Waves of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  “Tell him thank you for telling me.”

  Arie was halfway through the door when he turned back again. “I almost forgot. Papa said to tell you not to worry. He said God is in control.” I smiled at him and shooed him away. Arie was seventeen and had decided not to continue his education and go on to college with his friend Dirk Van Raalte, the dominie’s son. The original Pioneer School had grown into the Holland Academy, and a few years earlier Dominie Van Raalte had deeded five acres of land to create a college campus. The college’s first building had been completed two years ago in 1859, a square, three-story brick building known as Van Vleck Hall. It housed offices, classrooms, and dormitory rooms for students.

  But Arie had no interest in attending college there or anywhere else. He loved working with his father in the print shop. The dream Maarten had when he’d hung the sign above his shop—de Jonge and Sons, Printers—had finally come true. Well, at least one of his three sons had decided to join him. It was too soon to tell what fifteen-year-old Gerrit or thirteen-year-old Jakob would decide. They both helped out in the print shop whenever they were needed, but becoming part of the family business was a choice they would be free to make in the future. Maarten would never pressure them.

  That evening Maarten brought home the newspaper—it was still printed in our Dutch language—and we read about the Battle of Fort Sumter. Our adopted country was at war. For now the fighting seemed very far away and had little to do with our everyday lives. Dominie Van Raalte had long been an outspoken opponent of slavery, and we agreed that the institution was evil and needed to be abolished. When the war began that April day, we naively believed that the hostilities would last only a few weeks before the divided nation would be sewn back together again. We were wrong.

  President Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand troops. Later, in July, Congress voted to increase that number to five hundred thousand. In September of 1861, twenty-six young men from our community volunteered to fight, enlisting in the Michigan cavalry. The war that had once seemed very far away inched closer as we read newspaper reports of the battles and of General McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign. I remember looking at our three young sons gathered around our table and praying in earnest that the war would end before they each turned eighteen. My prayers went unanswered.

  A year after that first battle at Fort Sumter the war was no closer to ending. Our son Arie turned eighteen, and when Dominie Van Raalte’s two sons, Ben and Dirk, enlisted in the 25th Michigan Infantry in August of 1862, Arie decided to join them. He and about three hundred other area boys went off to war together, marching past Dominie Van Raalte’s home and up the hill past Pilgrim Home Cemetery, then on down the road to Kalamazoo. I wasn’t the only mother in the crowd who wept to see her son go. A group of women presented the soldiers with a silk flag, emblazoned with the motto God is Our Refuge, and Dominie prayed for them, saying, “May all this shaking bring us nearer to God, may it make us strangers and pilgrims; may it make us holier.” I tried to pray as well, but my prayers were sometimes hindered by memories of God’s seeming capriciousness in taking my parents, the innocent immigrants aboard the Phoenix, and my friend’s stillborn baby, along with so many, many others. Yet I also knew that those times of great “shaking,” as Dominie phrased it, had also brought me closer to God. In wrestling with Him, I had learned to hear His voice more clearly and experience His love in a greater way. My faith had grown through each trial, and it would weather this time of testing, too.

  Arie cheerfully relayed the news of his travels in his letters.

  We arrived in Kalamazoo where they will try to make soldiers out of us for the next month. We’re going to wear out our new boots with all this marching and drilling. . . .

  October 1: They loaded us into railroad cars, and we headed south. We passed through Michigan City and New Buffalo, then into Indiana where there is plenty of good farmland. We saw the fine capital city of Indianapolis, then crossed the border into Kentucky and arrived in Louisville. This is where we’ll be stationed for the next few months as we scout the countryside south of Louisville for Rebels and perform routine guard duty. Kentucky is a border state between North and South, so we’re guessing we’ll see lots of action with our Rebel neighbors from Tennessee or Virginia.

