Sime~Gen

The Miracle

by Robert Broomall

    The next day was Christmas. It was too cold to blow reveille, so the trumpeter went round the tents, shouting the men awake. The Swede poked his head out of the tent he shared with Irish Tom.

    "Santa bring us anything?" Tom asked.

    "A foot of snow," Swede observed.

    "Grand fellow, Santa. Just what we needed."

    Swede looked at the next tent, where their messmate Nails Morrison was using his tin mess cup to shovel snow away from his shelter's entrance. "Smitty still alive?" Swede asked.

    Nails - his real name was Henry, but no one had called him that in years - made a sour face. "Don't see me buryin' him, do you?"

    Around them in the gray light, the rest of C Company crawled out of their half-buried tents. The wind had fallen. The day dawned crystal clear, the snow a white blanket stretching to the horizon. There were mountains in the distance. The Tetons, somebody said.

    Roll was taken. No one had frozen to death during the night. There were still just the three cases of frostbite, one of whose victims, "Big" Abner Small, was likely to lose a few toes. In honor of the day, the Captain halted the march and let the outfit remain in camp. C Company's thirty-odd men greeted the news quietly. They were too cold and footsore to do more. The Captain read the Gospel according to Saint Luke. Normally the men didn't care much about religion, but on this day they listened attentively to the story of Jesus' nativity. A light guard was set. The Captain sent details to hunt and gather firewood, and the rest of the men were dismissed.

*    *    *

    A few of the boys crawled back into their canvas tents and tried to sleep; the rest huddled around their mess fires and prepared breakfast. They moved slowly and a bit awkwardly. Most wore three layers of clothing -- all that they owned -- under their light blue overcoats, with newspapers stuffed between each layer. Their feet and lower legs were wrapped with strips of buffalo skin, hairy side out, and they wore ungainly mittens of the same material, fashioned for them by the ladies at the fort. Some wore wool sailor's caps pulled low over their ears; others had thick scarves tied over their campaign hats and beneath their chins. Most had wrapped bandannas or scarves across their faces so that only their eyes showed. Even so, their beards were frozen stiff; ice rimed their mustaches and the hair beneath their lips.

    "Hell of a lot of snow we got last night," said the Swede, beating his arms against his sides. "Think we'll be able to pick up the Sioux trail?"

    "I hope not," said Irish Tom. "Then we can go back to the fort." Tom was a compact, energetic young man with black hair and prominent teeth, whose voice bore the soft lilt of the west country.

    "We ain't goin' back," growled the First Sergeant, coming up behind them. "Fitzpatrick could track fly turds in the Sahara. He sure ain't gonna miss a few Injuns in the snow."

    The men moaned. The company had been called out on a ten-day scout that was supposed to have gotten them back to the fort on the 23d. But they'd come across cattle that looked to have been butchered by a party of Sioux -- no doubt off the reservation because they were starving -- and they'd taken up the "hostiles'" trail.

    Tom went on. "Then why are we stoppin' for the day? That ain't helpin' us catch them Injuns."

    "Cap'n don't want to catch 'em," the First Sergeant said. "He wants to follow 'em at a distance, get 'em back on the reservation without nobody bein' killed."

    Tom groused with all the conviction of a thirty-year veteran. "Why do we have to do this, anyway? Ain't it a job for the cavalry?"

    "Cavalry." The First Sergeant spat into the snow derisively. "This is work for real sojers -- infantry work." The First Sergeant was the only man in the company, besides the Captain, who had fought in the war, and that made him, in the eyes of the men, very old. Normally he would speak to a second-year man like Tom only to damn his eyes or order him on punishment detail, but this was Christmas. "Yellow legs is useless at all times, but 'specially in winter. It's too hard gettin' 'em grain for their horses. Now, us, we can march forever. They ain't got to feed us grain. They ain't got to feed us nothin'. We can live off snow and shoe leather, if we have to."

    "That's what we been livin' off of," said Irish Tom.

*    *    *

    Each man in Private Smith's group of four had a job at mess. Nails Morrison's job was making coffee. He roasted the men's green coffee beans in a small frying pan, shaking them from time to time. When they were done, he smashed them with the butt of his revolver and put them in boiling water to steep. While they steeped, turning the water dark, Nails dreamed about tonight.

