Free Jacob's Ladder by Donald McCaig Page A

the Tidewater plantations had taken up so eagerly. This year she proposed the custom of distributing small money to those servants alert enough to cry “Christmas gift?” before the gentry wished them the felicitations of the season. “It’s a game,” Cousin Molly explained. “And the servants enjoy it.”
    â€œAn idea worthy of Mr. Dickens,” Abigail agreed and asked Jack the Driver to instruct the servants. Jack did as bid but couldn’t explain the game, exactly, nor just how they might sing out with the proper admixture of enthusiasm and respect. Most of the servants discarded the idea as soon as it was mooted, except for Pompey, who had learned to take his mistress’s whims seriously.
    Unaware of all this, a smiling Uther Botkin replied to Pompey’s unconvincing murmur, “Yes, Pompey, and a Happy Christmas to you too.”
    â€œYes sir, Master Uther.” His arms full of coats and cloaks, Pompey backed into Master Gatewood’s study.
    With its corniced ceiling, high windows, and blue-gray walls, Stratford’s parlor was pleasant in the summertime, but wine-dark winter drapes, dancing fire, evergreen garlands across the mantelpiece, and a German tree glowing with candles transformed the room into a convivial winter snug.
    His face flushed with kindness, Samuel gripped his old friend’s arm. “We are honored, good sir, honored. You will recall General Washington’s enthusiasm for this season. In our rustic fashion, we emulate his noble example. Can I find you some punch? Will you take a cup of eggnog?”
    Sallie was so happy. How good it was to forget her troubles! The tears that leapt to her eyes were tears of pleasure.
    Gatewood’s spectacles quivered on the bridge of his nose. “I particularly commend the eggnog. A tidewater recipe which originated with the Carter family. Mr. Kirkpatrick, delighted you could join us today, though doubtless you will be accustomed to more sophistication than you will find here. Mr. Botkin assures me your learning is profound. Did you not graduate at Yale College? I had some college myself, but abandoned my studies upon my father’s demise. Now I study my plantation.”
    â€œNo doubt an improving study.” Kirkpatrick bowed.
    Gatewood, the agricultural improver, cocked his head. Had this stiff young man made a pun? “The eggnog, friends! The eggnog!”
    Ornaments glistened: blown glass balls of silver and gold and blue, strands of plump popcorn, and colored paper silhouettes.
    Sallie exclaimed, “Dear Samuel, the tree is beautiful! I have read descriptions of German trees in the Richmond Whig, but hadn’t ever expected to see one in our valley. Lovely!”
    â€œPompey is convinced its candles will set the house afire, and the water bucket doesn’t reassure him. Whenever my back is turned, he slips in with that candle snuffer, and whup”—Samuel pinched his fingers—“another flame is gone.”
    A full score of neighbors and kin thronged the parlor: the Botkin-Kirkpatricks mingled with elderly Gatewood cousins come out from Warm Springs for the day. Preacher Todd, who disapproved Sallie’s hasty marriage, found more congenial souls to talk to: Grandmother Gatewood particularly. Andrew Seig’s kindly wife found something to say to wan Sister Kate. Uther gravitated naturally to the hearth: contented. Cedar wood in the fireplace, evergreen boughs, cigar smoke and heated spiced wine, ladies’ perfumes: these scented the room.
    When Andrew Seig and Elmo Hevener discussed the thrilling news of South Carolina’s secession, Samuel Gatewood took the horse breeder’s arm. “Andrew, Andrew. It is Christmas—the one day of the year we are positively forbidden to discuss weighty matters. In my home, sir, please indulge me.”
    When the Byrd carriage clattered up, the Gatewoods and Pompey hurried to meet them. With a grand flourish, Pompey