  The entire community mourned when we received news of our first casualty, a young man named Ary Rot who died in Louisville—not from battle injuries but from one of the many diseases that swept through the army camps that cold winter. In December Arie wrote that they were leaving Louisville and marching south through the state of Kentucky to the city of Bowling Green. The weather is cold and snowy. The fences throughout the countryside are disappearing as they’re turned into firewood. But after living in Michigan all my life where the weather is much colder and snowier than down here, I’m not bothered by the winter weather at all.

  Nine-year-old Christina wrote to her brother nearly every day, even when there was nothing new to say. She told him every detail of her life at school and at church and even what Maarten was printing that day in the shop. I feared we would go broke paying for postage but Arie insisted that Christina’s long-winded letters cheered him and the other Holland boys. One payday, Arie sent money home to his sister, writing, I was thinking of you today and remembering how we used to walk over to the store on Eighth Street to buy a handful of penny candy. Tell Jakob to take you there for me so you can enjoy a little treat.

  Arie’s regiment stayed in Kentucky for nearly a year. He described how mountainous the region was compared to the flatlands of Michigan and told about the earthworks they had built in the woods above the Green River to prevent the Confederates from crossing it. We can’t let the Rebels through, he wrote, or they’ll be able to take control of our main Union supply line and attack Louisville. On the Fourth of July in 1863, the Rebels attempted to do just that. We read in the newspaper that a battle had taken place, but it was nearly a week before we received a letter from Arie describing the fight. The suspenseful days in between were a test of our faith and led to several sleepless nights. He described the battle this way when his letter finally arrived:

  The Rebs thought we’d be easy targets with only two hundred of us against more than two thousand of them. We saw their cavalry coming at sunrise and we opened fire. They answered with an artillery bombardment, wounding two of our men. A short time later they had the nerve to send their officers forward waving a flag of truce, telling us we’d better surrender and stop the bloodshed since we were outnumbered ten-to-one and certain to lose. Of course we refused, and not long afterward when the fighting started up again, our Michigan sharpshooters were able to take out their gun batteries. The Rebs attacked us seven or eight times over the next three hours—believe me, it felt like three days to us—but we kept sending them back. They finally gave up and waved the white flag again, asking if they could pick up their wounded and bury their dead. We let them do it, then they turned around and headed south. That was the last we heard of them. Colonel Moore says we have a right to be proud of ourselves, fighting so hard against a force that was ten times the size of ours.

  Arie and the other Holland soldiers thanked God for their victory. Thirty-one of them took up a collection and sent the money home with a note to Dominie Van Raalte: With gratitude to God for sparing them in the battle of Green River, the undersigned send a contribution to Kingdom causes. The Battle of Green River was of great interest and importance to our little community, but it was overshadowed in the national news by a horrific series of battles that had taken place at the same time in a little Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg.

  As the war dragged on and on into another dreadful year, casualties among our area men began to mount. Every day brought news of Union setbacks and victories, with more and more deaths and appalling injuries. Every day we gathered with other worried families on a downtown street corner not far from the print shop to listen to the news as it was read aloud, holding our breaths as we waited to see if one of our Hollan
d boys was listed among the wounded or dead. Whenever a local boy’s name was read, the outbursts of grief nearly broke my heart. These bereaved mothers often begged me to come home with them and pray with them. I’m not sure why they always asked for me. Perhaps because they knew I didn’t expect them to keep up a façade of unwavering faith and trust when they were hurting. In the privacy of their bedrooms and kitchens and parlors, I gave them the freedom to weep and mourn and ask, “Why my son? Why would God take one so young, so full of life and promise?” When we attended church and countless funerals, we were all obliged to be courageous and present a picture of steadfast faith. But when we were alone, we helped each other find strength in God and in a sense of His nearness. I can truly say that He was always with us. Always. We emerged with our faith forged stronger, the façade no longer a false front.

