Ben's Christmas Treasury

By D.L. Andersen

On Christmas Eve 1820, Colonel Benjamin Stephenson wishes away his life's work in banking, politics and state business. But when that wish summons three spritely Christmas beings to his aid, he is in for a seasonal lesson about treasuring one's true purpose in life. With a nod to two favorite classic Christmas tales, Charles Dickens and Frank Capra, this story is based on fact that takes a fun fanciful look at early American history in the making as seen through the eyes of one obscure early American founding father. It's sure to delight all readers of historical fiction and Christmas-philes. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.L. Andersen
• Release date: Nov 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540136787

Book preview

D.L. Andersen

Copyright © 2016 D&D Enterprise Publishing

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

For my parents,

Alfred and Virginia Andersen

from whom I learned so many wonderful

Christmas stories and carols

CONTENTS

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♦ The First Carol ♦

The old year now away is fled

The New Year it is entered

Then let us all our sins down tread

And joyfully all appear

~ Street Musician’s Carol (1642)

Gold  and silver coins stood like a regiment of soldiers, counted, ranked and filed on Colonel Benjamin Stephenson’s desk. It was usually a comfort and a joy to count, recount and then return them safely to their resting place in the cash box he kept locked and safely hidden beneath the floorboards of his banker’s office. But today, the ranks stood far too few in number, battle weary as if missing their fallen comrades taken by the enemy in an economic game of war and madness.

For this lawman, soldier and now government official and banker, Ben knew the tactics of war, of politics and the fine art of keeping counting books balanced and thriving. But on this December morning, just as the sun dared peek through his office window, he felt the burden of his task weighing heavy on his life and soul. There simply was not enough coinage to cover the paper currency his bank freely printed and distributed. That would be easily solved in time were it not for a grumbling group of adversaries veritably at his counting house door, prepared to lay siege upon the few remaining ranks before him now.  Missouri banks had once held the purse strings on government monies and reaped the riches of their neighboring territory’s bounty. But this was Illinois – his territory – he had once upon a time thought would be the boon of his life, the defining point of his career. But on this dreary December morn, the eve of the Eve of Christmas, when hearts turned to goodness and joy, hope and comfort, he had no taste for any of it. It was a hard, cruel world where men played at gentlemanly games of business, perverse sincerity and duplicitous honor.  Underneath lie the savagery of heartless souls lusting for the blood of another’s good name and integrity.

A glint of light peeked half-heartedly through a slit in the curtained window lending an eerie cast to the metallic piles as if teasing his soldiers to their post. It was this banker’s duty to protect his assets just as a militia commander protects his men and they intern protect him and all they serve.

There was much to do betwixt the two offices he held, banker and land agent. Though separated by a mere stretch of the leg, five-hundred and thirty two paces to be exact -somewhat less than eight-tenths of a mile, or so he surmised – yet they converged onto the shoulders of one man who held the purse strings on government land funds, held on reserve in this very bank until it could reach Washington’s coffers.

He snuffed the candlestick’s flame between ink-stained fingers leaving a smoke trail dissipating into the muted haze of another work day. The morning light was sufficient to accomplish his task without benefit of wasteful candle wax.  In this past year he had been hard pressed to perform a juggling act to rival any gypsy fortune teller or itinerant peddler hoping to gain a penny or two for their sleight of hand and agile words. He was no such gypsy or peddler, though he sometimes wondered if that might not have been a more suitable profession, at least one that garnered more freedom and less demands on his time and his soul.

A stack of letters demanded his attention, including the one from Secretary of the Treasury Crawford, regarding the state of land sales.  The tight-fisted and exacting secretary levied his cloaked accusations, his insinuating reproof at Ben’s ability to field both offices.  And then there was the curious note that lay upon the desk along with today’s newspaper. No. Not today’s newspaper.  The date was curiously wrong.

The Missouri Gazette.  December the twenty-fourth. Christmas Edition.

