Christmas Bells (21 page)

Muffy and Graham had bought them a beautiful residence
in the Back Bay as a wedding gift, far more spacious and luxurious than their town house in the capital. Since they finally had enough room, as a gift for their first anniversary, Camille presented Paul with a magnificent Shigeru Kawai grand piano. “I heard somewhere that the first anniversary is the musical instrument year,” she teased as Paul stood staring in wonderment at the beautiful, gleaming piano, struck speechless with amazement and delight.

“Paper,” he said, stepping forward to test the Middle-C key, shaking his head at the pure, rich, perfect tone. “I'm pretty sure the first anniversary is paper.”

“I have that covered.” She lifted the top of the bench to reveal a storage space, which she had filled with sheet music.

He often told her that he had never received a more wonderful gift, and she always replied that the piano had really been a gift to herself, for she loved to hear him play. Whenever they were at home rather than traveling throughout the state to meet with constituents or around the globe to meet world leaders, he played for her every day, bright American standards to start the morning, elegant classical music to unwind after supper.

Paul played with such skill and passion and obvious joy it was perhaps inevitable that clumsy notes in the lower register were the first signs of his illness.

At first he blamed infrequent practice, as the demands of the Senate kept him from playing as often as he liked. When the problem persisted, they both attributed it to fatigue or too much caffeine or the natural process of aging, which they ruefully bemoaned and resolved to resist tooth and claw. Then Camille noticed the faint tremor in his left hand; she asked how long it had afflicted him, and shocked by the answer, she insisted that he see his doctor at once.

It was Parkinson's disease, his doctor told them, suggesting they seek a second opinion with a specialist just to be sure. The
specialist confirmed the original diagnosis, as they had dreaded, as they had expected he would.

For years they were able to keep the knowledge of Paul's illness within the family and their innermost circle of friends, but as his condition deteriorated, his most trusted aides were informed, and the party leadership. Camille assisted Paul in every way she could, compensating for his exhaustion and distraction, and disguising his physical symptoms to the extent she was able.

Despite the doctor's recommendation that Paul avoid stress and fatigue, his work took on a new urgency. He redoubled his efforts to push important measures through the Senate, and he called in favors he had been saving for a prolonged political career that had suddenly become unlikely. They had good days when they thrived on their work and accomplished so much that they almost forgot his disease. They had bad days when friends warned them that sharp-eyed observers had noticed Paul's tremor and rumors were circling that he was suffering from alcoholic withdrawal. The worst day came when Paul sat down at the piano, attempted a simple étude, and discovered he could no longer play.

That was the only time Camille saw him weep for all he had lost, for all the inevitable losses yet to come.

The beautiful piano sat in their living room for months, untouched except for regular dusting by the housekeeper. Camille wished she had learned to play, but as a young girl she had endured three years of piano lessons until her constant complaining wore down her exasperated parents and they had allowed her to quit. The piano had brought them so much joy, but to see it silent and neglected day after day brought them immeasurable pain.

Paul had confided this to his priest, but it was Sister Winifred who suggested they donate the piano to St. Margaret's. The music ministry still used the tinny upright Paul had picked out tunes
upon as a choirboy, and it was an ongoing struggle to keep it in tune. “You can come and visit it whenever you like,” the white-haired nun promised cheerfully when they lingered at the church one Sunday after Mass. “I have it on the highest authority that it belongs here and will do untold good.”

“Highest authority—does she mean God?” Camille asked Paul in an incredulous whisper afterward as she helped him down the front stairs to the car. “Does she mean that God speaks to her directly, and that he put in a special request for your piano?”

“It
is
a magnificent piano,” Paul reminded her, and Camille had to agree he made a fair point.

They were longtime anonymous benefactors of St. Margaret's, the church where Paul had been baptized, where his family had worshipped, where his parents had married. They had paid for a new roof when insurance fell short, they had funded the complete revamping of the aging HVAC system, and they always contributed generously to annual appeals. Donating the piano was simply another way to honor the church that had played such an important role in Paul's upbringing, and that continued to sustain them through their most recent, most arduous trial.

It was heart-wrenching, and yet a relief too, when the movers came to transport the piano to its new home. And what an unexpected joy it was to hear it played again whenever they returned to Boston. The young accompanist for the children's choir lacked Paul's extraordinary talent, yet he was a fine pianist, playing with skill and heart, and when the children sang along, the music they created was as close to divine as Camille ever expected to hear on Earth.

