would you do such a thing?”
“I can’t abide copperheads.” Captain Starrett shrugged. “Plus,” Captain Starrett said, slapping Sir Arthur on the back, sending my employer forward a few inches. “It sure beats the usual evening’s entertainment,” he said, laughing as he gathered up his belongings and headed toward General Starrett’s home a few blocks away. He whistled a strain of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as he went.
Sir Arthur stood still, his face flush with anger, watching until Captain Starrett was out of sight. I’d never seen anyone treat Sir Arthur with disrespect. And with the exception of his wife, Lady Philippa, I’d never even seen anyone touch Sir Arthur. Captain Starrett had done both in one day. I didn’t know how Sir Arthur would respond, but I knew better than to say anything.
“The impudence! The . . .” Sir Arthur was speechless with fury.
He stormed toward the horse and gig he had left tied up at the edge of the park, with me struggling to keep up. We rode back across the river and up the hill to Prospect Street in silence. Harvey was asleep on the step when we arrived. I envied his repose. I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. Sir Arthur, after nudging Harvey awake with his foot, handed him the horse’s reins. A deep imprint of the porch banister Harvey had been leaning on marked his cheek. He rubbed it absentmindedly. As I stepped down from the gig, Sir Arthur turned on me with a pointed finger inches from my face. Startled, I took a step back, hitting my elbow against the rim of the wheel.
“I don’t care if he served as Grant’s aide-de-camp,” Sir Arthur said, turning then and stomping toward the door. “That man will not be mentioned in my book!”
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, I took an early walk before Mass down the entire length of Main Street. My boots clicked on the dry boardwalk and, like a pioneer, I made a new discovery with every bend in the road. This downtown thoroughfare, just wide enough for two carriages to pass, was level but, unlike the straight main streets of most Middle West towns, snaked around for almost a mile, parallel to the original path of the river. With the sun not yet above the three- and four-story buildings that lined the road like a continuous wall of red brick, I was walking through a tunnel punctuated with colorful wooden awnings. At each crosswalk, I’d emerge where I could see the river or the bluffs above. But gazing at natural wonders would have to come later, I was here to peek at the shops: Henning’s bakery, Geo. Young’s books & stationery, Grumme’s confections, the Fair Store, the St. Louis Department Store, Barry Bros. Dry Goods, Siniger & Siniger’s Drugs, LeBron and Son, Jewelers, Killian’s fine groceries, Kuhn’s Meat Market, and my favorite, Mrs. Edwards’ Millinery. Fortunately for me with my extra Christmas duties, Main Street still reflected the wealth and prosperity of the town’s heyday of productive lead mines and steamboat traffic. I’d be able to find anything I needed.
So what? Christmas is already spoiled.
The thought popped into my head as I stood in the same spot I had occupied the night before. After my walk down Main Street, I’d crossed the footbridge and strolled through Grant Park. The park was vacant, of people and of evidence that anything extraordinary had occurred. Another dusting of snow had fallen in the early morning hours, enough to cover any traces of last night’s mob. I brushed away the snow from a bench and sat down, setting my plant press on my lap to keep it dry. In the few weeks I’d been in Galena, I had only found two new specimens for my plant collection, red-osier dogwood, with its bright red branches, and blue ash twigs with winter buds. I’d gotten spoiled in Eureka Springs, where I had collected something new almost every day. But it was too cold here to find almost anything that wasn’t dead, brown, and shriveled up. So I had given up bringing my plant press along on my hikes. But today I’d brought it along as a case of false optimism. For despite the exciting day I had planned ahead of me, a melancholy had taken hold of me during the night. I’d barely slept. I looked out across the river valley to the town of redbrick buildings on the bluffs built from where the water’s edge used to be. Without the slightest breeze, smoke from chimneys and smokestacks rose unwavering straight up into the sky.
What’s wrong with me? I wondered.
Images of Captain Henry Starrett came to mind, his mocking of Sir Arthur, his brutal attack on Mr. Jamison in the street and then on the man’s house, all in the name of a “night’s entertainment.” Men had been injured and insulted and yet all I could think of was that Santa Claus wasn’t who we thought he was. The Santa Claus of my childhood had given me the book I’ll treasure forever. With her inscription inside it, he had given me back my mother, for an instant. He was the Santa Claus who with every glimpse of him on a card or in a newspaper or in a church hall filled me with the hope of recapturing the magic, peace, and love of that Christmastime almost twenty years ago. I’d been excited about planning the Christmas festivities, but seeing a version of Santa Claus be so cruel had put a damper on my exuberance and had made me wonder if I’d ever enjoy Christmas again.
How absurd, I thought, having felt sorry for myself when Mr. Jamison was the one who deserved my pity. Captain Starrett wasn’t Santa Claus. So why should he ruin my Christmas?
I felt immensely better. I stood, shook the snow off the hem of my dress, straightened my hat, and headed back across the bridge toward Sir Arthur’s house to change for Mass at St. Michael’s.
“You’re going back to the general’s house, Hattie.” Sir Arthur waved a simple gold-bordered white card in one hand and his cigar in the other. “Starrett sent word that he’s ready to talk again, now. So you’ll have to go without me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
I’d planned to attend the G.A.R.-sponsored home tour. I’d raced back from St. Michael’s, changed into a less formal day dress, and fetched a pencil and tablet of paper from my room before meeting Sir Arthur and Lieutenant Triggs in the foyer. I’d been especially looking forward to seeing the late Dr. Kittoe’s greenhouse.
“Take down everything Starrett feels up to talking about,” Sir Arthur said. “You know the topics I’d like him to cover, including the Custer question. I look forward to reading the material tonight.”
“Starrett?” Lieutenant Triggs asked, surprised.
“Not to worry old chap, I’m not talking about the brute but his father, General Cornelius Starrett of the Army of the Cumberland, Fourth Corps. I’m interviewing him for my book. You saw him at the G.A.R. meeting, I believe.”
“Well, I’ll be. So that was him? My brother served with the general at Missionary Ridge, though he was Major Starrett then. Had nothing but praise for the great soldier. Amazing he’s the sire of . . .” Morgan Triggs didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. “I didn’t know the general was living here.”
“Well, come along after the tour then if you’d like. Bring Mrs. Triggs too if she’s up to it. I’ve been invited for tea.” Only Sir Arthur would invite two additional guests to someone else’s tea. Sir Arthur looked at his watch.
“Right!” he said. “It’s time to go.”
The tour, arranged by the G.A.R. weeks ago for Sir Arthur during his visit to Galena, began and ended with U. S. Grant’s homes, with several of Galena’s other famous men in between, including the former homes of General John Rawlins on Hill Street, Dr. Edward Kittoe’s on S. High Street, the statesman Elihu Washburne’s former home on Third Street, an impressive Greek Revival house that had appeared in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, and General William Rowley’s on Park. At each home, the Union Army veterans’
