Christmas Bells (7 page)

George Washington had once looked out upon the view Henry now regarded, had surely contemplated the future of his fledgling nation as Henry was doing. Henry could only hope that the Illinois lawyer and onetime congressman who would soon succeed him would prove to be as capable a leader. The nation's very survival depended upon it.

Less than a fortnight later, and only a few days after the Washington peace conference sputtered to an ignominious end after resolving nothing, Abraham Lincoln took the oath of office on the East Portico of the Capitol and became the sixteenth president of the United States. His inaugural address appeared in the evening papers, and Henry was pleased by the simple eloquence of his words, the clarity and compassion of his thought. His foremost duty was to preserve the Union, the new president had told a crowd of 30,000 massed on the muddy Capitol grounds on a raw, blustery day that had miraculously given way to sunshine just as he began to speak. Yet Mr. Lincoln had also addressed the
fears of the Southern people, emphatically stating that he had no intention of interfering with slavery where it existed, and that even though the Fugitive Slave Law was offensive to many, he felt bound by the Constitution to enforce it.

That position, Henry and Fanny agreed, would not play well in progressive Boston, but her citizens would cheer his assertion that despite the claims of certain factions, according to the Constitution and the law, the Union was not and could not be broken. “‘We are not enemies, but friends,'” Henry read aloud to Fanny in their chairs by the fireside while Charley and Alice paused in a game of checkers to listen. “‘We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.'”

“Our new president has something of the poet in him,” remarked Fanny, smiling.

“That can only be to the benefit of us all,” Henry replied, “just as any poet who writes for the world beyond his own threshold should have something in his nature of the statesman.”

•   •   •

As spring came to Massachusetts, newly elected governor John Andrew, who had taken office in January, began preparing the state militia for whatever conflict might come. Men who were no longer fit for active service were replaced by stronger, more vigorous men capable of responding swiftly to an emergency call, like their Minutemen forefathers. The state legislature procured $100,000 to outfit the troops with new overcoats, blankets, and knapsacks, and the men's training was redoubled.

Though no enemy ventured near the borders of the
Commonwealth, Governor Andrew's preparations seemed warranted when word came to Washington, and from thence spread throughout the North, that Major Anderson had informed his superiors that his garrison must be supplied with provisions by April 15, or they must be withdrawn.

Henry did not envy Mr. Lincoln his high office, for even King Solomon would have been stymied by the choice the new president then faced. If he withdrew the federal garrison from Fort Sumter, he would tacitly acknowledge that Major Anderson's men occupied foreign soil, and that the Confederacy had become a separate, sovereign nation. If Mr. Lincoln defied South Carolina's demands and dispatched supplies to the starving soldiers, the South would view it as an act of aggression tantamount to a declaration of war.

While people throughout the divided land waited for Mr. Lincoln to decide, a hint that secret diplomatic efforts were going on at a frantic pace came to the Longfellows from a most unexpected source. One evening, after they dined with Fanny's parents at their elegant home in Beacon Hill, her father waited until the youngsters had been excused from the table before informing their parents that he had received a letter from his first cousin, William Appleton, still serving proudly in Congress at age seventy-five. “My cousin departed from New York on the afternoon of the ninth aboard the steamer
Nashville
,” Nathan said. “He is, at this moment, en route to Charleston.”

“Charleston,” exclaimed Fanny, exchanging an astonished glance with Henry. “Whatever for?”

“His exact words as he wrote them,” her father said, raising his eyebrows and casting a significant glance around the table, “were, ‘I give the purpose for my excursion as reasons of health.'”

“An intriguing turn of phrase,” said Henry. “How likely is it that the purpose he gives is not his true purpose, or at least not his only one?”

“If he has any other impetus for undertaking this journey,” said Nathan, “he didn't wish to entrust it to a letter.”

“And yet, we can but wonder,” said Fanny's stepmother. “William has been dreadfully unhappy since his wife passed last year, and lately he's been afflicted by a painful, persistent cough. It may very well be that he does travel for the sake of
his
constitution, not
the
Constitution.”

“If that's so, why go to Charleston, of all places?” asked Fanny. “Isn't it terribly dangerous to sail there now?”

“If he is indeed on some clandestine mission to secure peace,” said Henry, “it may be far more dangerous if he does not go.”

