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When Francis arrived home that December evening from a particularly dull meeting with the Orchard’s accountant, he had not expected to find half a bloody forest in the hall. A huge conifer was propped against the curving staircase, its branches bent tight under the rope that bound it, and a trail of lost needles upon the marble floor. There could be only one explanation.
‘James!’ he bellowed. The chandelier swung above him, its crystal tinkling in the force of the gale as Crozier slammed the front doors behind him. ‘James! I know you are here! What in hell’s name are you playing at?’
‘Drawing room,’ came the muffled reply. Francis fumed, the cad did not even have the decency to emerge from the fireside and explain his ridiculous acquirement. He stomped through to find him, clumps of snow dropping from his boots and making the buffed floor slippery with slush.
Francis burst into the firelight room and glowered at his companion, hands on hips, ready to wage war over the damned tree. James looked up charmingly from his place on the sofa. On his lap a pile of paper rings which he appeared to be fastening and linking with more due care and diligence than Francis suspected he had ever applied to knotting rigging.
‘Hello,’ he said sweetly. Francis scowled.
‘What in blazes is that thing in the hall?’ he pointed back through the door.
‘A fir tree?’ James hazarded.
‘I can see that. What’s it doing indoors?’
‘Christ you really are out of touch,’ James said with a resigned sigh, he pushed aside the pile of paper carefully and rose. Francis noted his sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows but his fingers appeared stained with ink. James stooped to toss another huge log upon the fire and then approached his seething friend at a languid amble.
‘Francis, Francis, Francis…’ he began, ‘Love.’
Crozier narrowed his eyes.
‘Times are changing. Since we have been away there has been quite the upsurge in celebration around this time of year. Such marvellous inventions! Cards, gifts, crackers,’ Francis looked at him blankly, ‘And in decoration for example, such leaps of imagination. That tree is all the fashion at the palace…’
‘Fashion! Fashion James? It’s a bloody tree!’
‘Yes,’ James said sternly, ‘Fashion. Her Majesty herself is simply resplendent with trees at Christmastime. Albert insists upon it.’
Francis rolled his eyes. ‘This isn’t Buckingham House, James.’
‘Palace, dear boy,’ James corrected. ‘It’s a palace now.’
‘Palace,’ Francis spat, ‘However you refer to it, we are not there, and we have already spent quite enough time in the wilderness and elements without the elements visiting us within the safety of our walls. You did not bother with this last year!’
‘Last year we had barely reoriented ourselves, Francis, this year we have time to make fitting preparations.’
‘Preparations? Christ James you know I hate this time of year.’
‘You had no reason to like it before,’ James pointed out, ‘Christmas aboard a ship is a miserable experience, but we are in a position now to enjoy the season, and we ought to, Francis after all we have endured.’
‘Fine! Get a turkey by all means, prepare a meal, but for God’s sake why do we need to bring half the winter’s woodland into our home?’
‘Because it’s pretty,’ James said.
Francis blinked. ‘Because it’s…?’
‘Pretty.’
And so, James ended the argument.
The damn thing was erected the next day first thing by some men on their way to the Orchard, amongst much banging and cursing and clattering of tools. There it now stood in the centre of the hall, its severed trunk weighed down and clamped within a huge pot and its branches unleashed upon the environs. Francis sidled past it carefully on his way to breakfast, the light from the tall windows quite obscured so that the passage to the kitchen was almost pitch black as he made his way. How one bloody tree could so impinge upon his day he was not sure, but sure enough there was James standing over the stove roasting nuts to ‘place in bags,’ and suspend from the damn thing. Sensing he would get naught but inanity from his companion Crozier grabbed some toast and left him to it, tracing his way back through the murky corridors and stepping over ladders and boxes of candles strewn carelessly about the hall.
Francis detoured to the drawing room in the hope of respite only to find James had snuck another, smaller version of the damn tree in to stand by the fire. It was no less bushy and squatted fatly in the corner undecorated and seemingly with even less purpose to it than the monstrosity in the lobby. The whole room stank of pine and when Francis eventually removed enough of the paper chains from the couch to sit at the fireside he found needles stabbing through his trousers.
James was half way up a ladder with a small woven basket over one arm when he found him a few minutes later.
‘Why are there two of them?’ Francis snapped. ‘The bloody things are reproducing!’
‘Hold the bottom rung will you dear man?’