Paul had intended to break the news of his illness in his own time, after he had prepared himself for the onslaught of sympathy and premature eulogies that would surely follow, but someone leaked his medical records to the press, and suddenly he found himself in a maelstrom of lamentations from his
supporters and accusations of deception from his opponents. Camille stood by his side at the hastily arranged press conference on the steps of the Capitol in which he acknowledged the truth and vowed to keep fighting in the Senate for as long as he was able.

Camille had never been prouder of him, never more inspired by his boundless determination, his deep humility.

Near the end, Camille had for all practical purposes taken over all of his duties that could be performed from his office. Then came the day he asked to go home, and she knew he meant their Boston residence. He declined most visitors and went out rarely, but once a week, and sometimes twice, he asked to be taken to St. Margaret's to listen to the children's choir and the beautiful piano Camille had given him for their first anniversary nearly thirty years before.

And then Paul was gone, and forevermore Camille would sit alone in the pew where they had once listened together.

She felt his presence strongly there, and it comforted her even as it made her miss him all the more. When she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that her beloved husband rather than the young accompanist sat at the piano, bringing forth rich, sonorous music, as marvelous and ephemeral as life itself.

“What now?” she heard herself murmur aloud. She had devoted the last few years and every ounce of her time, energy, and attention to caring for Paul, to doing all she could to help him fulfill his life's ambitions in the time remaining to him. She had focused so determinedly upon that vocation that she had given no thought to what might follow. She had plans for the immediate future, to be sure. Listening to the rest of choir practice. Attending the benefit dinner for Boston Children's Hospital. Hosting the best Christmas she could manage for Paul's grieving family. Clearing out his Boston offices, followed by those in Washington. But that would see her only through the end of January,
at most. What then? How would she fill the empty days, the lonely years, after those last duties were completed?

The future, once so rich with possibilities with Paul by her side, now stretched out before her like an unfathomable void, impossible to fill.

March–June 1863

Charley had run off to join the army without receiving his father's blessing, without informing him of his intentions. Heartsick, Henry folded the letter, fumbled it into his waistcoat pocket, and went in search of Ernest, calling his name as he strode through the house. The alarm in his voice brought his younger son running, but when Henry queried him, Ernest denied knowing anything of his elder brother's plans. His look of shocked abandonment convinced Henry that he spoke the truth.

The Portland postmark was almost certainly a ruse meant to mislead pursuers and give Charley a few days' head start, but it was a clue nonetheless. Charley's good friend and third cousin George Rand resided in Portland; in all likelihood he was the accomplice who had posted Charley's letter and might know his plans. After Henry had determined that no one at Craigie House had any idea where Charley had gone, he wrote to his headstrong, impulsive son, though he harbored little hope that he could persuade him to abandon his reckless scheme and come home.

Camb. March 14 1863.

My Dear Charley,

Your letter this morning did not surprise me very much, as I thought it probable you had gone on some such mad-cap expedition. Still you have done very wrong; and I hope you will so see it and come home again at once.

Your motive is a noble one; but you are too precipitate. I have always thought you, and still think you, too young to go into the army. It can be no reproach to you, and no disgrace, to wait a little longer; though I can very well understand your impatience.

As soon as you receive this, let me know where you are, and what you have done, and are doing.

All join in much love to you. I have not yet told anyone of your doings, but have said only that you are in Portland, that being the Postmark on your letter.

Ever affectionately

H. W. L.

Next Henry wrote to his sister Anne in Portland to inform her of the family's latest troubles, and to implore her to ask family and friends to search Portland for Charley in case he was indeed in the city. “He is under a strange delusion,” Henry lamented, “and I hope he will think better of it and come back. He is altogether too young to go into the army.” If Charley were found before he enlisted, he should be sent home immediately, preferably with an escort. If he were found too late, Henry asked that they arrange for Charley to be suitably outfitted before he departed for the front lines. “Please give the enclosed note of mine for Charley to George Rand,” Henry concluded, writing swiftly, frantically, as if minutes would make all the difference. “He is evidently in the secret, and will know where to find him.”

