CHAPTER 2

      “Traitor!”

      “You’re a swine, Henry!” another man bellowed.

      The general, startled by the shouting, stopped mid-sentence, almost dropping his cigar.

      “Copperhead! Traitor!” Henry answered.

      Sir Arthur rushed over to the window as I drew back the curtain. A one-horse buggy, its wheels sliding sideways in the mud, stopped abruptly in the middle of the street. Its owner, a tall, lean man with white bushy eyebrows and a salt-and-pepper beard wearing a brown derby, stood up and shook a clenched fist at a man standing with his back to us on the edge of General Starrett’s lawn.

      A single train engine, with one bar of the cowcatcher bent in, rumbled past less than twenty yards beyond the house. Its wheels clanking and its motor hissing made the men’s shouts inaudible until it chugged down the tracks that ran along the riverbank toward the depot and the railroad yard down the hill.

      “—should’ve seen you and your rebel friends hang!” Henry, the tall, rotund man on the lawn, was shouting.

      “You’re a relic, Henry!” the man in the buggy shouted. “The war ended over twenty-five years ago. You should’ve gone down with one your ships.”

      “Y-y-you . . . I’ll,” Henry stammered with rage. “You’re gonna regret that, Jamison.”

      “Ambrose, Ambrose!” the housekeeper cried from somewhere inside the house. “Get the mistress. Go get Mrs. Reynard. Now!”

      The general, looking slightly disoriented, frowned and inched to the edge of his chair.

      “What’s all the shouting?” he said. “What’s going on out there?” He pointed his cane toward the window and shook it as hard as his weak hands would allow. His face was red with anger. “Go see what all the fuss is about.” I knew the order wasn’t for Sir Arthur and so I rose to investigate.

      “Spineless traitor!” Henry yelled.

      “Bloody hell,” Sir Arthur said before I took more than two steps toward the door.

      Someone screeched in pain. A neighborhood dog barked, another followed, and soon a cacophony of yelping and howling arose. I rushed back to the window in time to see the large man, Henry, punch the driver of the buggy, wrench him from his seat with both hands, and drag him onto the dirt. Fists and gravel flew as the two men grappled on the ground. The horse, spooked by the commotion, reared slightly and then bolted down the street, the bells strapped around his neck jingling a frantic tune. A red and blue plaid heavy wool lap blanket, twisted into one of the buggy’s wheels, flapped with every turn. The horse barely missed running over the men struggling in the street. Henry, having the upper hand, landed several calculated jabs to the other’s head before standing up, leaving the man lying groaning on the ground. He delivered one last kick to his victim’s side before brushing the dirt from the road off his coat, turning his back on his victim, and walking toward the house. I gasped.

      Henry was Santa Claus, albeit slightly younger; his girth, his white beard and mustache, and the plump rosy cheeks matched the image of the rotund, jolly Saint Nick on the displays I’d seen lately in shop windows and in advertisements printed in the newspaper. He was dressed in a brown sealskin overcoat trimmed at the collar and the cuffs in black fur, a shaggy brown fur cap, and tall brown boots. And I’d watched him force a man from his carriage and pummel him senseless in the street.

      I hope there aren’t children about, I thought.

      “Is he okay?” I wondered aloud while watching people from neighboring homes converge and stare down on the prostrate figure in the street.

      “I don’t know,” Sir Arthur said. Three men lifted the unconscious figure, his head flopping, and carried him away.

      “At least the dogs have quieted down,” I said.

      We turned away when the door to the library burst open and the culprit of the grisly scene stood in the doorway. Instead of the traditional sack over his back, this Saint Nick carried his gloves and a large valise in one hand and with the other pulled his hat off his head. A bleeding scratch above his left eye and a purple bruise on his left cheek marked where his victim had struck a blow. The housekeeper, Mrs. Becker, hovering behind him, the keys at her waist jingling inharmoniously, was unable to enter the room as long as he was blocking the door. He laughed heartily at her distress and again upon seeing the startled expressions on our faces. He dropped his valise down with a thud.

      “Well, Merry Christmas, General!” Henry, the Santa Claus look-alike, declared. “Surprised to see me?”

      “Come with me, you rabble-rouser,” Mrs. Becker said from the hallway. “How dare you burst in here uninvited.” She grabbed the man’s arm, attempting to pull him back toward the hall. She was a large, tall woman but no match for the stranger, and sensing her efforts were in vain, she appealed to the general.

      “I’m so sorry, sir. He pushed right past me. I’ve sent Ambrose for the mistress. Should I send for the police?” Her comment elicited another hearty laugh from the intruder.

      “The police? Now that’s a good one. I know it’s been a while but—”

      Mrs. Becker reached beyond him and confiscated the man’s valise. “I don’t know who you think you are, but either you leave right now or I am calling the police.”

      He ignored the housekeeper’s threats, and to my discomfort, the strange man took a few steps into the room toward me. He glanced at