‘Get down here this minute!’
James peered at him from half way up the giant tree. Christ it had to be twelve-foot-high if it was an inch, where in hell had he found it? ‘What’s the matter now?’ James said.
‘Why is there another bloody tree in the drawing room?’
‘It’s yours.’
‘What?’
‘Well Her Majesty has formed a tradition wherein every family member receives their own tree. Her dear children can decorate them how they like, it’s all very jolly, Francis.’
Crozier gave him a dark look. ‘You want me to decorate that thing?’
‘I thought it might be nice for you.’
Francis smacked his palm off his forehead. ‘For Christ’s sake James I am not a child, you….’ he paused and scowled at the tree before him. ‘Why is yours so much bigger than mine?’ he asked.
James smirked but said nothing, instead he turned back to his creation and tied another little bag of treats to the nearest branch.
‘James?’
A chuckle.
‘James!’
‘Go and have a look at the decorations,’ James said avoiding the question of size, ‘But don’t steal my paper rings they took me hours and I need yards of the things for my own tree. There is plenty of material though, to create your own little display.’
‘I will do no such thing!’
‘Now don’t be sour.’
‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s merry,’ James said curtly. They glared at one another for a moment. James raised one eyebrow from his elevated position.
Francis left.
He spent the day up to his boots in snow and running errands into the village. It was bitterly cold even for a man who had spent as long as he in the arctic and he was sick and tired of the blank white sky, howling winds and misery of the season. He had dreaded the return of long nights and ice and he knew there were months ahead yet before spring and all of it had served to dampen his spirits considerably. When he finally huffed his way back indoors and heaved off his wet things, he was in no frame of mind to be confronted with the conifer and the acres of chains and candles now spun around it. He was thankful at least that they had not been lit or he would probably have returned to find the manor in flames, but he remained significantly irked that while he had been working in the cold James had been playing by the fireplace with his pretty ribbons.
Grumbling he proceeded to the drawing room. He squeezed himself into the corner of the sofa that James reluctantly cleared for him and read a book while the man next to him tutted and tsked over baubles and trinkets and tried to wind raffia into angel’s wings or some such nonsense. He appeared to be embarking on quite a cottage industry, surrounded as he was by scraps of material, shears, thimbles, several forms of stinking adhesive and reams of card. After spending hours stitching more tiny bags for his damn nuts, he had finished off his chains and begun making the little figures. Some wore crowns, some had cloaks, most had wings. There was also an enormous pile of oranges in two bowls at one end of the sideboard and a number of unaddressed envelopes the contents of which remained a mystery.
James caught him staring.
‘You could help you know? There’s lots to do.’
‘Surely you don’t need more? Hang one more thing upon that tree and it will collapse.’
‘There is always room for more and besides, yours is still looking rather bare,’ James said critically.
‘I have been sorting the orders for the new year!’ Francis pointed out. ‘At work!’
‘It went well?’ James asked absently and threaded another needle with cotton.
‘Very. The village will not want for cider.’
James hummed his approval and Francis watched as he deftly stitched an angels’ cassock for a moment, all furrowed brow and parted lips of focus. He felt his initial irritation mellow just a spot and was about to go back to his reading when James yelped under his breath.
‘Damn thing!’ he muttered around the forefinger he was now sucking upon. He glanced up at Francis, ‘Pricked myself,’ he said. Crozier’s lips twitched, he put aside his book.
‘Come here.’
He wrapped his hand about James’ wrist and drew his finger from his mouth with a wet noise before kissing the injured digit himself. The room was warm and lazy and James’ bare forearm all firm muscle and soft skin beneath his touch. Francis ran his tongue slowly over the pad of his finger then trailed it along the side, sucking gently, pressing his lips against the sore flesh, bobbing just a hint. He made a low growl in his throat and then chanced a look at James to find his pupils blown. Carefully he removed the injured hand from his mouth and edged closer on the sofa, aiming to nuzzle at the bare skin of James’ neck. Enough cottage industry, there were more pressing needs to be attended to.
‘Francis…’
‘Hmm,’ he wound an arm over James’ waist knocking sewing materials to one side.
‘Francis!’
He blinked. ‘What?!’
‘I’m busy,’ James snapped and actually batted him aside. Crozier flushed but whether from rejection or anger he could not tell.