    He had had figured the company might be out over Christmas, so he'd hidden a pint of brandy in his pack, and tonight, Christmas night, when he had guard, he was going to drink it. Barracks etiquette demanded that he share with his bunky, and strongly suggested that he include his other two mess mates, as well, but Nails didn't care. He intended to drink the brandy all by himself.

    The sun was rising as Swede and Irish Tom helped Smitty out of his tent. They sat him by the cook fire, wrapped in his gray blanket. Private John Smith, called "Five Ace Smitty" or "Bottom of the Deck Smitty" by the other men in the company, was Nails' bunky. In the army, bunkies shared tents, they shared blankets, they shared everything. It was Nails' responsibility to take care of Smitty. "Coffee?" Nails asked him. He snapped off the word, more like an accusation than a question.

    Smitty nodded. He'd come down with a fever right after the march began. The fever had turned to pneumonia, and the combination of snow and sub-freezing temperatures had worsened his condition steadily. Beneath his filthy beard his skin was sallow. His eyes were sunken, with dark circles below them. His breathing seemed to have grown more labored just since reveille.

    "Think he'll last the day?" the Swede asked.

    Nails held a tin cup to Smitty's mouth. "I hope not."

    "Jaysus," said Tom, as he dished out their breakfast. "A fine Christian sentiment, that is."

    Nails didn't look at Tom. His glare was fixed on Smitty, and Smitty returned it with all the strength he had left. The two men had fought a number of times; Smitty had once beaten Nails senseless with his belt buckle. Nails wasn't the type to back down, though. The day he'd gotten out of the hospital, he'd fought Smitty again.

    Now Nails turned his eyes toward Tom. "Why should I pretend?" he snarled. "We're well rid of this bastard. When he's not in the guardhouse, he's drinking or fighting or cheating us at cards. I'd wager the colonel's best horse he's the one that's been stealing from the barracks, as well."

    "I know," said Tom, "but on Christmas? No wonder they call you a hard case."

    Nails jammed some breakfast -- a mush of hardtack and salt pork - into Smitty's bearded mouth. "Bugger Christmas. It's just another day. There's nothing special about it, nothing magic. There's no miracles, like in that Dickens story."

    "That's where you're wrong," Tom said. "If ever there's a day for miracles, 'tis Christmas."

    "I'd like to see one out here."

    "You never know, lad. You just may."

*    *    *

    After breakfast, some of the boys tried to have a snowball fight, but the snow was too dry for snowballs. The firewood details returned, and the Captain let the men build a bonfire to go with their mess fires. Corporal Hinkle and some of his pals asked the Captain if they might be permitted to cut a tree. When the Captain agreed, the men fetched a couple axes from the pack mule and started toward the wooded hills, their whoops echoing across the frozen plain. The rest of the men returned to their mess fires.

*    *    *

    It was funny how quick you settled in, Nails thought. Some men lounged in the snow beside the fires as comfortably as if they were settling into a favorite chair back home. Other men wandered back and forth between the fires, visiting. A few games of cards started. More coffee was made.

    It was Swede's turn to bathe Smitty's red-hot forehead and face with snow. "What do you think they're doing back at the fort?" he said to the others. "Do you think they've started the jollification?"

    "'Tis entirely certain they have," said Irish Tom. "Living the high life, they are. And us, stuck out here."

    "So what?" said Bible Bob from the next fire. "This is as good a place as any for Christmas. Christmas ain't about no high life. It's about the Baby Jesus."

    Nails waved a scornful hand to that opinion, but the Swede was more thoughtful. He had a big, open face, like a cherub's, framed by straight blond hair. "It's more than that," he said. "Christmas is about home, and family."

    "Pigs' balls," Nails said. "'Home?' 'Family?' What's them things to somebody like me, who grew up in an orphanage."

    "Did you never know your parents at all?" asked Big Abner Small. The burning pain in Abner's frostbitten feet had turned to numbness, and he thought that meant he was going to be all right.

    Nails shook his head. "Heard they died of cholera. Don't know if it's true."

    "Brothers? Sisters?" said Abner.

    Nails shrugged. "There was a time I wondered about that. No more."