Henry continued his desperate search through letters and
telegrams, and a few days later, he received a letter from Captain William Henry McCartney, a Boston lawyer serving with the First Battery Massachusetts Volunteer Light Artillery, which solved the mystery of Charley's disappearance but otherwise brought Henry little comfort.

Camp Batty “A” Massacts

Brooks Div 6 Army Corps

March 12th 1863.

To H W Longfellow Esq.

Sir:

Yesterday in coming from Philadelphia to this camp I was met by your Son: who desired to enlist in my Battery. I knew him by sight; and being as you may well suppose somewhat surprised; I began to question him—I ascertained that he was both clandestinely absent from his home, and very determined to enlist as a private Soldier. Indeed I learned that he had actually applied to be received in the Regular Infantry but had been rejected on account of the loss of a thumb. I did not consider him the proper person to enlist—as he was evidently intending—Then for the purpose of retaining him and in order to prevent his enlisting elsewhere I promised him to receive him as a recruit. I took him into my Hotel, and brought him down here this PM. He has made me promise to enlist him tomorrow, under pain if I don't that he will go elsewhere; and where he is not known, and enlist. My object in writing you Sir—is to inform you; that I shall endeavor to make him suppose; that he is enlisted lawfully—and so to keep him here: until I shall be advised by you in the matter. He is very shrewd. So much so, that I was utterly unable to advise you last night, in Washington, of his whereabouts. So constantly did he look after me. I beg leave to add Sir that I
have taken these steps both on account of the respect; which I entertain for his family, and for his own sake.

I am Sir

with much respect

W H McCartney

Capt Comdg—

P.S. I have to beg as a favor, that he may not know: that you receive this information from me.

Thunderstruck, Henry was nonetheless relieved to know where Charley was, that he was under Captain McCartney's protection, and that the illusion that he had been properly enlisted would prevent him from running off to another unit that would take him in readily, gladly. Though Charley was encamped on the Rappahannock, safely beyond the range of the Confederate guns, he was still too close to danger for Henry's peace of mind—and since General Hooker was a fighting general, McCartney's artillery battery would surely soon move upon the fields of war.

Resigned to Charley's decision, knowing that he was likely to do more harm than good if he tried to extricate him from the army by coercion, Henry resolved instead to secure Charley a commission. The idea of wielding whatever influence his fame and fortune offered to maneuver Charley into a place of privilege he had not earned pricked at Henry's egalitarian conscience, but he could not refrain from doing all that he could for his boy. He knew well that even junior officers received better food, housing, supplies, and medical care than the most experienced enlisted man—and the harrowing accounts of exchanged prisoners of war confirmed that captured officers received significantly better treatment in Confederate prisons, often making the difference between survival and death. Charley was Henry's firstborn son, and although he had enlisted without his consent, Henry could
not bear to punish him by refusing to provide whatever relative comforts and protection he could.

On March 17, Henry wrote to Sumner, seeking his advice, asking him to call on Captain McCartney if possible, to intervene however necessary to make Charley an officer. As soon as the letter was posted, Henry set out to call on his friend and editor James Fields to ask him to speak with Governor Andrew on Charley's behalf, but along the way he encountered a military funeral, and the sight so upset him that he returned home and wrote Fields a letter instead. He next wrote to Dr. Edward B. Dalton, a longtime family friend and the medical inspector of the Sixth Army Corps, requesting that he pay a surprise visit on Charley in camp and to report back with all haste.

Before evening fell on that long, distressing day, Henry sent off two more letters, written with great reluctance and pain. The first was to Captain McCartney to inform him that he could proceed with Charley's enlistment ceremony, for Henry knew that withholding his permission, which the captain had sought out of respect and not legal obligation, would only delay the inevitable. The last letter was to Charley, expressing his love, and that of all the family, and assuring him that he would not insist that Charley return home.

Anxious and increasingly melancholic, Henry awaited word from his eldest son, making do in the interim with secondhand reports from friends. Sumner was the first to reply to his frantic series of letters, informing Henry that he had written to Charley and had invited him to Washington, surmising that Charley would be more amenable to persuasion if he were separated from his would-be comrades in arms. Not surprisingly, Charley had easily detected the stratagem and had replied that he would be most happy to visit Senator Sumner in Washington—after the war was over or his three-year term of service fulfilled.

