Christmas Bells (23 page)

On the morning of May 28, vast throngs of Bostonians, white and colored alike, their expressions eager and earnest, lined the sidewalks as Henry made his way to the Appleton residence at 39 Beacon Street. There, from an upstairs window in the company of Appletons, Curtises, and other friends, he observed a spectacle that would have been inconceivable only a year before—colored soldiers marching through the streets of Boston to the Common, where they would be reviewed by Governor Andrew before embarking for duty in South Carolina.

Smartly dressed, splendidly equipped, and preceded by a full band of musicians, the men of the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts marched proudly and well, their expressions stern and stoic, their backs straight and eyes bright. The city resounded with glad shouts and thunderous applause so that Henry and his companions anticipated the regiment's arrival well before they turned onto Beacon Street.

When Colonel Shaw appeared on horseback at the head of the column, Henry watched him pass, marveling that someone so young would be called upon to fulfill so great a duty. Then his gaze traveled across the street and down the block to 44 Beacon Street, where the young officer's family watched proudly from the second-story balcony of the Shaw residence as the newly appointed colonel led his troops to meet the governor. Henry had never witnessed a more imposing spectacle, and he found it
somehow both wild and strange and invigorating, as if a hazy, distant dream had sprung to vivid life.

He watched, inexpressibly moved, as the regiment reached the bottom of the hill, turned left onto Charles Street, and marched toward the gate of Boston Common, where Governor Andrew and other dignitaries awaited them. In that glorious moment it seemed as if there might be no limit to what the colored race could accomplish in the years to come, unhindered by slavery, when peace reigned over a united nation.

Henry knew that when the ceremonies concluded at noon, the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts would march down State Street to Battery Wharf, board the steamer
De Molay,
and set out for South Carolina and for war. There was no doubt that their actions would be closely, even skeptically, observed and reported, and many people, North and South alike, would expect them to fail. Henry knew he was not alone in his glad satisfaction that men of color were at long last allowed to take part in the great conflict that would free their people from bondage. With their success and sacrifice, in victory and defeat, they would prove to a judgmental world the true strength, courage, and intelligence of their race, and not only freedom but true equality would surely follow.

•   •   •

A few days later, on a lovely spring morning ripe with the warm breezes and abundant flowers of early June, Henry and the girls sent off a box full of gifts to Charley, who would mark his nineteenth birthday one week hence. As the day approached, Henry felt his son's absence, and that of the beloved mother who had brought him into the world, ever more sharply. Henry could not explain why he found the summer even gloomier and more lonely than the winter, full of bittersweet memories and difficult to bear.

For some time Alice, Edith, and Anne had been imploring
him to take them to Portland to visit their dear aunt Anne, and Henry was inclined to oblige them. He delighted in pleasing his sweet little daughters—their smiles and kisses broke like sunbeams through his skies overcast with sorrow—and he believed a change of scene might do him some good.

Two days after Charley's birthday, Henry took the girls north to Portland, where family and friends welcomed them with affectionate joy. In the company of his sympathetic, compassionate sister, he felt something too long tightly bound up in his heart and head gently loosening, enabling him to sit quietly, peacefully, to breathe more deeply.

He scarcely had time to marvel at the unfamiliar sensation of contentment when it was brutally shattered by word from Dr. Dalton that Charley had been stricken with camp fever, and was so desperately ill that he was being evacuated to a military hospital in Washington.

Fighting off overwhelming dread, Henry entrusted his daughters to his sister's care and departed immediately for the capital. His train arrived at ten o'clock in the morning on June 13, but even in his haste to make inquiries and locate his ailing son, Henry was startled to discover that the city was so packed full of soldiers' tents and overcrowded hospitals that it seemed to be one vast military encampment.

At last Henry found his eldest son, not in one of the makeshift military hospitals as he had feared and expected, malodorous and full of stomach-turning horrors and disease, but in the private F Street residence of the Reverend James Richardson, Massachusetts-born Unitarian minister, prominent official with the United States Sanitary Commission, and good friend of Henry's brother Samuel.

Charley struggled to sit up in bed when Henry hurried into the sickroom. “No, my dear boy. Lie back,” Henry urged, easing him down upon the pillow.

“I'm not as ill as I might seem,” said Charley hoarsely.