    When he was done with Smitty, Swede poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He held his face over the tin cup, swirling the contents, letting the hot fumes drift up and thaw his nostrils. His open face took on a dreamy, far-away look. "Sure wish I was home," he said. "Back home on Christmas, we'd pile into the wagon and go to my uncle's farm - he's got the biggest house in the family. We'd get there on Christmas Eve, and we'd be so excited we couldn't sleep. First thing next morning, there'd be the smell of Grandma's butter pound cakes cooking. After church, we'd get our presents, then sit down to a gut-buster of turkey and dressing, and more cakes and pies than you can shake a stick at. Later that night there'd be dancing for the growed-ups and older kids, while the young ones would play with their new toys and try to stay out of trouble."

    Irish Tom stuffed tobacco in his clay pipe and held a match to it. "What I remember about Christmas is me Ma's mince pie, with rum sauce. Waited all year for that mince pie, we did. Poor Ma, she's gone now." He crossed himself, and his eyes softened. "We didn't have much in the way of presents, but there was always a special feeling on Christmas Day. So maybe Christmas is about memories, as well."

    Nails jabbed at the fire with his bayonet, stirring it. "I never had one I wanted to remember."

    "Not one?" said Tom. "That's hard to believe."

    "Is it? Let's see . . ." Nails jabbed the fire again, producing a shower of red sparks. "If you was lucky, you got a sweet roll. Maybe a second helping of gruel. Course, the matrons took off that day, so the bigger kids could whomp on you all day, with nobody to stop them. That was Christmas at the orphanage. A hell of a time. Loads of memories."

    "You got no presents?"

    "A shirt, maybe, or pair of pants, made at the workhouse, which is where we were headed when we came of an age. Well, thank you very much, says I, but that ain't for me. I skipped out of there and I never looked back."

*    *    *

    Beside them, Smith sat huddled over, shivering with fever, wrapped in his blankets. His mess mates' words drifted in and out of his consciousness. Christmas. Christmas last year had been debauchery at a Lexington whore house. He didn't remember much of it, even the part that was responsible for him being here now. The year before, it had been the same thing, only in another town. He and the men he associated with had no families. They lived in shanties, by themselves or with whores. They spent their time in saloons -- drinking, gambling, fighting among themselves. What was Christmas to them?

    And yet ...

    Memories, unbidden, floated up from the depths of Smith's feverish brain. Voices, long forgotten, spoke once more ...

     His mother's musical lilt: "If you eat all the dough, there won't be any for the cookies ..."

     His father's baritone: "Here you are, son. All the way from New York ..."

     And his sister, laughing, teasing: "Do it the other way, silly ..."

     Smith stirred. Where had these visions come from? Here came his father, young and strong, carrying in the tree before a roaring fire. There was his mother, setting the cloth on the table, humming Christmas songs; and himself and his sister making decorations from colored paper, painted nuts, and bits of tin foil from the inside wrapping of plug tobacco. After we'd threaded the tree with strings of berries and popcorn, Father had carefully put on the candles.

     "Don't burn down the house," he always told them.

     "We won't," they would say, and of course there was always one near accident that had their mother in panic and left himself and his sister rolling on the floor in laughter at the telling of it afterward.

    His sister. He hadn't thought of her in years. He wondered where she was now. Married, likely, with children of her own, if she hadn't died in childbirth or been carried off by disease. They'd lived a ways from the other families, so he and his sister had been thrown together.

    They'd slept in the same bed when they were little, giggling and talking through the night till Pa came and made them be quiet. They'd shared everything - hopes, fears. They were playmates, friends, fellow explorers and defiers of nature. They'd gone swimming together, and hunting. Because of him, she could shoot as good as most boys. Because of her, he'd developed an interest in books ...

*    *    *

    Corporal Hinkle -- called Horsethief in deference to his civilian occupation -- and his friends returned, carrying an eight-foot spruce tree. They set up the tree in the snow, near the bonfire. Having set it up, they needed to decorate it. That stumped everybody, till the Captain took off his brass belt buckle and attached it to one of the tree's branches. Each man in the company followed suit, even the Lieutenant, till the tree had thirty-odd belt buckles hanging from its branches. Welsh Willie fixed his bayonet by its socket to the tree top, and if you squinted you could pretend it was a star ...

*    *    *

     Smith remembered other Christmases, after Father had left for the war and never returned. He remembered his stepfather's shouts, his sister's screaming at him to stop, his mother sobbing while his stepfather took away his books. . . . and when Smith had tried to get them back, the ignorant bastard had slapped him across the room.