The following day, Nathan sent word to Craigie House that he had received a telegram from his cousin noting that the
Nashville
had arrived off the Charleston Bar and was awaiting high tide so the ship could enter the harbor. Though apprehensive of what dire news it might contain, Henry looked forward to William Appleton's next telegram, and the lengthier accounts he would be able to provide upon his return to Boston. Henry trusted the eyewitness impressions of a man he knew more than anonymous accounts in the press, which too often were frustratingly inaccurate and overwrought.

But before Nathan heard from his cousin again, the Boston papers blazed with terrible news: At half past four o'clock on the morning of Friday, April 12, Confederate batteries had opened fire on Fort Sumter. “The War Begun!” the headlines in the
Boston Daily Advertiser
raged. “The South Strikes the First Blow! The Southern Confederacy Authorizes Hostilities!” Major Anderson had returned fire, but the federal fleet had not responded, though three war steamers had arrived off the Bar.

“One of those ships is surely Cousin William's,” Fanny said as she and Henry read the papers together. “Henry, what do you suppose has become of him?”

Henry quickly scanned the rest of the article. “There's no mention of the
Nashville
, and nothing to suggest that any federal ship came under fire. I'm sure he's safe and sound.”

He would not venture to say the same for Major Anderson and his men.

None of them slept well that night, and the next day, as reports from correspondents in the South began to appear in the Boston papers, the Longfellow and Appleton families urgently sought out every scrap of news and pieced together what had happened as best they could. They learned that thirty-four hours after the first bombshell exploded in the air above Fort Sumter, the soldiers' quarters had been burned to the ground, the main gates destroyed, the gorge wall seriously damaged, and the magazine surrounded by an impassible wall of flame, its door so warped from the heat that it could not be opened. The fort's flagstaff had been shot away, but the flag itself had been rescued and attached to a short spar, where it had become a target of rebel marksmen. The Union garrison had only three cartridges of powder remaining, and no food but a small ration of salt pork. The fort had sustained so much damage that it would have been indefensible even if, somehow, it could have been provisioned and reinforced. Only when Major Anderson concluded that his position was utterly untenable had he felt obliged to accept the terms of evacuation offered by General Beauregard: Major Anderson would be permitted to evacuate his command without surrendering his arms, and he and his men would be granted safe, unimpeded transport to the North.

The federal garrison evacuated the fort with great dignity, taking their tattered Stars and Stripes with them as they were escorted aboard a steamer and delivered to the Union ships waiting beyond the bar. Fort Sumter, so long bravely defended, was under Confederate control, and Charleston Harbor with it.

There was no news of the
Nashville
, but to their enormous
relief, on Sunday morning William Appleton telegraphed Nathan and other members of the family to assure them although the twelve-hour firefight had delayed his steamer from entering the harbor, he was now safely ashore in Charleston. They should not worry if he did not return to Boston immediately, for he intended to visit acquaintances, inspect plantations, and, if he could secure permission from General Beauregard, tour the battered Fort Sumter. He said nothing of the failure of his secret peace mission, if one had ever existed, but it was futile to wonder what might have been if his ship had arrived only a day earlier. The course had been set, and civil war had begun.

On April 15, three days after the surrender of Fort Sumter, President Lincoln issued a call for 75,000 militia to suppress the uprising, with a certain quota required from each state. Later that same day, Secretary of War Simon Cameron contacted Governor Andrew to formally request that he immediately send 1,500 troops to defend Washington City. In swift reply, the governor ordered four Massachusetts regiments, more than 3,000 men, to muster on Boston Common forthwith, uniformed, fully outfitted, and prepared to depart at once for the capital.

Henry marveled as a new patriotic fervor swept through Boston and Cambridge. Old political divisions were set aside and dissent fell silent as outrage replaced sympathy for the South. Demands for a swift, forceful military response filled the streets and newspapers. Impromptu rallies and marches sprang up in parks and squares; the Stars and Stripes flew from nearly every mast and flagpole and balcony. Even the Democrats and the Irish, well known for their affinity for the South and their hostility toward the abolitionist cause, declared their support for the Union.