  Our boys in the 25th Michigan Infantry continued to make their way south, and by mid-July of 1864 they were within sight of Atlanta, Georgia. Arie complained of the terrible heat in his letters and the continuous bombardment of Rebel shells. After much anticipation and worry, the Battle of Atlanta was finally fought on July 22. We rejoiced in the news of a Union victory, but it had come at a terrible price—more than 3,600 Union casualties. Our community waited in suspense for the list of names to be read. Maarten and I were standing on the street corner listening together, when we heard our son’s name—Arie de Jonge—listed among the wounded. We had no way of knowing how seriously he had been injured. I collapsed into Maarten’s arms.

  “We must stay strong,” he said as he helped me walk home. “Arie’s life is in God’s hands now, and that’s the safest place to be.”

  I trembled for such a long time that I didn’t know how I would be able to make supper. With no information about Arie’s wounds, my fearful heart imagined the worst. I would need the support of my friends more than ever to remain strong. Then another worry occurred to me. “How will we tell the children?” I asked Maarten. “They’ll be home from school soon. You know how Christina adores her brother.”

  “I’ll walk to the school and meet them,” he replied. “I’ll tell them as much as we know. We’ll pray together as a family. God is merciful.”

  “I’m worried about how this will affect Christina’s faith. She’s been praying for her brother’s safety, and now she may feel as though God has let her down. It’s hard enough for me to understand God’s ways—and she’s just a child.”

  “Even children need to learn to respect God’s sovereignty,” Maarten replied. “Yes, He hears our prayers, but He isn’t manipulated by them. She needs to understand the difference.”

  “Maarten, I’m not sure I always understand the difference. We’ve taught Christina that Jesus can do miracles. That God can do the impossible, that He answers prayer. How will we explain this to her?”

  “We’ll do the best we can. Her faith will be tested, just like ours is being tested. And I imagine Arie’s faith is being tested, too.”

  A few agonizing days later, we received a letter from our son’s commanding officer with more details. Arie’s left knee had been badly shattered by a Confederate musket ball, and he had been moved to a hospital in Marietta, Georgia, for surgery. Another week passed before we finally received a short letter from Arie, his handwriting shaky and uneven, saying that he was still alive and that he loved us. But I read his despair between every line when he told us the doctors had been forced to amputate his leg.

  Weeks passed with no word from him. We all felt sick with dread. Christina wrote countless letters to him and prayed so hard that I feared her faith would shatter if Arie didn’t survive. At last another letter arrived, but it was addressed only to me. The handwriting wasn’t Arie’s. I had to sit down to read it as the strength drained from my body.

  Dear Mama,

  A volunteer is writing this letter for me since I’m too weak to do it. I’ve been transferred by train to Jefferson General Hospital in Port Fulton, Indiana. It’s just across the Ohio River from Louisville, Kentucky, where this long war began for me. I’m sorry to say that my leg isn’t healing right, and I have a fever that I can’t seem to shake. I’m in so much pain that I don’t think I can go on this way much longer. I’m not sure I want to. Please don’t let Christina read this. I don’t want her to know that I’m in a bad way. Don’t grieve for me, Mama. I’m not afraid to die. I’m much more afraid to live the rest of my life this way. I love you and Papa so much. Tell Gerrit and Jakob and Christina that I love them, too. And tell Christina she will always be my favorite girl.

  Love,

  Arie

  There are no words to describe the helplessness I felt. I ran to the print shop to show the letter to Maarten. When he finished reading it, he stumbled over to the chair behind his desk and sank down on it. He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he gazed sightlessly toward the window that faced the street. “What are we going to do?” I asked him. He didn’t reply. The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of the printing press, like an urgent heartbeat. “We can’t let Arie die all alone down there, Martin. We need to go to Indiana to see him, to be with him.”

  Martin finally looked up at me. “We can’t just drop everything and go. Besides, it won’t change the outcome if we’re there. God holds Arie’s life in His hands, and we have to trust Him to know what’s best.”

  I was so angry I wanted to strike him. “How can you abandon our son this way?”