“I'm sure you're not,” said Henry. His son's cheeks were flushed, his skin seeming taut and strangely translucent, his fever no doubt exacerbated by the stifling heat and humidity of the city. “But rest benefits even the healthiest of men, so you have no reason not to make good use of this comfortable bed.”

“It is far better than a cot in a tent,” Charley acknowledged, his voice no more than a rough whisper.

As dreadful as it was to see his firstborn ill, finding Charley able to speak, and even to joke, relieved Henry greatly, for he had expected to find him barely clinging to consciousness, tossing and turning, soaked through with fever sweat, delirious. As soon as Charley dozed off, Henry sought out the doctor, who assured him that although the fever was nothing to dismiss lightly, Charley presented no alarming symptoms that suggested his life was in danger. “He was doing far better this morning, until he decided to disobey orders and leave his bed,” Dr. Clymer said wryly. “Reverend Richardson managed to talk him out of taking a turn in the garden, but even descending the staircase was enough to bring about a relapse. He needs rest, Mr. Longfellow, rest and quiet.”

“He shall have them,” Henry replied firmly, “whether he wants them or not.”

For the next few weeks, Henry remained with Charley in Washington in the home of their generous host, rarely leaving his son's bedside. He arranged for a tent of blue gauze to be draped over his bed to keep off the harassing flies, and fed him a steady, nutritious diet of beef tea, blancmange, and ice cream, an especially welcome dish, sweet and soothingly cool upon the patient's sore throat. As a staunch homeopath, Henry was astounded by the vast quantity of mixtures, powders, and mysterious draughts Dr. Clymer insisted upon pouring into Charley. It staggered belief, but Henry held his tongue and followed instructions, for the doctor
had an excellent reputation for curing such cases and Henry dared not put Charley's recovery at risk. Even so, he preferred the prescriptions of Miss Dorothea Dix, the Superintendent of Women Nurses and occasional visitor to Charley's sickroom, who provided pure Bermuda arrowroot and homeopathic cocoa and recommended that they remove Charley from the oppressive climate of Washington as soon as he was able to travel.

Day by day Charley improved, and they began to hope that Dr. Clymer would soon release him so they might travel to Nahant. Miss Dix agreed that the fresh sea breezes and sunshine would quicken Charley's convalescence, but Dr. Clymer was reluctant to discharge him, warning that any disturbance could bring about another relapse.

To no one's surprise, as the fever abated and his strength returned, Charley became increasingly restless and bored confined to his sickbed. He chafed at the doctor's orders so vigorously that Henry quietly rejoiced, thankful to see his son's familiar restless energy restored. Henry distracted him with letters, which they exchanged in great numbers with family and friends, and by reading aloud Miss Mary Elizabeth Braddon's novel
Lady Audley's Secret
, an immensely popular murder story that was just scandalous enough to make for rather entertaining reading.

Eventually Charley was allowed out of bed, and soon thereafter he was permitted to sit up in the parlor. Occasionally a friend or acquaintance or even strangers would call, having heard that the son of the illustrious poet was ill and wishing to express their hopes for his swift recovery. Other well-wishers sent flowers and letters, and several charming young ladies of the neighborhood brought him enticing delicacies from their kitchens, but nothing could sweeten Charley's temper when he learned that the First Massachusetts had engaged the five regiments of the Virginia Cavalry in a fierce battle at Aldie in Loudoun County, Virginia, without him. “I am the most unlucky fellow to have missed it all,”
he grumbled, kicking his bedsheets and punching his pillow in frustration. “The war will be over before Dr. Clymer lets me leave this house, much less return to the field.”

“You have perfectly articulated my most ardent wish,” Henry replied lightly, but Charley merely heaved a sigh and asked for paper and pencil so he could write to his brother.

The war seemed no closer to its end when Henry finally convinced Dr. Clymer to let him take Charley to Nahant. After thanking Reverend Richardson profusely for his generosity and kindness, Henry and Charley departed Washington by sea and arrived at Nahant on the last day of June. The fresh, cool sea breezes seemed to invigorate Charley, though he was already in good spirits, so delighted was he to be released from his sickroom, but the next morning his fever returned, brought on, no doubt, by the rigors of travel. Henry ordered him back to bed, and Charley, grumbling, obeyed, although by evening Henry relented enough to allow him to move to a reclining chair on the front porch.

