Christmas Bells (27 page)

They sped off to Ebbitt House, and before long the two wounded officers were resting in comfortable beds in a large, airy suite, where cheerful sunlight streamed in through three tall windows. Bowditch had been shot in the right arm just below the elbow, but he said it was only a slight injury, and he seemed otherwise well and in good spirits. Charley's bandages had not been changed in three days, and when Henry unwrapped the soiled cloths, it was immediately evident that his injury was far more serious than his companion's. As Henry washed and dressed the wounds, Charley explained that he had been shot in the back while on patrol near New Hope Church. The bullet had struck him beneath one shoulder blade and had plunged through his torso, nicking his spine and exiting on the other side. Another officer had dragged him back through the Union lines, where he was briefly examined and given up for dead. But inexplicably, the ball had missed his lungs and heart and arteries and had not severed his spinal cord, so although he had endured great pain as he had languished in a church converted into a battlefield dressing station, he had not perished.

Charley's long, halting, agonizing journey to Washington was an ordeal best forgotten.

Henry ordered beef tea and custard brought up to the room, and was gratified to observe his two patients digging in with hearty appetites. Afterward, Bowditch immediately sank into a deep sleep, but Charley had only just begun to doze when they heard the tramping of boots in the hallway and the bang of a fist upon the door—the army surgeon come to check on his patients. Charley sat up obligingly as the physician examined him, but sank back against his pillow gratefully as soon as it was over and closed his eyes. “Keep him quiet,” the army surgeon instructed Henry, who nodded. Next the physician approached Bowditch's
bed, peered intently at his bandaged right arm, and then turned, nodded, and departed, all without a word.

“I suppose we should keep the other fellow quiet too,” remarked Ernest, and Henry was so overcome with sudden relief and thankfulness that he was obliged to smother a laugh, lest he dissolve into tears.

•   •   •

Charley and Bowditch slept well that night, and in the morning, Dr. Hoskins, who had accompanied the wounded soldiers on the train, came by to examine them. Bowditch he declared quite well indeed, but after announcing that Charley was much improved, he took Henry aside. “Mr. Longfellow,” he said, lowering his voice so no one else would overhear, “my duty to myself and to you requires me to say that your son's wound is very serious.”

“Yes,” Henry replied. “So I have seen.”

“You should know that although he seems to be on the mend, the injury to his vertebrae may yet result in paralysis.”

Henry's heart plummeted, but he steeled himself and asked, “When might he be stricken? At what point in his convalescence will we know he has escaped that fate?”

“As to your first question, paralysis might ensue next week, next year, or never. As to your second—” Dr. Hoskins frowned and shook his head. “I regret that because of the damage to the bone, the chance of paralysis will persist for the rest of his life.”

“I see,” said Henry faintly, sickened by the picture of his vibrant, active, athletic boy confined for the rest of his life to bed, to inaction, to misery.

“I will, of course, leave to your discretion what you tell him of this, and when.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Henry took a deep, shaky breath. “I'll say nothing at present. We must say nothing to alarm him, nothing to bring on melancholy. What good would it do to warn him
of a tragedy that may never come to pass?” He shook his head vigorously. “No. No. We must encourage optimism, keep his spirits up. That will speed his healing.”

The doctor bowed assent.

With Ernest's help, Henry kept the young officers comfortable, well fed, and rested throughout the day, tempting them with rich custards and nourishing broths, taking dictation when they wished to write letters home, reading aloud from novels and newspapers. Two physicians and a medical inspector came by in the evening, and when the latter, a Dr. George M. McGill, gave Charley a more optimistic appraisal than Dr. Hoskins had done, Henry waited until the doctors left the suite, then hurried after Dr. McGill and asked to speak to him alone. “You believe Charley will continue to improve?” he asked.

“As long as he rests properly and does not overexert himself too soon, I do indeed,” the doctor replied. “However, the wound will be long in healing. Your son will not be fit for service for more than six months.”