Late the next day, Henry read in the evening papers that earlier that morning, three companies of the Massachusetts Eighth Regiment had arrived in Boston. Despite strong winds and
torrential rainfall, they had marched from the depot to Faneuil Hall—banners waving, drums pounding, and fifes shrilling “Yankee Doodle”—where some of the men exchanged their old, smoothbore muskets for new rifles, and all were issued new overcoats.

Charley was so disappointed to have missed the spectacle that the following morning, as word spread that the Sixth Massachusetts had joined the Eighth in the city, Henry reluctantly agreed to take him and Ernest to observe their departure for Washington. At noon, Henry and his sons joined the throngs of eager onlookers lining Beacon Street and watched as the two regiments marched past and halted before the State House, proud and smartly attired in new uniforms, gleaming new rifles on their shoulders. His gaze riveted upon the soldiers standing at attention, Charley fairly quivered with excitement as Governor Anderson descended the broad staircase and presented the regimental colors to their colonel.

After the brief ceremony, the command rang out, and the regiments marched off past cheering crowds to the train station to board the cars that would carry them south to Washington City. Grinning, eyes shining with pride and admiration, Charley and Ernest applauded, shouted, and waved their caps in the air in a salute to the departing men.

“I'd do anything to be going with them right now,” Charley said fervently, nudging his younger brother. Ernest nodded vigorously in reply.

Henry felt a chill so intense he was obliged to suppress a shudder. Silently, as he had many times since hostilities erupted, he thanked God that his sons were too young to join the fight. The authorities expected the rebellion to be quelled within ninety days, time enough for tremendous loss of life and destruction of property, but short enough to spare his sons.

He could only hope and pray that the actuality would prove to be no worse than the predictions.

The Choirboy's Tale

Alex never meant to upset his mother, but sometimes things just happened. Sometimes, but not always, Charlotte was involved.

He never thought she would ever see his stupid vocabulary homework. Every week Mr. Donaldson gave the class ten new words, and they had to learn what they meant and how to spell them, and to prove it they had to use each in a complete sentence. Charlotte had really annoyed him at choir practice that day, and to make things worse, she was sitting across the kitchen table from him working on her homework as if there wasn't anything she'd rather be doing, when all he wanted was to get it over with so he could spend some of his screen time playing Minecraft. So when he saw that the first word was “hardship,” he wrote, “Having an older sister is a
hardship
.” After underlining the vocabulary word with a flourish, he pondered the next on the list before coming up with, “My sister thinks she is the best singer in the
entire
choir.” Inspiration struck, and one sentence after another came to him with astonishing swiftness: “She was
furious
when Miss
Sophia gave me the solo for the concert. She did not
congratulate
me because she was jealous. I
conclude
that I am a better singer than my sister. If she wants to sing better, she should
practice
like I do. She thinks it is
tragic
when she isn't the best at something. My sister should be more
humble
. She has lots of
envy
because I sing better than she does.” He struggled with the last word before finally settling upon “An
orchard
would be a weird place for a choir concert.”

He'd turned in the page of sentences, pleased with a job well done. The next day, Mr. Donaldson told him to stay behind while the rest of the class put on their coats and boots and went out to morning recess. “What did I do?” Alex asked dejectedly after the other, luckier, kids had left. He wasn't pretending. Most of the time he didn't realize he had done something wrong until he was being punished for it.

Mr. Donaldson studied him through rectangular glasses that made him look like he was constantly squinting. “Your vocabulary homework was . . . interesting.”

He didn't sound angry, which made Alex curious. “Yeah?”

“It was very creative of you to use the words in sentences that formed a complete paragraph.” When the teacher glanced at a paper on his desk, Alex stole a quick peek and recognized his homework, marked with the usual spattering of red ink. “Is it fiction or nonfiction?”

“Nonfiction, I guess.” They had learned the terms earlier in the semester, but from the way Mr. Donaldson was smiling, Alex suspected it was a trick question.

“I see.” Mr. Donaldson beckoned him forward and held out the paper. “I noted a few places where your grammar wasn't quite right or you didn't clearly define the word within the context of the sentence. Nothing major. However—” He winced slightly and shook his head. “I had your sister in class two years ago, and I wonder if you're being a little tough on her. What do you think?”

“I don't know.” Alex shrugged. “I guess. Maybe?”

