A Basket Brigade Christmas (40 page)

Cardiff sat at the desk in his bedroom and readied a piece of paper.

The talk of Mrs. Breston’s loss, coupled with his downtime habit of writing letters for a few of the soldiers, inspired him to write his own. What continued to surprise him was that none of the men spoke of battles or victories. Even their infirmities were quickly dealt with. What permeated their letters were memories of home, expressions of love for their family, and hope for a swift return to the life they had led before the war tore everything apart.

He took a bite of the apple Mrs. Driscoll had offered him for an evening snack and let his mind turn to his own letter.

He wrote “Dear” on the page then found himself stumped. Dear who?

He held his breath, waiting for a name to flow onto the page.

But there was no name. No family. No bosom friends who would value his letter.

“Gregory. I could write to Gregory and Mrs. Miller.”

The content of the soldiers’ letters was rich with memories of family and love and times shared. Although he held the Millers in high esteem—and they him—an invisible barrier existed between them, keeping master and servant in their proper places. Any letter to them would be filled with questions of logistics—and perhaps a note asking about their visit with their daughter. There was no common well of emotion to tap into, such as the emotion that filled the soldiers’ letters to overflowing.

When was the last time he’d written a heartfelt letter?

“Zona.”

To hear her name said aloud made him draw in a breath. He’d sent her numerous letters from Mexico and Texas.

Asking her forgiveness.

Begging for her understanding.

Declaring his love.

Defending his new ambition to become a doctor instead of a typesetter.

When he’d received no letters in return, he’d stopped writing, let the war end and his career in medicine continue.

Alone.

Without her.

His ambition had come at a cost he’d reluctantly been willing to pay.

Until now?

Depressed by the memories and emptiness, he set the pen back in its stand and returned the paper to a drawer.

C
ardiff was ready to slice into the soldier’s vein when he felt the presence of Mrs. Breston.

Again.

“May I help you?”

“You can help Corporal Statler by halting that venesection this very minute.”

Cardiff glanced at the soldier’s face to see his reaction to this act of insubordination, but luckily, the patient was sleeping.

In spite of this, Cardiff angled his back to him and drew Mrs. Breston into the main aisle that bisected the rows of beds. “I cannot let you interfere with the medical care that I deem necessary for my patients.”

“Cannot or will not?”

He felt his ire rise and took a deep breath to try to get himself under control. “Mrs. Breston—”

“Mother Breston. My boys call me ‘mother.’”

But I am not one of your boys.

He ignored the salutation. “I cannot”—he caught himself—“will not allow you to undermine my authority. I have been practicing medicine for nearly fifteen years.”

“Seems like you need more practice.”

Cardiff spotted Stephen and called him over. “Dr. Phillips, I insist you do something about this situation. It is highly improper for my decisions to be contradicted.”

Mrs. Breston folded a towel neatly over her arm. “Even if you’re wrong? The letting of blood only weakens a patient.”

“So that’s why it’s been practiced for hundreds of years?”

“They thought the earth was flat for longer than that, and it was proven wrong.”

“I am not wrong.”

She pointed at the patient. “Will it take the death of that boy to make you admit your mistake?”

Appalled, Cardiff took a step away, spreading his free hand toward his tormentor as if to say,
You see what I have to deal with?

Stephen offered them a smile. “What stands before me are two capable people who are passionate about their professions. Surely you can find a point of conciliation between you for the good of the patient.”

Cardiff was incensed. If he didn’t have Stephen’s support, this woman was going to run rampant throughout the hospital, weakening his authority. How could he possibly be asked to work in such conditions?

He’d had enough of them both. “Excuse me. I have a patient to attend to.”

He returned to the soldier, adjusted the bowl beneath his arm, and sliced into his vein. Everyone knew that bloodletting was
the
course of treatment in regard to ridding the body of infection.

“The time for your carolers’ debut is here,” Mary Lou said as she accompanied Zona to the depot.

Zona’s stomach was knotted as she entered the train station to sing Christmas carols for the first time. She was relieved to see that all four of her designated quartet were already there, talking to the ladies of the Basket Brigade who were gathered for the evening train with their baskets of food and other comforts. She scanned the crowd, looking for Johnny.

He wasn’t there.

Mr. Pearson saw her, and the singers gathered close. “Where would you like us to stand?” he asked.

She wanted the singers close to the tracks so their voices would carry into the train. The wounded soldiers needed to see them from the train windows. She moved to a spot on the platform, front and center, waving her arms to claim the space for her singers. “Excuse me … if you don’t mind … we’re going to sing here … thank you.”

Mr. Pearson and Mr. Fleming used their height and male authority to further clear the space.

“There, now,” Zona said, trying out the spot where she would stand to direct them, her back to the train.

“Shall we start?” Mrs. Greer asked.

“The train’s not here,” Mrs. Smith said.

“I wouldn’t mind running through a piece,” Mr. Pearson said.

Zona knew that was a good idea, but she really wanted Johnny present, for he had never rehearsed with the quartet.

And then she saw him, walking toward her with his grandfather. And Mrs. Collins. And was that Seth? The smug smiles on the faces of the latter told the story of the day. They’d tattled. Somehow they knew everything and had shared their information with Mr. Folson.