“I feel better about Charley now than I did at first,” Sumner
acknowledged, “partly from thinking of his case, and partly from what has been said to me by others.” He had sought advice from Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, who understood Henry's circumstances as well as any father could, for he too had a son who had enlisted without permission. When his son first began agitating to join the army, Secretary Stanton had enrolled him in college in Ohio to remove him from temptation, but soon thereafter his son left school to join up with a Union regiment in Tennessee. Three hundred similar cases had been presented to him at the War Department by parents seeking advice or action, and Secretary Stanton had absolute confidence that the course he had taken with his own son was appropriate for Henry too. “He left his own son in the ranks,” Sumner explained, “fully and fairly to try the life he had selected.” Secretary Stanton also urged them not to secure Charley a commission “until he had really earned it,” for rewarding his deception with a high rank and a staff would encourage “idleness and vulgar dissipations.”

After kindly promising to do whatever he could for Charley, Sumner encouraged Henry to accept the young man's decision and let him make his own way. “I see clearly that this act is the natural cropping out of Charley's character,” Sumner added. “It was
in
him to do so, and, I believe also, it will be
in
him to persevere. I doubt if you could change him. You could not win him back. He could not return without mortification, that would be worse than any experience before him.”

Henry could imagine an infinite number of terrible experiences on the battlefield that would be far worse than any embarrassment Charley might suffer if he were persuaded to come home. Even so, Sumner's sympathetic, rational letter—and Secretary Stanton's wisdom born of experience—helped Henry reconcile himself to the misadventure. So too did the report from Dr. Dalton following his surprise visit to Charley in camp. “He was glad to hear from you,” the doctor wrote, “sent his love, &
says he is as happy as a lark all day long—likes his captain, thinks himself very fortunate in getting into this Battery, & says he is ‘the luckiest bird round,' & would not leave for anything.” Dr. Dalton vowed to look after Charley and care for him personally should he fall ill, but he assured Henry that the battery was encamped on good ground, with no especial danger of disease.

Taking what comfort he could from his friends' reassurances and advice, Henry sought distraction and solace in Dante as he had so often before, translating a canto each day, staving off depression and paralyzing fear with the beauty of the Italian language and the magnificence of the poet's vision. His
Sudbury Tales
was going to press, still in want of a more elegant title, and he had a good deal of correspondence to attend to on its behalf. But distractions were not remedies.

At long last the post brought a letter from Charley himself, his pride and exuberance fairly leaping off the page. “You dont know how glad I am to hear that you wont make me come back,” he wrote, entirely mistaking Henry's restraint for approval. “I would not back out now for anything in the world.” He was in the best Massachusetts battery, he boasted, and their captain was “a tip top soldier,” and with great enthusiasm he described guard duty, the “little huts” in which the soldiers slept, recent snows, drills undertaken, horses tended, comrades befriended. “If I had taken my pick of our whole army I don't think I could have joined anything more to my idea than this Battery,” he declared, unwittingly paining Henry with every word. Charley concluded his letter with a request for certain essential belongings—his India-rubber coat, his largest pair of brogans, a few cents' worth of matches, whatever preserves the family could spare from the larder—and he warned Henry to fasten the box securely, for nearly every shipment received by the battery of late had been broken into during transit and half the contents removed.

Henry immediately set himself to the task of gathering the
things Charley required, his efforts mechanical, a strange, fatalistic grief welling up within him. Somehow Charley's first letter from the encampment marked a milestone, a point beyond which he would not return home except as a veteran soldier—if he returned at all. Henry fought back tears as he bound up the parcel, the twine digging painfully into his hands as he pulled the strands fiercely tight.

“Would you like some help?”

It was Ernest, lingering tentatively in the study doorway. “Yes, please, my dear boy,” said Henry, forcing heartiness into his voice. Ernest hurried over and helped him hold the twine, tie the knots, and cut the loose ends, and when all was done to Henry's satisfaction, Ernest offered to see the box sent on its way.

Ernest picked up the parcel, but he hesitated before carrying it off. “Papa?”

“Yes, Ernie?”

“I understand the trouble and worry Charley has caused, even if he doesn't.” Ernest shifted the box in his arms, and suddenly Henry was struck by the realization that Charley's impetuous act had placed a very real burden of worry upon his younger siblings, one that in his fears for his eldest son Henry had neglected to assuage. “I want you to know that even though I'm almost eighteen, and I love my country no less than Charley does, I promise I'll never enlist without your permission.”