The rest of the family soon joined them at the cottage, and in the cheerful company of his adoring sisters and doting aunt, Charley steadily regained his vitality. By the middle of July, he was enjoying walks on the warm, sandy beaches and refreshing swims in the ocean. He had missed another fierce battle in which the First Massachusetts Cavalry had acquitted themselves with distinction, having engaged Confederate general J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry in Maryland and Pennsylvania, preventing them from joining up with the main body of General Robert E. Lee's forces at Gettysburg. Charley again lamented his misfortune, and vowed that as soon as he was given leave to rejoin his regiment, he would set out with all haste.

The day came too soon to suit Henry. On August 14, Charley bade farewell to his family and left Nahant in the company of a newly hired servant, a man called Chamberlain. First they
stopped in New Market, Maryland, where Charley's horses had been stabled during his convalescence, then onward to Washington, where, until the First Massachusetts Cavalry returned to its rear base and he could rejoin them, he was assigned to command the rear guard of a squadron protecting a train of sutlers' wagons en route to the front. “It was pretty good fun being head of the rearguard,” Charley wrote to Henry on August 22, “as whenever a wagon would break down or get mired the sutlers would treat us to grub to keep us around as they were dreadfully frightened of being left alone to be captured by the rebels.” The rearguard would not have abandoned the wagon train, Charley was quick to point out, but they were too glad for the extra food to emphasize that point to the sutlers.

By the time Henry received the letter at Nahant, Charley had already reunited with his regiment near Warrington and had joined in the hunt for Confederate colonel John Singleton Mosby—the Gray Ghost—and his band of raiders, the notoriously swift and elusive First Virginia Cavalry.

Charley was thrilled to be in the thick of it again, but Henry could not share his cheerful enthusiasm. His son had missed violent battles that had cut down thousands of young men like wheat before the scythe. He had recovered from a serious illness that had claimed the lives of countless thousands more. How many narrow escapes could one young soldier survive before his luck finally ran out?

The Priest's Tale

The smell of coffee brewing woke Ryan well before dawn, but even before he glanced at the clock he knew Sister Winifred had yet again tiptoed into his room after he had fallen asleep and had shut off his alarm. Sister Winifred called him “Father,” but she often seemed to think of him as a grandson.

Yawning enormously, he rose, knelt on the small braided rug beside the window to pray, and then quickly showered and dressed, only a half hour behind schedule. When he went downstairs to the kitchen, he found the elderly nun standing at the counter humming “Angels We Have Heard on High” as she plucked two slices from the toaster and set them on a plate.

“Sister Winifred,” he admonished mildly, reaching into the cupboard beside the sink for a coffee mug. “This was your day to sleep in. We're supposed to take turns getting up early to make coffee, remember?”

“Oh, I was awake anyway, Father.” She smiled brightly and she carried her plate to the small table where the newspaper, a
small glass of orange juice, and a steaming cup of milky coffee already awaited her. “A growing boy like you needs his rest.”

He had to laugh. “Sister, I'm more than a decade beyond fitting that description.”

“Really?” Frowning, she removed her glasses, polished the lenses with her napkin, replaced them on the bridge of her upturned nose, and peered up at him. “Well, I suppose maybe you are, but you still needed the rest. You have a very busy day in store.”

“As do you.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar, and pulled out a chair at the other end of the table. “I know you mean well, but you really need to stop turning off my alarm.”

“If I hadn't, it would have woken you up.”

“Well, yes. That
is
the point of an alarm clock.” He took a deep drink of coffee and settled back into his chair, amused. “We've talked about this. What if I'd had an important appointment first thing this morning, and I slept through it?”

“I wouldn't have turned off your alarm if you really needed to be up so early.”

“How would you have known?”

“I would have known,” she said, with such conviction that Ryan knew it was futile to try to persuade her otherwise. Besides, she probably
would
have known, and not because she checked his calendar. Sister Winifred had uncanny intuition, and she observed much more than anyone gave her credit for. Most people assumed she was distracted because she often talked to herself aloud, which wasn't uncommon in people her age. The habit troubled Ryan only because members of the parish often approached him privately to express their concerns for her health. He always assured them that the elderly nun saw her doctor regularly and never failed to receive a clean bill of health, except for the usual minor, inevitable physical issues associated with aging.
The well-meaning parishioners would nod, express their relief, and walk away, as dubious as before.