Zona pursued her first instinct. “Let’s sing ‘Midnight Clear.’” She stood in front of her quartet, fumbled for her pitch pipe, and unable to retrieve it in a timely manner, gave them a random note as they quickly got in place. She raised her arms and gave the downbeat. “‘It came upon a midnight clear …’”

She dared not look beyond her singers, but goose bumps traveled up her arms knowing the army of protesters was heading her way. She wasn’t even able to enjoy the appreciative faces of the Basket Brigade ladies who gathered around.

As the song neared its end, she tried to think of another, but her mind was blank.

Then Mrs. Collins strode forward and took a place at the edge of the quartet, next to Mr. Fleming.

“Miss Evans.”

Her throat was dry. “Mrs. Collins.” She glanced beyond the woman to see Johnny, under his grandfather’s arm, his eyes downcast.

Seth pushed in between the women. “You met with Johnny in secret. I followed you! I saw you!”

Mrs. Collins moved to Zona’s side, facing the audience of the crowded depot. “I’m afraid Miss Evans has abused her position as musical director by ignoring the wishes of Mr. Folson regarding the participation of his grandson.” She beckoned the man closer. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Folson?”

The man placed Johnny in front of him, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “I forbade it, and she ignored my wishes.”

Murmurs flit across the crowd like fireflies.

“Why did you do it?” Lucy Maddox asked. “We appreciate your musical talent, but to go against the family’s wishes …”

Others nodded.

Zona glanced at Mary Lou, who looked as unnerved as she. Zona wanted to flee, yet the glee with which Mrs. Collins and Seth called her out pressed her need for escape aside and ignited the fuller truth.

She raised her arms in the air, quieting the crowd. “Yes, I went against Mr. Folson’s wishes but with good reason.”

Mrs. Collins raised her voice above Zona’s. “So your authority supersedes that of a grandfather?”

“No, I mean …” She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to find the words to make it right. Her thoughts landed on the core of her deception, the justification for her actions. She moved through the crowd and faced Johnny and his grandfather. She cleared her throat and addressed Mr. Folson. “Your grandson has a great gift. He sings with a depth of talent greater than anyone I have ever heard.”

Johnny glanced up at her, smiled, then looked down again.

“That may or may not be true,” Mr. Folson said. “But it is not your gift to commandeer.”

“Nor is it your gift to hoard.”

Oohs
spread through the crowd, and she heard Mary Lou whisper, “Zona …”

Zona sighed, knowing her words had been too harsh. “Have you ever heard him sing?”

“That’s not the point. I forbid it.”

“But it is the point,” she said. She spotted Pastor Davidson nearby and moved toward him. “Pastor! Please tell Mr. Folson about his grandson’s great gift.”

Pastor Davidson moved close, his face twitching a bit under the sudden scrutiny. “It is true, Mr. Folson. Johnny’s voice is unlike any I have ever heard. I can’t imagine the angels singing any better.” He took a step toward Mr. Folson. “Your daughter used to sing with such conviction and joy. The boy has her gift—and more. Gifts are meant to be shared, Herman.”

Zona saw the muscles in Mr. Folson’s jaw contract. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Hearing him sing reminds me of my Violet.” He shook his head, looking to the ground. “God took her away from me, and little Flora, too.” When he looked at Zona, his eyes glistened. “My heart breaks every time I think of ’em. And music makes me think of ’em.”

Johnny looked up at his grandfather. “I remember Mama singing. I sing for her, to remember her. And I want to sing for the soldiers. It makes me think of Papa, off somewhere, fighting.”

Zona’s throat tightened, and she noticed more than one hand brought to a mouth, moved by the boy’s words.

Everyone’s attention was diverted when the sound of a train whistle announced its pending arrival.

Zona had one last chance. “Please, Mr. Folson. Let him sing to the men. For his mother. And his pa.”

Mr. Folson glanced at Pastor Davidson, who offered him a nod. He drew in a deep breath and let it out with the words, “Go on, then. Sing.”

The depot platform surged with commotion as the women of the Basket Brigade scurried to get in place to board the train. Zona led Johnny to the other singers and set him at the center. “When I tell you, sing ‘O Holy Night.’”

“All by myself?”

She looked at the other singers. “All by yourself.”

They nodded their assent, and Mr. Fleming said, “You can do it, boy. Sing for your ma and pa.”

The train pulled in with a rush of air, smoke, and sound. The wheels squealed to a stop. Zona gave Johnny an encouraging smile and used the pitch pipe to give him a note. When she heard him hum it, she moved beside Mrs. Smith so the soldiers could fully see the source of the voice.

Then he began.

“‘O holy night, the stars are brightly shining …’”

The song rang off the metal of the train and filled the platform, as if the heavens had opened up and let the songs of the cherubim descend. All eyes were on the boy, the business of delivering baskets or greeting passengers momentarily forgotten.

Zona could see the faces of the soldiers on the train, craning to see the singer. Their hurting eyes softened, and she saw many ease their heads to their pillows, wallowing in the music.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Folson’s reaction. His face was lifted to the sky, as if searching for his daughter and granddaughter. Tears flowed down his cheeks, yet he was smiling.

Thank You, Lord. Thank You for making it all turn out.

The song ended, and a moment of respectful silence fell upon them. Johnny looked around, his face panicked. But then the applause and congratulations assured him that all was right with the world.