This too was good news, of a sort, for Henry was in no hurry to have Charley rejoin his regiment. “Then you don't expect that he will suffer any latent effects—sudden paralysis, for example?”

Dr. McGill regarded him kindly. “There is a very small chance, so small that I didn't bother to mention it. I do hope you won't trouble your son—or yourself—with worries about such an unlikely occurrence.”

Greatly relieved, Henry shook the doctor's hand and thanked him profusely, but he could not entirely dismiss Dr. Hoskins's warning. Nothing would do but to see Charley safely home to Craigie House, where he could convalesce properly.

On December 7, district surgeon Dr. Bates—a modest, deft little man, kind and obliging—took charge of Charley's case, and Henry soon persuaded him to issue a certificate for a leave of absence so Charley could recover from his wounds at home. While
Charley rested at Ebbitt House, gaining strength for the journey, friends called to wish him well, and he was heartily grateful for the distraction, never having been the sort to enjoy lounging about in bed with a good book or his own thoughts. Bowditch's parents had arrived from Boston earlier that day, much alarmed despite Henry's telegrams attesting to his good condition. “We lost our eldest son earlier this year, in March,” Bowditch's father quietly confided to Henry while his wife fussed with her son's blankets. “He was wounded in the abdomen in the first charge at Kelly's Ford.”

“My dear Mr. Bowditch, I'm so sorry.”

“He might have survived, except the two surgeons who discovered him lying on the ground beside his horse had no means to carry him from the battlefield, and the ambulance corps never approached him there.” He gestured toward his younger son, who was lying in bed, smiling up at his doting mother. “So you understand, Mr. Longfellow, why neither of us could have a moment's peace until we saw our boy safe and sound.”

Henry understood perfectly.

Once assured that Charley and Bowditch were in good hands and good company, Henry accompanied Sumner to the Capitol for the opening of the Thirty-Eighth Congress. Outside the Senate chamber, he chanced upon several old friends—Senators William Pitt Fessenden of Maine, James Dixon of Connecticut, and John P. Hale of New Hampshire—and while they were chatting, others recognized him and joined the growing circle of admiring onlookers. When Henry mentioned that he would be leaving Washington shortly, Congressman Caleb Lyon blurted, “Mr. Longfellow, you must sit for a photograph before you go.” When Henry demurred, the congressman insisted, “Yes, sir, you and Senator Sumner together. What a fine memento of your visit such a portrait would be!”

Henry and Sumner exchanged a look; Sumner shrugged,
and Henry decided it would be easier to acquiesce than to explain that the only memento of that visit he wanted to take home was his two sons, both hale and hearty. Thus the following morning, Henry, his sons, and Sumner visited the studio of Alexander Gardner at Seventh and S Streets to have their portraits made. The renowned photographist took images of Charley and Ernest separately, but he sat Henry and Sumner together. “I shall call this portrait
The Politics and Poetry of New England
,” he declared in a proud Scottish brogue.

At eight thirty that evening, Henry, his sons, Bowditch, and his parents left Washington on the late train to Boston. Henry organized berths for the two wounded soldiers, but the rest of the party were obliged to make do with regular seats, ill suited for a comfortable night's rest. They arrived in New York at half past seven the next morning, stiff and weary, and with several hours before their connection to Boston, Henry took rooms for them at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. When they were comfortably settled, he sent word to Dr. William H. Van Buren, the distinguished surgeon and founder of the Sanitary Commission, asking him to send an associate to examine the young soldiers. Instead, Dr. Van Buren attended them himself, and after he dressed their wounds and proclaimed them none the worse for their railway journey, he refused to accept any fee. “I am not often sentimental,” he said, “but I feel disposed to be so this morning.”

Before they boarded the noon train to Boston, Henry telegraphed Alice to let her know that they expected to reach home at ten o'clock, and that he wanted Dr. Morrill Wyman to meet them there. Many hours and more than two hundred miles later, the Longfellows and Bowditches parted company at the station in Boston, and a hired carriage took Henry and his sons the last few miles of the journey home.