As for himself, Ryan was certain he had never met a saner, happier, or more optimistic person than Sister Winifred. His only worry about her admittedly disconcerting chattiness was that word of it would filter upward to higher offices within the diocese, and some authority with good intentions would insist that she retire. Ryan knew that Sister Winifred would be heartbroken if that came to pass. She had entered religious life long before he was born, and she had been with St. Margaret's as long as anyone could remember. Ryan depended upon her, and he knew she needed the parish as much as it needed her.

“You have a grief-counseling appointment at ten o'clock,” she reminded him, “and a pre-Cana session at eleven.”

“Thanks, Sister.”

“Also, Jerome Duffy will be stopping by after lunch to discuss an important question of theology, so you might want to prepare yourself.”

“Jerry?” said Ryan, bemused. Jerry attended Sunday Mass regularly and could be counted upon for most Holy Days of Obligation, but he had never engaged Ryan in a serious theological discussion before. “When you spoke with him, did he give you any hint what this important question of theology might be?”

“Oh, I didn't speak with him.”

“Did he explain in his message?”

She shook her head. “There was no message. He didn't call.”

Sister Winifred often made such predictions, and was more than often right. Ryan figured she probably drew upon intuition, common sense, longtime familiarity with their parishioners, and overheard conversations, but he could not explain her astonishing accuracy rate, which would put most professional prognosticators to shame. “I guess he'll tell me when he arrives.”

“I'm sure you'll be on the edge of your seat with suspense
until then. Oh, before I forget, your mother would like you to call, and we're going to get a few inches of snow this afternoon. Perhaps you'd like to plan to clear the steps and sidewalks before choir rehearsal, so the children don't take a tumble.”

It was a safe bet that his mother wanted him to call, because she always did, but for Sister Winifred to claim she could predict measurable snowfall was too much. “How could you possibly know that it's going to snow this afternoon?”

Bemused, the elderly nun tapped the newspaper lying folded on the table between them. “I read the forecast in the
Globe
. How else would I know?” She smiled indulgently and rose. “I'm not going to finish my toast. Do you want the last piece?”

“No, thank you.” Ryan usually fasted before morning Mass, not only to properly receive the Sacrament of Eucharist but to make him more mindful of his many neighbors who also would not have anything to eat that morning, and not by choice. “I'll get something after.”

“I'll turn the lights on in the church,” she said, and left him alone to finish his coffee and prepare.

He sipped his coffee and contemplated the day's Gospel reading. At one time he had wondered if he should avoid coffee before Mass too, if indulging in a cup was undermining his purpose at best and cheating at worst. He had confessed his uncertainties to his friend Jason, who had known him since college and therefore was not intimidated into deference by his collar and title. Jason, who knew him better than almost anyone, had told him frankly that it was not self-indulgence but a courtesy to his parishioners to have a cup of coffee before he faced the day.

Jason. A sudden stab of worry compelled Ryan to set down his cup, bow his head, and murmur a fervent prayer for his friend's safety and deliverance. Laurie had not heard from her husband in two months, and Ryan could well imagine her anxiety and fear. Her son, Alex, seemed unaware that anything was amiss
except that his father was away from home, but Charlotte was precocious and observant, and Ryan knew it was only a matter of time until she realized that something was very wrong, that her mother was not telling them the whole truth.

Ryan crossed himself, rose, washed the dishes, and went to prepare for morning Mass.

About twenty-five worshippers attended the eight o'clock service, including the parish's two secular employees, Gene, the custodian, and Lisa, the part-time office manager. The rest of the congregation, which skewed older, included the usual fifteen or so regulars and a few unfamiliar faces—guests of the regulars, he learned when they introduced themselves afterward, as well as a few curious tourists drawn by the church's history and architecture.

After worship, he passed the morning in office work and counseling sessions, writing his customary letter for the parish bulletin, and brief calls on housebound parishioners. He returned to the parish house at half past noon, in time for a quick sandwich before the doorbell rang.

When Ryan answered, he was not surprised to find Jerome Duffy standing on the doorstep. “Sorry to drop by unexpected, Father,” he said. “Something's been bothering me, and I thought maybe I could talk it over with you on my lunch break, but if this is a bad time—”

“Not at all.” Ryan opened the door wider and beckoned him inside, tempted to remark that Jerry had been expected. “Come on in.”