‘Fine,’ he grumbled, ‘Make your toys.’ He pushed away and glowered momentarily at fire and then retreated deliberately behind his novel, the back of the volume cracking audibly as he flexed it. ‘I really do not see the point of this,’ he commented. He cursed himself for the horrible note of accusatory hurt in his tone, but dammit James was becoming obsessed with this frivolity.
James merely lowered his latest half spun angel to his lap and made it dance slowly on his knee. He tweaked its wings into shape carefully. ‘Do you not?’ he asked. ‘Truly? It is a chance to bring cheer to the darkness, and it is important even aside from its religious significance.’
Francis made a dismissive sound at that. James sighed.
‘It’s alright I shall not preach to you about the son of God, see it as a pagan ritual if you must, a symbol of the winter solstice. The commemoration of a year now gone, the shortest day and then the celebration of the coming spring....’
‘It sounds like bloody Carnivale,’ Francis grouched.
He immediately regretted his observation as he watched James flinch, but the parallel between the winter solstice and the celebration he had attempted for first sunrise were at the very forefront of Francis’ mind. James’ penchant for parties had accidently led them down dark roads before. Crozier just wanted normality now, the mundanity of the every day, and no nasty surprises wrapped in a proposed festivity. He knew his instinct was one of over reaction, tainted by past experience, but he could not quell the sense of unease. It was only Christmas, but by Christ the dark and cold and stars beyond their windows were the same as ever. People died, people grieved, life was hard, and a tree covered in candles made no difference to that. Why make a superficial fuss for a day when all existence beyond that moment had such capability to be cruel and brutal? Francis chewed the inside of his mouth.
‘It is nothing like Carnivale,’ James said quietly. Crozier found he could not look at him for the disappointment he knew he would find there. It was always his undoing.
‘Yes, yes, all right, I’m sorry, you are clearly trying to bring light to the darkness of winter… but there is only you and I here, you would have the place garlanded fit for the Queen. Why waste all this effort? Why make all of those?’ he gestured at the little figures.
James did not answer but sat watching his angel pirouette under his fingertips. It turned slower and slower before finally it stopped and seemed to sag within his hands. He placed it on the pile with the others and quietly drew a sheet of cream fabric towards him to make the next. Francis watched him from the corner of his eye, swallowing thickly with something that felt like shame.
‘You will help,’ James said three days later.
‘I do not hold with this.’
‘It is charming, Francis, and very modern. All you must do is address them, I am not asking for poetry. Just label the damn envelope and affix the wax.’
He was propelled by his shoulders to the bureau and forced into his seat. Before him several dozen half-finished new-fangled Christmas ‘cards’ lay waiting to be completed and sealed. James had already scrawled notes within and signed with a flourish. Francis peered briefly at the first, imbued with Christmas greetings from the household of Captains Fitzjames and Crozier. He did not bother to fully read the contents, certain it was full of sickening seasonal optimism. At least he had been spared the signing and letter writing. He could manage a few addresses he supposed. He looked at James’s considerable book of contacts and realised too late he had the rough end of the deal. His hand cramped at the very thought of it.
‘How much did this cost?’ he grumbled.
‘They are a shilling each, and a penny for the stamps.’
‘What?!’
‘Well they are still rather rare, only the best households….’
‘James there must be fifty of them here!’
‘We are not stuck for money Francis,’
‘It’s a bit of card! Have you lost your mind?’
James made a disagreeable noise behind him. ‘It is an expression of our care for our friends! Dear Lord, man must you quibble with every element of good cheer? Just get on with it Francis, they are purchased now. And if you can bring yourself to do it perhaps you might admire their art, they are quite lovely.’
‘And what are you busy doing?’ Francis grumbled, dipping pen into ink.
‘Angels.’
‘More of them?’
‘There are many still to make and believe me it is not easy with this straw to make their wings. I am getting callouses.’
Francis huffed and scratched Thomas Blanky’s name and address onto the heavy paper before him, unsure what he had ever done to so deserve such a task.
‘Purgatory, that’s what this is James, purgatory,’ he quipped.
‘It is hardly that. You of all people, Francis, you should know the difference,’ James said sharply.