Alice, Edith, and Anne greeted them at the door, overflowing with sisterly devotion and concern for their wounded brother.
A hot supper awaited them, and Charley's expression as he gazed around the table at the affectionate company, felt the warmth of the hearth, and tasted the nourishing food told Henry that his runaway soldier had never appreciated his home and family more than at that moment.

Shortly after the family finished supper, Dr. Wyman arrived to examine and dress Charley's wounds. It was nearly midnight by the time Charley was finally put to bed, exhausted and in some pain, but well fed, warm, and content.

The road ahead of Charley would be long and difficult, Henry knew. His convalescence would be painful and slow and surely frustrating. But at that late hour, all of Henry's children were safe and happy and together, and that was enough.

The Nun's Tale

For as long as Winifred could remember, she had wanted to become a nun. As a girl she had daydreamed about entering the convent the way her friends had wistfully imagined heading out to Hollywood to become movie stars. Her parents were devout, and since she was the fifth eldest of eight and her father's earnings as a vacuum cleaner salesman could stretch only so far, when she was sixteen and asked her parents' blessing to enter the convent, they cried a little but agreed.

Winifred had never regretted or even doubted her decision, but that did not mean she did not, from time to time, wonder and question. Fortunately, the mother superior of her order, Sister Mary Joan, kindly encouraged Winifred to come to her whenever she was puzzled or unsure. They would drink tea in her office and chat, or walk around the gardens in fair weather, and afterward Winifred always understood things at least a little better than before.

One winter afternoon, shortly after taking her vows as a novice, Winifred sought out Sister Mary Joan and asked how to know
when she truly heard God speaking to her. “I've been reading about the subconscious,” she said. “When I pray, how do I know that what I hear is the Lord's voice and not merely an echo of my own thoughts?”

Sister Mary Joan rested her chin on her hand and regarded her fondly. “How do you know that the Lord isn't speaking to you through your subconscious?”

Winifred stared at her, startled. “Well, I don't know. Can He do that?” When the mother superior smiled, Winifred quickly added, “Of course He can. I just . . . didn't realize that He did.”

“Our heavenly father doesn't always speak to us through a burning bush,” said Sister Mary Joan. “How much easier it would be for us if He did—but if we wanted the easy path, we wouldn't have chosen this life.”

Winifred nodded agreement.

“When you think you're hearing God speak to you in a moment of quiet contemplation, ask yourself if what you hear reflects the truth of God's word,” said Sister Mary Joan. “Is it something Jesus would affirm? Does it draw you closer to Him?”

“What if I'm not sure?”

“You should always feel free to talk with me, or with another trusted spiritual advisor.” Sister Mary Joan smiled. “Remember that sometimes God speaks to us through other people.”

“Really?” Winifred brightened at a sudden thought. “Does that mean that God might sometimes use us to speak to other people? Maybe when we don't even realize it?”

“Logically that would follow—and so we should be ever mindful of what we say and do, and try always to be instruments of God's peace and love.”

The mother superior's reflection so impressed Winifred that for a time thereafter she said very little, worried that she might mistranslate something God wanted her to say. After praying earnestly about it and talking it over with Sister Mary Joan, she
realized that if God wanted to speak through her, she should trust that He would manage to get His message across properly. The best thing she could do would be to get out of the way and let it happen.

As the years went by and God's plan led her from the beloved convent to St. Margaret's Church, Winifred remembered Sister Mary Joan fondly and longed to discuss questions of theology and faith with her over a cup of tea. Often when she wrestled with the day's challenges or contemplated an ethical matter, she would imagine herself back in Sister Mary Joan's office at the convent, and without fail her thoughts would become clearer, solutions came to mind, worry fell away.