     "Don't hold with books," his stepfather had bragged. "Reading's for lazy folk. Only one book worth a damn, and that's the Good Book. Rest is useless, you ask'n me."

     After his stepfather came, there was no more skylarking in the woods, no more reading Waverly or Fenimore Cooper under the old shade tree on a hot day. It was work, from dawn till dusk and then some. For Smith and his sister. No more school. Chopping wood and hauling logs, wrestling with the mule, plowing and planting until his hands bled, and it was never good enough. There was always more to do ...

    When he was fifteen, Smith could take no more. He ran away. He'd drifted down to a river town, hoping to find work. On the way he'd been robbed of what little he had, beaten, left in a heap by the road. He hadn't quit, though. He'd gone to work for a blacksmith but discovered he had the wanderlust -- maybe the books had done that to him. He never stayed in one spot for long, and before too much time had passed, necessity had forced him into a life of robbery and assault. Along with these had come drink and cards and women, and soon his old life had been forgotten in the immediacy of the new and the need to stay alive from one day to the next.

    There had been one moment when he might have changed. There had been a girl -- blonde ringlets and eyes like cornflowers. She reminded Smith of his sister. There had been a Christmas with her. He'd even gone to church, dressed up in a store-bought suit. But her parents didn't approve of him, and he wouldn't abandon his companions, and eventually she drifted away, to a man who could give her peace and security ...

*    *    *

    "What happened after you left the orphanage?" Swede asked Nails.

    Nails had removed his right shoe, then peeled the three socks from his foot. The three socks made the damn shoe too tight. Not only did that lead to blisters, it hurt circulation. He held the bare foot near the fire, massaging the toes, working them, so that frostbite would not set in. "I apprenticed myself to a chimney sweep. Got too big to get up the chimneys, though. Just as well, chimney sweep boys don't last long -- breathing all that coal dust ain't much for their health. After that, I lived catch as catch can. Done whatever I had to, to get by. I've scavenged garbage heaps, swept streets, had me a root beer stand. I was even a 'resurrection man.'"

    Puzzled, Swede scratched his jaw. "'Resurrection man?'"

    "Grave robber," Tom explained. Tom was cleaning his heavy rifle, running an oily cloth over the moving parts.

    "Oh," said Swede in a low voice. He looked at Nails sideways, wondering if maybe Nails had sold his soul to the Devil to be a grave robber. After a bit, he ceased worrying about it and stretched full length in the snow, letting the sun beat down on him, absorbing what little warmth its rays held. The temperature was below freezing, but there was little wind, so the day was bearable -- balmy, compared to what it had been. "I only got two more Christmases in the army," Swede mused. "When I get out, I'm going back to the farm and I ain't never leaving."

    "Not me," said Irish Tom, squinting down the barrel of his Long Tom. "I'm openin' a restaurant."

    Swede looked over, taking care to shield his eyes from the sun's brilliant glare as it reflected off the snow. He knew how easy it was to come down with snow blindness. "You're going to be a cook?"

    "Nah. I'll hire Chinamen for that."

    Swede was puzzled again. "You're going to open a Chinese restaurant?"

    "Irish restaurant. Chinese cooks. They work cheaper and don't back talk you like the damned Irish."

    "Christ, that should be a meal to remember. How'd a restaurantin' fellow like you end up in the army, anyway?"

    Tom attached an oily patch to the end of his ramrod and stabbed the ramrod down the rifle barrel. "When I first got to America, there was no jobs to be found -- what with hard times back east, and me bein' Irish. So one night, I find meself in a pub, drinking whiskey with a fellow, him buyin' and all, talkin' about this grand job he had for me. I don't recollect much after that, but when I woke up, there I was, gone for a sojer -- with a splittin' headache, to top it off." He pulled out the ramrod and peered down the rifle barrel again. "'Grand job', indeed." He gave the ramrod one last scrape down the barrel. "Why'd you join?"

    Swede sat up and tried to make a snowball. The snow still wasn't good. "I wanted to get away from home. See the West, have some adventure. I figured to be a miner, then the recruiting sergeant come to town. He was so impressive in that blue uniform, with all the girls following him around. I wanted a uniform just like his, and a fine horse just like the one he rode. So I forgot about mining and joined up."