Ryan showed Jerry into the living room, which was elegantly and comfortably appointed with gently used furniture donated almost thirty years before by the church's most generous benefactor, a boy from the neighborhood who had become a senator. Ryan had met with him often in his final months as his health declined, offering him spiritual guidance and comfort, and
sometimes just a sympathetic ear. His widow still visited St. Margaret's regularly. She seemed to particularly enjoy hearing the children's choir sing to the accompaniment of the wonderful piano the couple had given to the church, anonymously, as they did all their generous gifts, in the spirit of Matthew 6:1–2.

“What can I do for you, Jerry?” Ryan asked as they seated themselves in opposite chairs by the fireplace, swept clean and long unused.

Jerry removed his knit cap. “I had a religious question for you, Father, and I really hope it doesn't seem disrespectful.”

Ryan prepared himself. “I'm sure it won't. What's on your mind?”

“I've been wondering . . . does God care about sports?”

Ryan blinked at him. “Say again?”

“Does God care about sports?” Jerry leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and regarded him earnestly. “I mean, you always hear players giving Jesus the credit when they make a goal or score a touchdown or win the playoffs, but doesn't that mean Jesus wanted the other team to fail?”

“Well, I don't know if I'd say—”

“That just doesn't seem fair, Father. It's not like the other team's full of Satan worshippers, right? They probably go to church as much as the guys who won. They probably prayed for victory too, and they're probably not any more sinful. So why would Jesus listen to the prayers of one team and ignore the other?”

“You must be a Red Sox fan.”

“Of course,” Jerry replied stoutly. “From the cradle.”

“It's appropriate to give thanks to God for blessings received, and for the good health and the physical and mental gifts that help a player achieve victory.” Ryan paused to consider his next words. “Whether the Lord actually prefers one sports team over another is quite another matter—and I say that as a Notre Dame fan.”

“It's just hard for me to imagine that with so much war and
poverty and suffering in the world, Jesus is sitting up in the clouds wearing a sweatshirt and cap with one team's logo, shouting their cheers and booing the other guys, you know?”

Smiling, Ryan shook his head to clear it of the irreverent image. “Look at it this way. What if Patrick and Daniel were playing on opposing soccer teams in the most important match of the season? Soccer's their game, right?”

“Yeah, but they'd never play each other. My boys are three years apart in age.”

“Let's say for the sake of argument that they
are
playing against each other. You wouldn't cheer for one son and ignore the other, or pray for one to win and the other to lose, right?”

“Of course not.”

“You might instead hope that both boys both would perform to the best of their abilities, that they would play fairly, that they'd avoid injury, and that they'd show good sportsmanship, win or lose.”

Jerry nodded. “Sure.”

“If that's how you feel as a father, putting these more noble values ahead of simply winning a game, how do you think our divine Father, in His perfect love for all His earthly children, would regard it?”

“I get what you're saying, Father.”

“We all like to win, but sometimes we learn more from losing. Sometimes, although we might not like it, God's plan is for us to endure a defeat.”

“So tell me, Father.” Jerry lowered his voice confidentially. “With all that in mind, is it okay to pray for the Bruins to beat the Penguins tomorrow night?”

“I don't think it's wrong,” said Ryan. “Let's just hope a victory is part of God's plan, and that if it isn't, that we'll accept it with good grace.”

“Thanks, Father.” Satisfied, Jerry pushed himself to his feet. “I feel much better.”

“Anytime.” Ryan rose and shook his hand. “My door's always open.”

He saw Jerry out, unexpectedly cheered by the conversation, and by Sister Winifred's idea of what constituted an important question of theology. It was not unusual for parishioners to approach him with concerns like Jerry's, and he always strove to give them thoughtful, prayerful answers. He drew upon experience and knowledge of scripture rather than doctrine when presented with topics that had never been addressed specifically in the seminary, or in any of the undergraduate philosophy and theology classes he had taken when he was first seriously discerning his vocation.

Ryan had not come from a particularly religious family, as his bewildered mother had often reminded him after he announced his intention to enter the seminary. His parents had taken him and his younger brother to church on Sundays, and saw to it that they received the sacraments, and refrained from serving meat on Fridays during Lent. They said grace before supper and made weekly contributions to the parish, but otherwise religion was something restricted to Sunday mornings, Christmas, and Easter.