As she grew older, she developed the habit of unwittingly talking aloud instead of keeping the conversations all to herself. Maybe speaking helped her to think. Maybe—although she hoped not—she had become vain in her old age and simply liked to hear the sound of her own voice. She hadn't considered the habit a matter of much concern until she began to notice worried glances from parishioners who came upon her unexpectedly in the church or parish house and found her apparently engrossed in conversation with an imaginary friend. Once a darling little girl from the choir, Charlotte, had asked her soberly if she spoke to angels. Winifred had laughed, delighted, and reminded Charlotte that perhaps they all sometimes entertained angels unawares. Still, she tried to remember to practice the mental exercise in solitude rather than upset anyone, and she supposed she succeeded more often than not.

Yet it was far too easy to forget when she was distracted, as she was at that moment by the lovely music of the choir, and by the sight of the blond woman in the red beret sitting in a pew near the front, staring at the choir and looking utterly bereft. She was Alex and Charlotte's mother, Winifred recalled, and her husband had gone missing in Afghanistan. How frightened she must
be, the poor dear, having no idea where her husband was, if he had been captured or injured or killed. She probably thought God had abandoned them.

As Winifred watched, Laurie twisted and knotted up her scarf as if she meant to strangle it or fashion it into a garrote to strangle someone else. “Oh, my,” Winifred exclaimed. “Are you preparing to do battle?”

Startled, Laurie glanced away from the choir. “I'm sorry, Sister. Preparing to do what?”

“To do battle—with the forces of darkness, perhaps.” Winifred's arms were filled with hymnals, so she indicated the poor, battered scarf with a nod.

Glancing down at her lap, Laurie gasped, released the scarf, and quickly tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Winifred inquired.

“Yes, Sister, I just . . . have a lot on my mind. It's a crazy time of year.”

“It's a season of miracles,” Winifred agreed, nodding.

“Yes, that too.”

Winifred smiled in reply, but Laurie looked so upset that Winifred observed her from the corner of her eye as she continued tidying up the pews. When the choir sang the carol's most profound lyric, she echoed, “God is not dead, nor does He sleep.”

“What?” Laurie said, startled from her reverie. “What did you say?”

“From the carol.” Sister Winifred indicated the choir with a nod. “It's not scripture, of course, but poetry, and nonetheless true. God is listening, my dear. He knows your troubles and he hears your prayers.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I suppose we all do, sometimes.” Winifred smiled, her heart overflowing with compassion and concern. “Everything's going to be all right, my dear. Have faith.”

Laurie pressed her lips together, and for a long moment, she seemed to be fighting back sobs of anguish. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “You're very kind.”

“Oh, that's not mere kindness.” Winifred paused and tilted her head, thinking. Should she leave it at that? But what about darling little Charlotte? A few weeks ago, Winifred had been straightening the pews when she happened to glance into the girl's open backpack. She had seen the Christmas story—which she had already read, in both draft and finished form—and it was delightful. She could not imagine what sort of teacher would write such thoughtlessly cruel comments on the work of a student as conscientious as Charlotte.

Winifred decided to speak up.

“And I know for a fact that Charlotte wrote every word of her Christmas story,” she declared. “I don't think you ever would have doubted that, but it's nice to know for certain, isn't it?”

Laurie nodded, looking utterly bewildered. “Yes,” she murmured, fighting back tears. “It's best to know.”

Winifred put away a few of the hymnals, enough to free one of her hands so she could pat Laurie reassuringly on the shoulder. Laurie returned her gaze to the choir, her expression suddenly both wistful and resolved. Winifred decided to leave her to her prayers and private thoughts, and moved quietly down the pew.

As she put away the last of the hymnals, she heard the side door close softly, and she glanced up to see that Father Ryan had entered, having finished clearing away the snow, greeting the children as they arrived for rehearsal, and going out in search for their tardy choir director. Winifred hoped he would mend fences with his brother soon, whatever the cause of their most recent disagreement. Father Ryan had not mentioned it, but his mother often phoned to chat with Winifred, to check in on her son without seeming to do so. “I don't know what gets into those boys,” she had told Winifred tearfully just that morning. “They've
always suffered through a bit of sibling rivalry, but their argument over Thanksgiving dinner was over the top.”