    "Horse, did you say?" Irish Tom chewed on the word for a bit, then spat in the direction of the bonfire. "Have ye by any chance noticed that ye're in the infantry?"

    The Swede lowered his head sheepishly. "They said there was a mistake with the paperwork. Said I'd get a transfer. Reckon it ain't gonna happen now."

    Swede and Tom looked at Nails expectantly. He ignored them, smearing pork grease on his foot as protection against blisters and frostbite, then putting his socks back on in the reverse order they'd been before. They were still looking at him. "All right, if you have to know, it was the middle of winter. I didn't have a cent to my name, I hadn't eaten in days. I was tired of living without a roof over my head, tired of being cold and wet. So I said screw it, and I joined the army to get warm and get something to eat."

    At that, the Swede and Irish Tom began laughing. Swede pounded his thigh. Tom fell on his back, dropping his newly-cleaned rifle in the snow, but he didn't care. He was laughing so hard, he was close to tears. "That's a rare one, so it is. 'Tis certain you been colder and wetter in the army than ever you was on the outside."

    "You probably ate better when you was scavenging them garbage dumps," Swede added.

    When the two of them were done laughing, Tom asked Nails, "What are you going to do when you get out?"

    "Look you two up and shoot you, for asking so many damn questions."

*    *    *

    After the girl left him, Smith had gone back to his rough society and the rough things he had to do to survive. The books were long forgotten He'd grown quick with his fists -- or with a knife or gun, if it came to that. Last Christmas, he'd killed a man. It wasn't the first man he'd killed, but this one had money and political connections. Smith had gone on the run. He knew this time the hunt wouldn't stop after a few miles or even after a few hundred miles, like it always had before. So he'd joined the army, to hide. He figured to stay a couple of years, then desert when the storm had blown over.

    No chance of that now, he thought.

*    *    *

    The men looked up. The Captain was coming toward them, with the Athlete -- which was what the men called the Lieutenant -- in tow. The men started to their feet, but the Captain waved them back down. "Merry Christmas, men."

    "Merry Christmas, sir," they said.

    The Captain crouched beside them. "Join you for some coffee?"

    "Yes, sir," said Tom. "Our pleasure, sir."

    Nails poured coffee in the Captain's cup. The Athlete, who was still standing, hesitated, then held out his cup, and Nails filled it as well. It was a tradition in the army for officers to spend time with their men at Christmas. The Captain would visit every mess group this day, and have coffee with each of them. Nails wondered what kept his kidneys from floating away.

    "Sorry we can't give you more than coffee, sir," said Irish Tom, grinning.

    The Captain grinned back. "So am I." If they were back at the fort, the Captain likely would have showed up with a half-dozen bottles of prime whiskey for their party.

    The Captain sipped from his cup. "Good coffee."

    "Thank you, sir," said Nails.

    The Captain shifted and knelt beside Smith. "How do you feel, Smith?"

    Smith lifted his head toward the sound of the voice. He tried to say something. His lips moved, but no words came out.

    With his teeth, the Captain tugged off one of his buffalo skin gauntlets. He felt Smith's forehead. It was on fire. Smith's breathing was as ragged as his uniform. The Captain put the mitten back on. "Hang in there, son. We'll be back at the fort soon enough."

    Smith managed a nod.

    The Captain rose. "How about you, O'Brian -- how are you doing?"

    "Grand, sir," said Tom. "Fit as a fiddle." He leaned forward, as if in confidentiality. "A tad peckish, though."

    The Captain laughed. "Jernigan -- you having a good Christmas?"

    "I guess so, sir," said the Swede. "Hadn't counted on being quite this cold."

    "Helps get you in the spirit," the Captain told him. "What about you, Morrison -- you doing all right?"

    "I always do all right, sir," Nails said.

    The Captain chatted with the men for a bit. Tom and Swede talked readily enough; Nails kept quiet, occasionally bathing Smitty's hot forehead with snow. They could never be this informal at the fort. There, the men could only speak to an officer with the First Sergeant's permission, and that was given rarely. At last the Captain rose. "I'll be back to check on Smith later."

    "Yes, sir," said the three men.

    "Thanks for the coffee."

    "Yes," added the Athlete, who was still standing. "Thanks."