Three days before Christmas James vanished. That is to say, he rose at an ungodly hour and hired a carriage to London. Why anyone should wish to bump along in a frozen trap through feet of poorly cleared snow to that hell hole was beyond Francis but he suspected the man had a desire to frequent some tailors or heaven forbid buy more supplies for his Christmas preparations so he allowed the feat of madness to proceed and took himself back to bed for a bit of peace. James would be gone until Christmas Eve and a blissful forty-eight hours of relaxation by the fire unplagued by decorations or cards seemed like a very pleasant use of his time.
A thundering upon the door at a little past dawn put paid to the whole thing. Francis blearily made his way downstairs and past the hulking gaudy tree to greet the delivery man from the village. He must have forgotten such a thing was due and automatically reached to receive their usual basket of produce when the man brushed passed him with a tip of his hat and made his own way to the kitchen followed by a veritable gaggle of duckling like assistants heaving bundles wrapped in paper and cloth. Puddings and pies and meats and condiments began to stack upon the heavy table at the centre of their kitchen and when space ran out the foods gathered upon the counters by the sink. Finally, the chirpy delivery boy received a sixpence for his troubles and departed through the back door of the kitchen, leaving Francis surrounded by mystery objects. He untied a string and found a goose half plucked. He undid another and found a ham. He did not untie the rest, he had the idea.
The haul would feed two people for a year. Christ, how times had changed. What he would have done for such a pile of fresh food a little over a year ago and before. He pushed the memories of previous Christmases aside as best he could. Christmases served by weevil filled stockpiles of flour and furry dried fruits scavenged from the clutches of the ships’ rats. An extra serving of grog and a piece of chocolate on a token day in the midst of perpetual night. North or South, both had been miserable, but the last Yuletide he had served upon the Terror had more of a sense of Last Supper than the Birth of Christ. There had been no cheer, just the sense of duty that came with the need to mark the occasion. Vain attempts to remember the home they knew they must march out to but may never reach. Lord how could he justify such a feast here now, when so many never made it home to have their share.
Wearily he moved the bulk of the food to the half-frozen pantry and went back to the main house.
On the night before James’ scheduled return, Francis’ squat bare tree looked accusingly at him from the corner of the room as he read. He tried to ignore it and in truth it was not too difficult to begin with as most of the chaos of Christmas preparation had been tidied away. Undecorated as the fir was it had started to blend into the dark corner and Crozier had grown somewhat used to the smell of pine. It was not unpleasant. It was none too invasive, but on glancing upon it now and then, it did seem rather lonely.
A few strands of paper would do no harm surely and it would appease the increasingly prickly and fraught James. The whole thing seemed to mean so much to him of late and the atmosphere of tension between them was something Crozier could not bear. He would need to make an effort and soon if James was not to return and inflict an expression of utter unhappiness upon him.
If Francis could knot a rope he could make a chain easily enough. He looked about.
On the table beside him James’ pile of angels was finally complete and lay upon each other in heaps of silvers whites and golds, stiff limbed and broad winged, their faces peaceful, but all else had disappeared. The equipment he had used to make his decorations was stored away. The cards had all gone with James to be posted, the paper chains were hanging now in the hall and the oranges were peppered with cloves and tied in ribbons, hanging from the mantles.
Crozier bit his lip, looked back at the sad little tree. He shut his novel, got up and surveyed it. It was of a height with himself and stout and when he reached to drag a branch through his palm he was shocked to find the needles there were not the stiff sharp casualties which jabbed him from the sofa, but soft and velvety, living still. He held his hand to his nose and breathed in their scent, oddly deep and masculine.
All right. He would do this. He would decorate the damn thing and embrace the Christmas Spirit. It would make James smile and go some way he supposed to distracting the man, for Francis suspected that he felt the return of winter as keenly as he did himself but that as ever their methods of coping which such trauma were vastly diverse. Whereas Francis would happily hibernate until spring, James wanted colour and light, candles and angels. Francis’ eye fell on the pile. They would have to do, James had failed to mount them elsewhere and the main tree in the hall was full.
He picked up the first. It looked back at him quietly, a simple design in a thick cream linen and yet its features had been picked out in finest thread. Truly James had been invested in a labour of love with these things. Francis glanced at the table, how many had he made, fifty? No, more than that, closer to one hundred. Hours and days of stitching, and yet they all looked slightly different. How had he even found the inspiration for so many designs. Crozier shook his head and dangling the Angel by its golden ribbon he hooked it over a middle branch.
Its spun gently in the draft of the fire.
‘John Weeks,’ it read across the reverse in perfect needlepoint, ’37 yrs.’