  Tears filled Maarten’s dark eyes as he stood and took my hands. “I’m not abandoning him. I’m as devastated by this as you are. The only things I know to do are to keep praying and to keep working. Arie loves this print shop. It’s his future, God willing. I need to make sure it’s thriving when he gets home.”

  Maarten would find comfort in his work, but I knew I would find none in mine. If I returned home, every little thing would remind me of Arie—the chair at the table where he sat, the empty hook where he hung his coat, his narrow bed, still neatly made up the way he had left it, the book he’d been reading still lying on the bedside table. I couldn’t recall feeling this despondent since hearing that Hendrik’s ship had sunk.

  Maarten and I were still standing together when the door to the print shop opened and the little bell above it jangled. Maarten released my hands, and I turned around. Hendrik stood in the doorway. Was I imagining things? I couldn’t take my gaze from him, afraid he would disappear. It had been years since I’d last seen him, but he looked unchanged, still as tall and golden and muscular as the first time he’d walked through our print shop door in Arnhem.

  “Hendrik. Good to see you,” Maarten said, walking past me to greet him. “What brings you here today?”

  “I read in the newspaper that your son was wounded. I came to see how you were doing and if you needed anything.”

  “Yes, yes he was wounded,” I stammered. “They moved him to a military hospital near Louisville, but . . .” I wanted to take three steps forward and move closer to Hendrik, but I stayed rooted in place.

  “I imagine the news has hit you both pretty hard.”

  “It’s the uncertainty,” Maarten said. “The waiting. Yet I know God hears our prayers.”

  My tears, which had remained so close to the surface these past weeks, spilled over and rolled down my face. “Arie lost his leg, and he doesn’t want to live,” I said. “I feel so . . . so helpless!”

  Hendrik shook his head in sympathy. “That’s a terrible feeling. But Louisville isn’t that far. Is it possible to travel to the hospital to see him?”

  Maarten spoke before I could. “We would like to, but we can’t leave the shop. We’re very shorthanded with all the young men off fighting the war.”

  “I understand. It’s been hard for me to find good farmhands, too.”

  “We can trust God while we wait,” Maarten said. “Arie is safe in His hands.”

  “Yes,” Hendrik said. “That’s a comfort.”

  I wiped my tears as they continued to fall. Hendrik wa
s here, right in front of me, talking to me—to us. Yet I felt numb to his presence and the love I once felt for him, my mind and my heart on my dying son. I felt like something inside me was slowly dying along with him.

  “I should go,” Hendrik said. “I have some errands to run in town, but I wanted to let you know you’re in my prayers.”

  Maarten reached to shake his hand. “Thank you. It was very good of you to come.”

  It occurred to me that Hendrik had come to see Maarten, not me. He couldn’t have known that I would be in the shop. He paused in the doorway before leaving and looked at me. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

  I walked through the next few days feeling numb. My fear for our son crushed me like an enormous weight as I prayed for him. Everywhere I looked, something reminded me of Arie. I needed to escape, so on a cool September day I went outside to dig the potatoes from our garden. The work was tiring, and I knew I should let Maarten or one of the boys do it, but stabbing the ground with the shovel and turning over the sandy earth to reveal the newly grown potatoes helped me deal with my warring emotions. I longed to go see my son, but my husband said we couldn’t. Seeing Hendrik again made me realize the importance of every word we spoke to our loved ones, every decision we made concerning them. Our time on earth with these dear ones was so fleeting.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I didn’t go see Arie and something did happen to him, I would regret it for the rest of my life. And I already had too many regrets. I abandoned the shovel and the half-filled basket of potatoes in the garden and went inside the house. I washed my face and hands, took off my dirty apron, and rebraided my hair before pinning it up. Then I calmly walked to the print shop and said to Maarten, “I’ve decided to go to the military hospital to see Arie. If I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

  He gestured to the laboring printing press, working at full speed to print the latest news of the war. “No one else knows how to operate this machine without me.”