*    *    *

    Before visiting the next mess, the Captain motioned the Lieutenant out of the men's earshot. The Captain was a rangy fellow, with a gravelly voice. He'd been a colonel during the war, but unless another big war came along, or a lot of his superiors got killed by Indians, a captain was all he was ever going to be. He could have ridden a horse on the scout but didn't, opting to walk like the men. This had forced the Lieutenant -- who would have preferred riding -- to walk, as well.

    The Captain said, "You all right, Owen? You didn't say a word back there."

    The Lieutenant sighed. "I know, sir. I couldn't think of anything to say. I feel out of place around the men. I feel like I don't belong."

    "That's to be expected. You've only been with the outfit a short time."

    For the first time since the Captain had known him, the Lieutenant spoke frankly. "I envy you, sir - your way with the men. They like you, but they respect you at the same time. They don't feel that way about me."

    "Respect like that doesn't come overnight."

    "I don't think it will ever come to me." The Lieutenant cleared his throat. "Actually, I ... I'm thinking of resigning my commission."

    The Captain was silent for a moment. "Well, it's your decision. Just don't be too hasty."

    They moved on to the next fire.

*    *    *

    The hunters came back. They had found no game. "Blizzard done drove everything to ground," said Fitzpatrick the civilian scout.

    The men, who had gathered around in anticipation, went back to their fires, disappointed. "Jayus, I was hopin' they'd come up with somethin'," said Tom.

    "A turkey, maybe," said Big Abner.

    "A buffalo," said Horsethief Hinkle.

    "I'd have been happy for a rabbit," said the Swede.

    Tom rubbed his gloved hands together. "Well, lads -- looks like we'll have to make do with what's in the pantry."

*    *    *

    Already on this short day the sun had passed its zenith. It was sinking into the west, losing what little heat it had brought. The crust of the snow, which had turned slushy, started to harden again as the boys got ready for Christmas dinner. The Captain had a couple of onions. These were fried and carefully divided in equal amounts among the eight mess groups. The First Sergeant had a large potato, which was likewise parceled out. The Athlete opened a couple tins of peaches from his pack. Each man got a spoonful of the heavy syrup -- Smitty first -- then they ate the peaches as an appetizer. They boiled more coffee and built up their cook fires.

    Irish Tom had managed to save a bit of vinegar, some of which he traded to Abner Small for a chunk of brown sugar. Welsh Willie lent him four raisins. Tom soaked the hardtack in melted snow. The salt pork was green with age, the fat hanging off it. Tom scraped away ancient mouse droppings, then soaked the pork in the vinegar. When the tack had absorbed enough water to bring it to a consistency other than rock, Tom wrapped it in his bandanna and hammered it to pieces with his revolver butt. He sliced the vinegar-soaked pork into cubes and fried them in his field pan. When the fat was rendered sufficiently, he added the drained hardtack bits, and their piece of the First Sergeant's potato, cut in four. He stirred the mixture in the sizzling grease. When it was just about cooked, he added the four raisins, to plump them, then folded in the precious onions. For a finish, he crushed the sugar and sprinkled it across the meal's top. He scooped an exact quarter of the mixture in each man's mess kit, topping each serving with one of the plumped raisins.

    "There you are, lads -- as grand a Christmas feast as ever you'll see. All it wants is a drop of the creature to wash it down."

    Nails averted his gaze. He didn't know why -- he didn't feel guilty about hoarding the brandy. Why should he? No one had ever shared with him. No one had ever given him a thing. They said he was a hard case -- well, he was.

    Around them the other mess groups were eating. The ingredients were by and large the same, their preparation limited only by the cooks' imaginations. Some of the men took their time, savoring each bite, other shoveled the food into their mouths. Nails fed Smitty again, forcing the food into him, resentful of every bite the dying man took.

    When it came his own turn, Nails ate the raisin, the onions and the morsel of potato. When that was done, he found that he wasn't all that hungry. Salt pork -- what did he care about salt pork when he had brandy? The pork was barely recognizable as food. Starving dogs would turn up their noses at it, but these saps around him went at it like it was prime beef or lobster. Nails took the salt pork from his mess tin. He wrapped it in his handkerchief and stuck it in his coat pocket. Maybe later. It was time for him to go on guard. He hefted his rifle and trudged off to his spot on the company perimeter.

