THE THOMAS PLANTATION, now a five-thousand-acre hunting reserve, recreation park, farm, and cafe sprawled ten square miles between county road twenty-three and Thomas Briar Creek Road in Waynesboro, Georgia.
William Jr.’s grandfather, John Thomas, had built the two-story colonial home, painted white with green shutters, and a red brick fireplace in the late 1700s. The plantation had been William’s home when he was a boy. Later, when he became a man, he built his own home near the river.
As Jack stood among the pines and the towering barren birch trees, he remembered his childhood home fondly. The relief he’d found under the hickory tree from the penetrating summer sun. The smell of sulfur rising from his hunting rifle when he shot his first deer. His mammie scolding him for stealing warm, fresh-baked cookies. He swore she had eyes on the back of her head. Jack smiled at this thought.
The homes and buildings which once stood with pride on the Thomas Plantation no longer existed. What the war didn’t demolish, the fire did. Now, all Jack had was this small plot of land where he now stood. Land where his family laid to rest.
Despite December’s cool temperatures, Jack found some comfort here. The grass was sparse, intermittent with scuffs of dirt. A variety of trees and ornamental foliage, though lackluster now, outlined the small area.
Flat marble headstones, evenly placed, dotted the ground inside an iron fence enclosure. At 6’3, jet black hair, ice-blue eyes with a soldier’s physique, Jack stood at his headstone, staring at his death, his body above ground. ‘William Thomas Jr. Born 1840. Died 1867. Forever a son, husband, and father,’ his headstone read.
The flowers he held became weighted. His grip squeezed the stems. With a sigh, he placed the flowers on the graves next to his. This wasn’t an easy visit, and it had been five years since the last time he was here. He needed to see his wife and daughter. More now than ever.