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Overview
A Union officer struggles homeward through a Christmas Eve snowstorm, haunted by loss and doubtful of the future. Paroled from a brutal prison camp, a young southern soldier yearns to find the one person he loves most in the world -- and worries over the devastation rumored to have reached his family's mountain. An immigrant private plans a startling Christmas surprise for his comrades. And a newly freed slave must choose between the desire for revenge and his longing to be a better man than his master . . .
From northern colliery towns to ruined Old South plantations and the divided loyalties of the Appalachian Mountains, Owen Parry casts his storyteller's spell with a collection of unforgettable tales celebrating the enduring spirit of Christmas. Moving from darkness toward the light in the grand tradition of holiday tales, these stories are bound to become classics of the American yuletide season. Whether whispering an old-fashioned Christmas ghost story or reminding us that not all who suffered war's losses wore uniforms, the author always leads us back to the joyous beauty -- the miracle -- of Christmas. Moving and heartfelt, Our Simple Gifts revives the tradition of Christmas tales for grown-ups.
As quietly as snow falls on holly, these Civil War Christmas tales will insist on being read again, year after year.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780062266385 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 12/15/2023 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 149 |
| Sales rank: | 409,685 |
| File size: | 367 KB |
About the Author
Owen Parry is the author of a series of critically acclaimed, prizewinning novels set during the American Civil War: Faded Coat of Blue, Shadows of Glory, Call Each River Jordan, and Honor's Kingdom. He has also published a collection of holiday tales for adults, Our Simple Gifts. Born in the anthracite region of Pennsylvania, Parry lives and writes in northern Virginia.
Read an Excerpt
Star of Wonder
The snow charged out of the dusk and surrounded the train. Beyond the flake-shot glass, the dark hills paled. Captured, the fields lay under flags of surrender. The locomotive fought on and the file of cars shivered and clattered over a bridge. Beyond a lifeless canal, ice crept out from the black banks of the river. Although he sat only one bench from the coal stove at the head of the aisle, Robert gathered the blue greatcoat over his chest with the hand the war had left him.
He understood the cold as soldiers do, and felt it waiting in ambush.
The whistle shrieked to warn a town of the train's approach. Lighted windows flashed by, yellow and beckoning, past swirling veils of snow. One rectangle framed a German tree and Robert caught a glimpse of dancing figures. As the engine slowed, brakes keened and billows of steam thickened the snow until Robert could not see the outside world at all.
When the car stopped, big Dutchmen lugged their parcels toward the door. The nailheads on their soles scraped the coal grit deeper into the planks. The sound was instantly familiar to Robert. The miners swore the coal got into their blood until it darkened the color. It certainly got into the floor of any wagon that made the run between Reading and Pottsville.
The grinding of those boots was his first welcome.
A doll's head peeped from a traveler's sack. Delayed for a moment at the threshold of the car, the last of the Dutchmen looked back to where Robert sat, glanced over his uniform, and said, "Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Hauptmann. Alles gute."
"Merry Christmas," Robert answered, in a voice colder than he hadintended.
"And what's a Christmas Eve, would you tell us that, then, without a proper bit o' celebration?" a grinning new passenger demanded. He dropped onto the bench opposite Robert, cocked an eyebrow under a snow-dappled Derby hat he did not remove, and made a great show of looking up and down the car, although there was little enough for anyone to see. Wise men and the fortunate had been at home for hours, or in church or chapel for the early service. Surrounded by those they loved.
"Is there a happy thirst yet in ye, Captain, sir?" The fellow held out an unstoppered bottle of whisky in a hand raw as a field surgeon's. "Have ye a thirst that wants a quenching this fine and blessed eve?" Then his eyes found the empty sleeve, lifted at once to Robert's face and settled on the lamp behind his shoulder. The Irishman held the bottle out another inch. "There's more good in it than harm, say as they mought, and the broth from the bottle's a comfort."
The Irishman wore a patched brown overcoat with caped shoulders that once had belonged to a gentleman. The snow that dressed it had already melted on the side toward the stove, leaving it mottled with patches of wet. A home-knit scarf coiled around the man's neck like a snake. His shoes would not have lasted a good day's march.
Robert attempted a smile and waved the bottle away. "I haven't the constitution for it," he lied. The last time he had tasted whisky he had tasted a great deal too much of it. That had been at summer's end, after the letter came. The letter had seemed a horrible joke, penned in the midst of a war, its news wrong and impossible. He had read it again and again, reading as he drank, and the whisky was already behind him when next the dull edge of his saber settled back against his shoulder and he repeated the colonel's commands in his practiced voice to set his shrunken company marching toward a hostile line of rifles. The whisky had been behind him then, but not the letter, and he had gone into his last battle in the grip of a selfish madness.
Now he was going home.
The Irishman sighed and the train groaned back into motion, dusting off the snow that had frosted the windows during the stop.
"I'm ever a steady man meself, when there's work that wants a doing," the little fellow said. "But an't it Christmas come round again, and here's to the joy and the blessings." He hoisted the bottle near to his lips, then paused at the instant of drinking. "Sure, and ye don't mind if I take a quick drop meself, Captain, sir? Ye'll not take offense, high gentleman that ye are?"
Robert shook his head. Chased by the onslaught of snow, the locomotive throbbed up the valley toward the end of the line.
"Is it home ye're off to, then, sir? Is that where ye're all about going this blessed eve?"
"Yes." He had not written, and they did not expect him. He wanted to surprise them, to see that much brief happiness on the faces of his mother and father, his sister. He had thought about that moment of homecoming so often during his journey northward that he had become greedy for it. He longed for joy, even if it belonged to others and was no more than a reflected happiness. And now it was as if he had written and promised them, as if he were expected, after all, and must not disappoint. It was unreasonable, of course, just another form of the madness that had come over him, the rage at life that no one else could see. But there was nothing more important in the world now than his arrival at home for Christmas day. "Yes, I'm going home."
"Well, here's to the joy o' that, too. For there's no place like home, and there's no disputing the matter. Ah, the war's a terrible thing in all its black doings, taking the boys from home, and some forever." The fellow swigged from his bottle and finished with a smack ...
Our Simple Gifts. Copyright © by Owen Parry. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.Table of Contents
| Star of Wonder | 1 | |
| Tannenbaum | 72 | |
| Nothing but a Kindness | 102 | |
| Christmas Gift | 118 | |
| A Christmas Request to the Reader | 149 |