn't shoot but he drummed troops into battles that killed our boys. He may be small but he's a Yankee."
"Look at him. If we don't get him out of here and get him some decent food, he'll die."
"He probably will. Do you know how many Southern boys his age have died, either from starving or getting in the way of Yankee guns? Two of my own sons died when Sherman burned Atlanta. I was a preacher. I used to preach about compassion but this war has taken any inclination toward compassion from me. God help me, but I hate all you Yankees - even that little boy."
"Those were horrors. This would be murder."
"You Yankees speak a different language. What you call murder, I call justice."
It surprised John somewhat that he understood. They were wrong in what they believed but everything the South thought was good and right was being taken from them. They had firmly believed that God would affirm the righteousness of their way of life. But He had forsaken them. Could that mean all their piety, gentility, all their situational ethics theology had been wrong. Did that mean that niggers were not cursed by God to be slaves? That could not be. They believed the Bible. It clearly said that God cursed Ham for looking on his father's, Noah's, nakedness. Ham was the father of the Negro race. Niggers were a cursed race. The South was implementing the will of God. How could they be wrong?
They were righteous. They were God fearing. They were not wrong. For whatever reason, just as in the case of Job, God was allowing evil - the hated Yankees - to prevail. He was testing them but they were sure that "When he had tried them, they would come forth as gold." They were sure that the South would rise again. But this captain did not have Job's patience and his faith - so he hated. Yes, John understood the captain's hate. His own values and beliefs had been sorely tested but he had not allowed himself to give way to hate.
And, what Sherman did was not only wrong, it was evil. John felt sadness and some anger but he did not hate. But he also had the uneasy feeling that there were limits to his endurance. He did not know, for example, how he would feel had a Southern general destroyed everything from Strasburg to the sea. It made him shudder to think of it but he probably would hate if his little Johnny had been killed in that rampage. Yes, he feared for Paddy but he understood the Captain.
It took some time for Paddy to completely trust John. At first, if John stroked the boy's hair, Paddy would jerk himself away fearing that touch meant either abuse or beating. He slowing understood that the touch was a caress and meant something that he didn't fully understand but that he liked and eventually even sought. He began to talk, to tell John things he had never told anyone. He didn't know his last name. He thought it might be Padraig. His mum called him that sometime but mostly she called him Paddy. John had two names - John Reid. Maybe his name was Paddy Padraig. John said that he thought Paddy was a nickname for Padraig - whatever that was.
He said that when he first got money from peddlin' he'd take some to his mum. He told her that he got his money from shining shoes but he don't go to see her no more. Someone told her what he was really doing and he knew that she would cry if she saw him. He would see one of his brother's on the street and give money to him to take to his mum. Now the army was sending money to his mum. He didn't know how much.
The boy was bright. There wasn't much to read but occasionally John came up with a page or two torn from some book. Paddy had never seen anyone read and he puzzled at why John would sit and stare at a paper. He knew boys in New York who sold newspapers but he had never seen anyone read one. The only thing he had ever known paper was good for was cleaning his arse.
But John said those black spots were words and Paddy wanted to know how one could tell. John taught the boy the rudiments of reading by scratching words on the ground. The boy was quick to learn. John saw a future for the boy. If they got out of this alive, John would take the boy home with him. John thought had not Paddy come into his life, he might have given up and died. He had learned to love the boy and perhaps it was that love that forced him not to give up.
Paddy was also quick to understand affection. He still didn't have a name for it but he grew to need signs of affection and closeness from John. Paddy had thought he never needed anything he couldn't get for himself but he now knew that what John was giving him he had needed all his life. Happiness to Paddy had been food, relative safety and reasonable comfort. Happiness was now indications of John's approval, affection and being close to John. The boy could never remember snuggling in a lap but he had to be close to John and John, seeing that, had pulled the boy into his lap. Yes! This was it. He had John's arms around him, told what a fine boy he was and that he was loved. Love was a word he didn't understand but he just knew that it had to be the best thing there was.
John's saying he loved the boy was not just idle talk. Perhaps Paddy had become a stand-in for his little Johnny. Perhaps, being John Reid, he just needed to love - love anyone - but John knew that it was really the boy who was Paddy. Beneath all the poverty, the abuse, the privation, the ugliness and vulgarity that had infused him, there was a hardy spirit that pulled love from John and a boy who had learned to give love back.
Paddy's spirit and behavior improved daily just as his body daily declined. The boy was now emaciated and almost too weak to walk. If John did nothing, the boy would die within weeks, perhaps days. He must get the boy out of here. John did not like it but he reluctantly agreed to Paddy's plan.
Before he had come under John's protection, one of the night gate guards had made numerous passes at Paddy. Paddy would act seductively to distract the guard and John would do whatever it took to get them out of there. It took one of John's arms over the guard's mouth and the other around his neck. When the guard passed out, John strangled him. He had to get Paddy to safety and could not risk the guard regaining consciousness and sounding an alarm. John recoiled at what war had made of him.
They were out of the prison but they were far from safe. They would worry about what to do and where to go tomorrow. Now Paddy's weak condition demanded rest. John carried the boy about two miles into a piney woods. He leaned against a tree and took the boy in his lap. Paddy snuggled in and looked up at John. "Some boys in New York had a Pa. Will you be my Pa?"
"I will be honored to be your Pa."
Paddy weakly snuggled closer and looked up at John. "I love you, Pa."
"I love you too, my little Irish Treasure."
When John woke, Paddy was dead.