“As I recall, Charlotte is a talented singer, and a very talented writer.” Mr. Donaldson smiled and handed Alex his homework. “Apparently it runs in the family. May I suggest that you not let your sister see this?”

“Okay.” Quickly Alex tucked the paper into his take-home folder. “Can I go to recess now, please?”

Mr. Donaldson gave him permission, so Alex threw on his coat and raced outside, where he found his friends sliding down a huge pile of snow the plow had left behind after clearing the parking lot. It was only later, after lunch, when his mind was wandering during math workshop, that he realized with a jolt that Mr. Donaldson had called him a good writer.

Charlotte would be so mad. He would wait for the perfect time to tell her.

Before he could, Charlotte found his homework, and totally freaked out, and then their mom got that sad, weary look on her face that never failed to make him feel ashamed of himself. He tried to explain that he really hadn't meant to hurt his sister's feelings when he had written all that stuff. He should have stopped there, but instead something compelled him to point out that everything he had written was his true opinion, and wasn't that better than lying?

“What you wrote isn't
true
,” Charlotte countered, her face red with rage. “It's just
mean
.”

“It can be both,” he insisted.

That was when their mom announced that there would be no television, no computers, no video games for the rest of the week. Charlotte didn't care about the loss of screen time—she had tons of books to read and homework to do and music to pound out on the piano—because to her the disgrace was an even worse punishment. But Alex cared. He felt the loss of Minecraft keenly, and after slogging through his homework, with nothing better to do
he went to his room to practice his choir solo. He left the door open, and he had barely finished the first measures when Charlotte stomped by, paused in the hall, and, careful not to break the off-limits barrier of his doorway, hissed, “You're doing that on purpose, you obnoxious little show-off.”

“Doing what?” he protested, but she had already disappeared into her own room and slammed the door. Oh, the solo. Right. Well, what was he supposed to do? Disobey Miss Sophia and not practice because it reminded his sister that he had been given the solo instead of her? That was just stupid. And
irresponsible
, which happened to be on that week's vocabulary list, although he'd have to think of a different sentence for it.

He knew Charlotte hated that he was a good singer. Of the two of them, she had always been the best at everything—better than Alex in school, at piano lessons, in keeping their rooms clean, in being cooperative, in helping around the house, in staying tidy, in remembering to wash hands before supper, in remembering to use soap, in everything.

•   •   •

When their mother drove them to choir practice the next afternoon, Charlotte closed her book and said, “You can just pull up in front and let us out, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey,” she replied, passing the church and pulling into the narrow parking lot in the alley, “but I'd rather walk in with you.”

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at Alex. “You mean, to make sure we get there.”

“It was only that one time,” he retorted. A few weeks before, their mother had been in a rush, so she had dropped them off at the curb with strict instructions to go straight inside. Charlotte had wanted to obey, but as soon as their mother had driven off,
Alex had heard dogs barking down the alley, and it sounded like they were fighting so he had to go see.

Charlotte had yelled at him to stop, to come back, but he ignored her. By the time he found the source of the excitement a block away—two dog walkers tangled in the leashes of three dogs, their angry insults drowned out by barking and snarling—she had caught up with him. “You can't go running off like that,” she had scolded. “Now we're going to be late.”

“You didn't have to follow me,” he had said, his gaze fixed on the spectacle across the street.

“Of course I did. You're just a little boy.”

He resented being called a little boy, considering that he had just started the fourth grade, so although he had seen all that he wanted of the battle of the dog walkers, he stayed right where he was to prove that Charlotte wasn't the boss of him. Even then, they were only fifteen minutes late by the time Lucas came searching for them, and although Miss Sophia looked worried she didn't yell. Their mother never would have known except Charlotte tattled.

As he climbed out of the car, Alex spotted Father Ryan sweeping the sidewalk from the parking lot to the side door. “Hi, Father Ryan,” he called, waving as they approached. “Nice hat. The Bruins are gonna crush the Penguins tomorrow.”

“You'd better believe it,” the priest said, grinning. His smile changed a little as he turned to their mother. “Hey, Laurie. How's everything going?”

She gave him a big smile. “Oh, everything's fine. The usual.”

“Have you heard from Jason?”

