Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(11)
Jake managed a smile and hurried to his tent to grab his gear. He shoved his clothes into the knapsack along with his notebook and the spectacles the doctor had given him a few days earlier. He didn’t like relying on the eyeglasses, but they did help him see close up when his eyes were tired, much as he didn’t like to admit it. Knapsack slung over his good shoulder and haversack and rifle in hand, he quickly covered the distance to the road. Colonel Stratton was wrong about him needing time away for his sight to heal. It wasn’t time away he needed. He needed to be back with his regiment, at least in some capacity, pushing the Federal Army farther north, sending them back where they belonged.
Not kowtowing to a bunch of crinolines.
CHAPTER 4
The near two-mile walk from the house to Carnton felt much longer in the cold and wind, and Aletta squeezed Andrew’s little gloved hand tucked inside hers. She sensed him watching her and looked down to see him frowning, his handsome little-boy face a more youthful image of his father’s.
“A penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?”
His brow furrowed. “I hear Santa Claus won’t be makin’ it down here for Christmas, Mama. Seth says it’s ’cause of them good-for-nothin’ Yankees. Said they likely shot him to bits by now. So there won’t be any Christmas this year.”
Aletta slowed. “When were you speaking with Seth?”
“He came by yesterday while you was resting. To bring back my ball.”
Aletta gently pulled her son to the side of the dirt drive and knelt to be at eye level with him. She glanced toward the main house a short distance away, hoping no one happened to be peering out a front window. Here she was, applying for the position of cook with a reference letter praising her seamstress skills, which already didn’t bode well. But arriving with a child in tow was another mark against her. Her breath ghosted white in the frigid morning air.
“I will remind you, Andrew, that you cannot take everything Seth says to heart. He’s a good friend, but sometimes he spouts opinions upon subjects he knows nothing about.” She coerced an unruly curl from his forehead, which promptly fell right back.
“So you’re sayin’ we are still havin’ Christmas?” Andrew’s dark brows knit together.
“Why . . . of course we are.” Aletta hugged her son tight, needing to feel his arms around her neck as much as she needed for him not to glimpse her own sadness. She breathed in his little-boy scent before drawing back, her smile firmly in place. “I know it for truth that Santa is doing well. In fact, he’s quite hearty from eating shortbread all year.”
Andrew beamed. “Like the kind you used to make?”
She nodded. “However, from what I hear, he will be busy. More so than usual. Because there seem to be a lot more children who’ve been good, like you. So whatever he brings, however modest, Andrew, we must be grateful for it. Do you understand?”
He nodded, his impish smile widening. “When he brings me my red train engine, like Papa said, I’ll share it with anybody who wants to play with it!”
Aletta cringed, wishing for the thousandth time that Warren hadn’t promised their son a train for Christmas while home on his furlough last April. She’d never be able to find such an extravagance, much less afford it. Not even if she managed to get this temporary job at Carnton. Because she still had the problem of where they were going to live in less than two weeks’ time.
On the wind came the pungent scent of evergreen, and her gaze moved to the hills, to the leafless elm and poplar standing shoulder to shoulder with pine trees frocked in silvery winter green as though unwilling to be outdone. Where was God’s hand of provision now, when she needed it most?
Bless her sweet son, he’d been four years old when he’d said good-bye to his papa when Warren left to fight. And now, two years later, she still wondered whether Andrew truly grasped that his papa wasn’t ever coming home again. Andrew had wept the night she’d told him his papa had been killed and was now in heaven with Jesus and Grandpa and Grandma. But then days later he’d asked, yet again, when Papa would be home next.
“Your papa loves you very much,” she whispered. “You know that.”
He nodded.
“And while getting a train for Christmas would be very nice, we both need to remember that Christmas really isn’t about receiving presents, is it?”
His gaze wary, he slowly shook his head.
She looked into his eyes. “It’s about being thankful for the greatest gift God has ever given us.”
He didn’t respond.
“You know who that gift is, Andrew. He left heaven and came down to live among people just like us. He was born a baby and grew up to be a strong man, honest and true. Our Savior.” She waited.
“Jesus,” he finally whispered. “Who Papa’s with.”
Her eyes burned. “Yes, sweetie. Who Papa’s with. Right now. And we’ll both be with them, too, someday. But for now, you and Mama, we’ll take care of each other as Jesus watches over us.”
Andrew looked down. “And we’ll take care of the baby too?”
She smiled. “Yes, and the baby too.”
He framed her face in his palms and leaned close as though having a secret to tell. “I’ll share my train from Papa with the baby,” he whispered, then beamed.