“They'll reconcile before Christmas,” Winifred had reassured her confidently. “What sort of example would Father Ryan set for the children of our congregation if he didn't?”

Father Ryan's mother had seemed to take comfort in that, and she declared that she was determined to persuade the brothers to talk over their differences before the holidays—because she absolutely insisted that they celebrate together as a family, as always.

Winifred couldn't appeal to Father Ryan's brother, but she could try to nudge Father Ryan in the right direction. He was so intent on the choir rehearsal that he did not notice her approach until she was at his side. When she followed his line of sight, it seemed that he was watching Sophia and Lucas. The pianist was gazing at the choir director with such obvious love and longing it seemed impossible that she could be unaware of it.

“It's painful to be the one not chosen,” she murmured to Father Ryan, watching the younger pair. “Even when you acknowledge, deep down, that the choice was the right one, it hurts to think that the one you love prefers someone else.”

Father Ryan was watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face. He had probably guessed that she had not really approached him to discuss the two young people, who from the look of things really ought to fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after.

She smiled, patted Father Ryan's arm, and got to the point. “Call your mother tomorrow,” she urged. “Tell her everything will be all right. And then call your brother and see that you make it so.”

“I will,” Father Ryan replied slowly. “I will.”

Winifred knew she could count on him to follow through. Smiling, she left him to contemplate how he would broker peace.
She was glad to have promising news to share with his mother the next time she called.

Winifred continued her work at a leisurely pace, entertained by the choir. When they were nearly finished, she observed Mrs. Barrett, who had been quietly listening from a back pew, glance at her watch, sigh, and rise. Winifred hurried over as she was putting on her coat and caught up with her just as she exited to the vestibule. “Will you be joining us for the Christmas Eve concert, Mrs. Barrett?” she inquired.

“I think I might.” The elegant widow smiled, but her eyes were sad. “The children are splendid singers, and you know how much I enjoy hearing Paul's piano making such beautiful music.”

“I do know,” Winifred replied kindly. “Our two young volunteers do such a wonderful job with the children.”

“Oh, I agree. The boy who sang the solo in the first carol has such a beautiful voice.”

“Yes, he does.” Without thinking, Winifred added, “The poor dear. What a Christmas he and his sister will have this year.”

“What do you mean?”

Winifred hesitated, reluctant to trespass on the family's privacy. “Well, you see, his father is serving in Afghanistan. About two months ago, a convoy was in a terrible accident—a truck struck some sort of bomb on the roadside. Lieutenant Moran is a genius with machinery, and he volunteered to go out and help get the convoy moving again.”

“They were attacked while he was making the repairs?”

“Yes, I'm sorry to say that they were. Some soldiers were killed, others injured, and somehow in the midst of it, Lieutenant Moran went missing.”

“How does a soldier just go missing?” It sounded to Winifred like a rhetorical question. “Surely with all their resources and contacts, the military ought to be able to find him, or—” Mrs. Barrett hesitated. “Or his remains.”

“I don't know,” said Winifred, spreading her hands. “I can't pretend to understand the military.”

“I happen to know a few people who specialize in it.” Briskly, Mrs. Barrett took a small steno notebook and slender black pen from her purse. “Would you spell his name for me, and tell me anything else you know about his disappearance? I can make a few calls. They might turn up nothing new, but it doesn't hurt to try.”

Gratified, Winifred told the senator's widow all she knew, and as Mrs. Barrett put away her notebook and pen, they agreed not to mention it to Laurie until they knew more. When Winifred thanked her, Mrs. Barrett waved it off. “It's no trouble at all, really. It's the least I can do, considering how much pleasure his children and their friends have given me and Paul with their singing.”

“Oh, yes, the choir has come such a long way since Sophia took on the role of choir director.” Winifred turned her gaze back to the choir and sighed. “It's such a shame about her job.”