“Oh, sure. We hear from him all the time, don't we, kids?” She looked at Alex and Charlotte, nodding. Charlotte stared deliberately at her boots and shrugged, but Alex nodded happily back. “But you know how it is. The Internet over there is always
breaking down, and it takes forever to get online again, but as soon as it's fixed, we're going to get to chat with him again—”

“I get to talk with him first,” Alex broke in. “Mom promised. I want to make a rocket for the science fair and I have to ask Dad some stuff.”

Father Ryan nodded, his forehead wrinkled and serious. “That's wise. I've heard about you and rockets. It's best to consult with an expert first.” To Alex's mom, he added, “Please let me know if there's anything I can do.”

“Thank you, Ryan. I will.” Alex's mom and dad could call the priest Ryan instead of Father Ryan because he and their father were real friends and had been roommates in college. Alex's dad had showed him old pictures of Father Ryan from when he played hockey for Notre Dame and from when they had sung together in a men's choir there. Once his dad had said that after you've seen someone chug a yard it was a little difficult to call him “Father.” Alex had laughed, even though he didn't really get the joke—chugging a yard sounded more like football than hockey—but his mom had looked shocked and declared that his joke wasn't funny. But then she had smiled, so maybe it was funny after all.

“And tell Jason Merry Christmas from me when you speak with him,” Father Ryan said.

“Of course.” His mom gave Father Ryan another small smile, placed her hands on Alex's and Charlotte's backs, and steered them toward the door.

As they entered the church, the adults' last words sank in. “Wait a minute,” said Alex. “Why can't Father Ryan tell Dad Merry Christmas himself? Isn't Dad coming to church with us?”

“Of course not, honey,” said his mother, a little breathless, probably from the cold and from climbing the stairs. “Your dad is in Afghanistan.”

“I know that, but isn't he coming home for Christmas?”

“Dad won't be back until next summer,” said Charlotte, throwing a look at him over her shoulder. It was a familiar look, the one that said she couldn't believe she was related to such a dummy.

Alex stopped short on the landing. “But he'll miss the concert.”

His mother held open the door at the top of the stairs. “He's missed a lot of things. Come on, honey. We can't be late.”

Alex trudged up the stairs, heart dragging somewhere near the bottom of his chest. “But who will make gingerbread pancakes? Dad always makes us gingerbread pancakes on Christmas morning.”

To his shock, tears sprang into his mother's eyes. “I know you're disappointed, honey, and I am too. Maybe we can get something special from the bakery instead, okay? Would you like that?”

“Sure,” said Alex, because he knew there was no other acceptable answer and he didn't want to make his mother cry.

Inside the church, Alex and Charlotte shrugged out of their coats and scarves and left them on the pew next to their mother while they went to join the other singers in the choir. “Nice going,” Charlotte muttered as she flounced off to join the sopranos. Feeling slightly ill, Alex took his place between Finn and Logan. Lucas was sitting at the piano, but Miss Sophia wasn't around. Other kids were still arriving, Michael and Bruno and a bunch of girls.

“Michael, check it out,” Alex said, swinging his black music binder like a katana in slow motion and making a low howl just like he'd seen in a samurai movie. Michael grinned and blocked the thrust with his own binder-sword, and then Bruno and Finn joined the battle.

“I'll be right back,” said Lucas loudly all of a sudden, and he got up from the piano and ran off. Nobody answered him as far as Alex could tell, but that was all right because he returned a few
minutes later and announced that they were going to warm up even though Miss Sophia wasn't there.

As Lucas sat down at the piano and began to play, Alex glanced at his mom, who sat in a pew with her hat and coat on as if she wasn't planning to stay. He smiled at her as he sang, but even though she seemed to be staring straight at the choir, she didn't smile back. Her eyes looked like she was watching something a million miles away, something that made her sad and lonely.

She looked exactly the way Alex felt whenever he thought about his dad.

He wished eighteen months wasn't so long. He wished his dad was in the church right that minute, sitting next to his mom and holding her hand and making her smile. If Alex couldn't have that, at least not right away, he wished he could at least talk to his dad on the computer again. He really wanted to make a rocket for the science fair, but he knew his mom would never let him do so much as light a single match without adult supervision. She wouldn't let him do that even before that stupid fire, and the stupid fire had made everything worse.