Francis’s breath caught. He watched the little thing rotate gently then found his gaze drawn back to the pile of pale abandoned figures on the table. He suddenly knew exactly how many there were and what to do with them, for they could not lay there all alone, uncared for. Standing by the table he laid them out neatly and studied their faces.
Some had beards, or eyes stitched in blue or brown or green, some held the tools of their professions, others were posed in prayer, each had something of the individual to them, but all were respectful intimate portraits of his lost crew. Though his heart tightened at the sight and his eyes burned he felt an odd sense of calm as he inspected each one slowly. There had never been time, on the ice, to grieve, nor even near the end to read a service or say a prayer. Men dropped as they walked, and the rest were too weak to bury them. Crozier moved them on and herded before him the straggling souls he had vowed to bring home, but he left so many other souls behind.
‘Come home now boys,’ he whispered hoarsely.
One hundred and four. One by one he took each ghost in his hands, read the name, and placed him in the soft fir of the Christmas tree. When he was done he would light candles.
It was snowing again by Christmas Eve and James was due around six. Reluctant to move from his place by the fire, Francis none the less dragged himself to the hall and mounted one of the collection of ladders there to finish off James’ tree. He had to admit that his own was looking rather pretty by the fire of their drawing room and that the hours he had spent tending it had done something to ease the heaviness in his heart. It had been an odd mixture of feeling, a moment spared for every man to remember, somehow combined with the sense that there was hope. The long year of adjustment since their return to England was over and with each ghost he placed upon the branches of the fir a little of his grief seemed to leave him. He had stood back at midnight and watched the figures spin in the warmth of their candles. Not ghosts but Angels, transformed by the care and tribute James had given to each man.
Now he lit the candles for James upon the larger tree and the trinkets he had tied within its branches glimmered.
‘Because its pretty,’ Francis echoed with a soft smile, ‘And because it makes you happy, James.’
The clatter of a carriage upon the drive had him scamper from the ladder with a rush of joy and in moments he had wrenched open the door to peer out into the night, a hand shielding his eyes from the threatening blizzard. But it was not one carriage lamp he spotted shining outside the manor but four.
‘What in…?’
James’ familiar figure emerged through the gloom, his heavy wool cloak splattered with huge flakes of snow and his grin wide and white.
‘Francis!’ he seized him in his grasp, planted a rough kiss on his cheek, ‘I have a surprise!’
‘Christ, James is this…’
‘Hush,’ his lips ghosted by his ear, ‘You’ll enjoy this one, I promise,’ then, ‘Well come on then lads! Don’t stand about in the cold!’ He beckoned with one outstretched arm and from the carriages spry figures descended, grabbing lamps and stomping through the snow with a deep rumble of masculine chatter and laughter. Francis’ heart leapt, for it was long years since he had seen his men so happy.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ James was saying as he made his way into the hall, ‘Mr Jopson, Mr Bridgens, Mr Peglar, Dr Goodsir… come forward all there is food in the kitchen, a fire in the hearth and…’ he stopped.
Francis was tight in the embrace of Thomas Blanky, whose dubious wooden leg had caused him to half trip and demand to be caught upon the threshold. Heaving his enthusiastic and still staggering friend to one arm and holding him upright Crozier grinned until his cheeks hurt and glanced back at James.
He was looking at the tree, and at the candles which stretched to the very top, picking out his paper chains and treats and trinkets. It was a vision of hope and celebration, flamboyant and enticing, a thing that created the purest sense of joy. Francis saw James’ lips part with a soft delight and then followed his glance through the open door or the drawing room to where the Angels warmed themselves by the heart of their new home. A smaller private tribute to the past but no less beautiful. James’ eyes were wet when he looked back at Francis, but his smile was fondness itself before he nodded once in gratitude and shepherded his flock of hungry sailors to their places.
In the moments between seating the rabble and serving the meal, James would pull Francis aside and whisper his thanks, kiss him softly at that tender point beneath his jaw and promise him the future. The manor rang with the the voices of old friends as Christmas carols were held around the fire in the hall, and far above, through the high windows, the stars shone brightly as the snow cleared. Leaning against the door of the drawing room, watching the faces of the men he had saved in celebration, Francis felt at peace. He had lived most of his life in the cold and lost so much to it, but here, surrounded by love, the chill of winter served only to contrast with the warmth in his heart.