*    *    *

    The light began to fade. The sun turned into a dull red ball, low on the western horizon. The soft rosy glow that it cast on the sky spread across the frozen landscape, giving the scene a bleak beauty. One of the boys broke out a penny whistle. Another had a Jew's harp. They stood by the bonfire and began playing "Hark, the Herald Angels sing." The playing was ragged at first, but it got better. Clatterbuck the trumpeter joined in, lending a brass accompaniment. A few of the boys started to sing along, then more.

*    *    *

    The Captain sat in the snow by his tent, writing a letter to his wife, Elizabeth. There was no chance of the letter being delivered before they got back to the fort, but he did it nonetheless. It made him feel like Elizabeth was here with him -- in spirit, at least. Elizabeth would be taking Christmas dinner with Major Crawford and his wife. Later, there would be a ball at the commanding officer's quarters. The other officers would make sure that Elizabeth never missed a dance.

    The singing grew louder as more of the men joined in. The Captain sighed. He and his wife had buried three children at various posts on the frontier. There was no chance of having more. His wife had given up everything she had ever wanted for his career, and here, on the most important day of the year, he couldn't be there for her.

    He licked his pencil and wrote in his orderly book:

"My Dearest Elizabeth,

    Here it is, Christmas, and once more we are apart. I wish with all my heart that it could not be so, but I know you will be in good hands with Annie and Tim Crawford.

    The sun made an appearance today. The temperature rose above zero for the first time in several days. Right now it is dusk, clear and cold, as it must have been on that first Christmas night. The men are singing. They seem cheerful enough. All in all, a comforting scene.

    I wish I could be there to give you my gift. But what can I give you, who have given me everything? What can I give you that would ever match the magnitude of your sacrifice for me? I took your comfortable life and turned it into one of hardship and sorrow, yet you never complained. I owe you so much, and all I can give you is my love ...

Did you go to the cemetery today? I am sure that you did. I so wish I could have been with you, to ..."

    He let out his breath and stopped writing.

    The First Sergeant saw him. "You all right, sir?"

    The Captain closed his orderly book. "Yes. Fine." He sniffed, smacked his palms on his knees, and stood. "Let's join the singing, shall we?"

    As the Captain tucked the orderly book into his greatcoat and put on his gloves, the First Sergeant saw the Athlete sitting dejected, with his head on his fists. "You, too, sir. Come along." The First could use this chivvying tone with a mere lieutenant; he would never have tried it with the Captain.

    The Athlete looked up, surprised. "What?"

    "The singing, sir."

    The Athlete's youthful face brightened. "Oh. Yes. Of course." He followed the Captain and the First Sergeant to the fire.

*    *    *

    The entire company was gathered around the bonfire now. The Athlete had overcome his initial reticence and was singing as lustily as any of them -- "See Amid the Winter's Snow," "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear." Irish Tom and the Swede held Smitty upright between them. It had gone dark. The firelight reflected off the brass belt buckles and the bayonet on the tree, making the tree shimmer with light in the breeze, making it seem alive.

*    *    *

    Smith listened to the massed voices. He wanted to sing with them, but he was too weak. He wished he could be a boy once more, helping his father bring the tree inside, with the wind blowing, and his mother red faced from baking, and his sister laughing in glee at the size of the new-cut evergreen . . .

    The Swede nudged Irish Tom. With his head he indicated Smitty. Tears were running down Smitty's cheeks.

    Smith wanted to say a prayer. He couldn't remember any, so he made up his own. "Please, God, forgive me. I'm sorry for all I've done. I've made mistakes. Made a lot of them. I'd change them if I could, but I can't. I never meant to hurt anybody. Please forgive me."

*    *    *

    Nails was off by himself, on guard. He slipped the pint of brandy from his pocket and sighed. He'd been waiting for this all day. He uncorked the bottle, licking his lips. The men were singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Roaring it, their sturdy voices rising as one into the snowbound night:

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen.

Let nothing you dismay.

Remember Christ our Savior

Was born on Christmas Day,

To save us all from Satan's Pow'r

When we were gone astray.

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy.

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy."

    Nails waited with the bottle, listening as they went through two more verses, the voices crescendoing at the end:

"O-o-o-h, tidings of comfort and joy."

