The Christmas Victory

But this year was to be different. There would be no sleigh rides this year—No carol singing and no giggles. This December, 1861, as he sat in his study staring blankly out the window at the beautifully lighted tree his children had decorated, Henry was filled with a strange sense of ambivalence. He missed his dear wife, Fanny so much that it hurt. She loved Christmas so. She would always be the one to get the ball rolling, so to speak—to encourage the children to trim the tree, to go shopping with them and help them wrap their presents, to bake the cookies—he could almost smell the aroma of her cookies baking now. It had been five months since the fatal fire, but he could see it in his mind’s eye as though it were yesterday. In fact, Henry could see that whole disastrous summer in his mind’s eye. It had been a time of great disappointment indeed.

The first real disappointment had been the war. Even though a total of seven states had seceded from the union, he had still harbored hopes that the peace conference would bring about their re-instatement. What it had brought about, however was only a strengthening of the southern position, with the passage of the crown act which had forbidden congress to interfere with slavery. Upon reading that piece of news in the paper, Henry had sighed and said “Well, then, I suppose slave owners can treat their slaves any way they like.”

“Do you think most of the owners beat their slaves, Father?” Charles had asked.

Henry had simply sighed and said, “I don’t know, Son. I don’t know, and I don’t know how we can know for sure.”

Yet, the new president, Abraham Lincoln, had seemed to be just the man to re-unite the country. Henry recalled that he had been filled with hope as he had read Lincoln's inaugural address in the newspaper. It had seemed so full of promise. “Thank God,” Henry had said, after reading the address. “It looks like we’ve finally got a president who can get something done.”

Yet, he also recalled that lovely spring day when he had been speaking with his oldest son, Charles, now 17, about the possibility of civil war.

“I know that Lincoln has promised not to attack first,” Charles was saying, but, with the way the south is now, don't you think civil war is a distinct possibility?”

“No Son, I don't.” he had replied. “If anyone can unite this country, President Lincoln can.”

But just then, they had heard the news boy outside, ringing his bell and yelling out the news of war. “Rebels attack Fort Sumter. War is declared!  Read all about it!” He had sent Charles out to buy the paper and had slumped back in his chair, greatly disappointed.