    Suddenly -- silence. Echoes floated across the prairie. That was the end. The musicians had played all the Christmas songs they knew. Nails set the cold glass bottle to his lips and tilted it. He felt the fiery liquid making its way down the bottle's neck.

    Then a lone voice sounded out in German:

"Stille nacht, heilige Nacht,

Alles schlaft, einsam wacht ..."

    Before the brandy could reach his lips, Nails lowered the bottle, listening once more. It was a simple hymn, all the more beautiful because of its simplicity. None of the boys save the singer knew German, but some of them began to hum the tune. Soon the entire company had joined in.

    Nails found himself humming, as well. He didn't know why; his action surprised him. His cold was forgotten, so was his weariness.

    "Home ... family ..."

    This -- the army -- was his home, Nails realized. The army was his family. This was a place he could belong, if he'd let himself.

    He corked the bottle and stuck it back in his coat.

    When Nails came off guard, he returned to his mess fire, where the boys were preparing for tattoo. Smitty was there, propped against their packs, looking oddly rested. Nails sat beside him. He tapped Smitty's shoulder. Smitty slowly moved his head in Nails' direction over. Nails offered him the bottle.

    Smitty's fevered eyes met Nails', and there was a question in them -- "Why?"

    Nails hesitated. This was hard for him to do. He shrugged and, in a low voice, said, "Merry Christmas."

    Smitty gave a faint nod.

    Nails held the back of Smitty's head. He angled the bottle to the dying man's lips. Smitty swallowed, coughed, bent over.

    "More?" Nails said.

    Smitty nodded again.

    Nails gave him another drink. Another. Then Smitty shook his head. He'd had enough. He closed his eyes.

    Nails saw Tom and Swede eyeing him. "Where'd you come by the bottle?" Tom wanted to know.

    "Found it," Nails said. "Out there."

    Tom and the Swede knew he was lying, of course, but they didn't say anything. Nails handed them the bottle. Each took a long pull, then they offered it back. Nails waved them off. "My Christmas gift," he told them.

    They drank some more. Tom smacked his lips. "Nails, me boy, I've misjudged ye. Ye're all right."

    No one had ever said that to Nails before.

    The Swede grinned broadly. "Say -- maybe this is our Christmas miracle."

    "Aye," said Tom. "Maybe 'tis, at that."

    Tom and the Swede passed the bottle back and forth. They saved the last drink for Smitty. He swallowed it, coughed, and closed his eyes.

    Right after that, the Captain came to their fire. He must have smelled the alcohol, but he said nothing. He knelt beside Smith. Smith's forehead was no longer hot. It was clammy now; his breathing sounded like pebbles rolling across a tin washboard. "Is there anything you want to tell me, son?" the Captain asked.

     Smith opened his eyes and looked up. Odd -- it was summer. The hot sun beat down.

    "I ... I ..."

    He clawed the Captain's coat sleeve. He had to make him understand.

    "I had ... a ... sister ..."

    "Her name, man -- her name."

     Suddenly it didn't matter, because there she was. She was standing beneath the old shade tree, waving to him, beckoning him to join her as she had done so many times before.

    He went to her.

    Gently, the Captain released the dead man's grip. He laid Smith on the snow. With his thumb he closed Smith's sightless eyes. Then he hung his head. "Somewhere, there's someone who'd like to know what happened to him. We'll never be able to tell them." He paused. "We don't even know his real name."

    "He must have gone out happy," said the Swede. "He looks real peaceful."

    Tom crossed himself. "Look at that smile on his face. I don't think I ever seen him smile before."

*    *    *

    The next day, Smitty was buried and the march resumed. The men fell into line and slogged through the snow, past Smitty's grave, past their Christmas tree, now stripped of its ornaments. Another one of the men had fallen ill, and the Athlete carried his pack. Nails marched alongside Irish Tom and the Swede. As the First Sergeant cursed them and told them to pick up the pace, Nails stuck his hands in his coat pockets. He found the salt pork from the night before. He unwrapped it and took a bite.

    He had never tasted anything so good in his life.

The End

The Miracle © 2001 by Robert Broomall

Robert Broomall is the author of sixteen published novels, several of which have revolved around army life on the western frontier. His most recent book, MURDER IN THE SEVENTH CAVALRY, is published by RFI West.

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