But one day early? And sitting there on his desk in the wee hours of the morning before anyone else had entered his domain?  Curious indeed!

Perhaps Coles had sent it over along with the peculiar note signed J.M. and clearly not the handwriting of the current registrar and appeared to be...  No! It could not be. Not John McKee, who was dead these two years now.  Edward Coles had been a poor substitute since his arrival the following winter as the newly appointed Registrar to the Land Office. He had tried to endure the man’s insufferable oddities and opposing political views. Ben could be a reasonable man, he was known for being fair-minded and tolerant, cajoling others into seeing his way of thinking or at the very least coming to amicable agreement.

It was Coles doing and that was the end of it. Was it not like him to be so pointed and surreptitious? Though how he had gotten into the locked bank office when Ben had the only key, aside from his clerk, and why he should be awake so early to receive a copy of today’s newspaper was more than a little disconcerting. 

He closed the ledger, and brushed aside the newspaper, glancing again at the vitriolic headline illuminated in the early morning’s diffused whiteness.

The Bank of Edwardsville: Will it see another New Year? 

Under it was a cartoon sketch of a banker holding a sack of cash in one hand and a land deed in the other. Lanky legs straddled the Mississippi River. His face was that of a fox with a bushy tail waving from his breeches. The caption read: Colonel Stephenson, the Fox watching the Henhouse, and devouring the goose’s golden eggs.  In the corner was the scrawled signature of Daniel Smith, notorious scandalmonger, spurious reporter and ever present thorn in his side.

Ben crumpled the libelous words in his ink stained hands and tossed paper with accompanying note into the small stove in one corner of the room. Best economy for this scandal rag. Let it burn and provide warmth and thus save another bit of tinder. At the very least he had the unnamed sender of this early Christmas gift to thank.

Christmas! Indeed it was not quite the Eve of the Yuletide season and the sole reason he decided to arise before daybreak, leaving home with Lucy still abed, even before Winn and Caroline laid the morning fire. Christmas Eve was sure to be a frenzy of activity at home, thus he aimed to remain fixed on his own industry, even while the town around him reveled in the spirit of the Yuletide season. In this of all years, he had much to accomplish before another annual accounting was put to bed. There would be precious little in household funds for wasteful spending.  He would apprise his family of this once again, as he had done more than a week ago, through Lucy’s gentle protests. Still, perhaps a small indulgence on the morrow, being Sunday, and a day of rest, when the bank and all town businesses were closed. He imagined a day of peaceful reflection and much needed rest before tackling the final week of the waning business year. He had even granted the bank a day’s holiday on Monday, the twenty-fifth, which meant they must get as much industry accomplished as possible today.

He considered all of this as he stoked the flames in the stove with the poker, watching with fiendish delight the words blaze and shrivel into charred bits of ash and papery snow.

He gave one last read to the curious note before shoving it into the fire as well, the words burning in his soul.

For where your treasure is, your heart will be also.

Merry Christmas

J.M.

Other than the nearly illegible scrawl that could be a J.M. or could equally denote an E.C. if surmised from another angle. Or could it be any other combination of letters or none at all, merely a flourish of sorts to disguise the culprit’s identity. Yet the familiarity of the hand was disturbing, made even more so with the accompanying hint of sandalwood and ginger upon entering the office. His former registrar, two years in the grave, had washed in sandalwood soap and loved the taste of ginger cake. The advanced date of the newspaper could easily be dismissed. Perhaps it had gone to press a day earlier, in light of the season coinciding with the Lord’s Day, and thus was delivered the evening before. Humbug! Humbug on the season, Humbug on the Missouri Gazette and all who wrote its slander and lies.

A knock on the door meant the young clerk was now at his post, ready for another day’s business as the clock neared the top of the hour. Colonel Stephenson, sir? Are you receiving callers yet this morning?

Ben squeezed his eyes closed along with his fists. Another desperate farmer pleading for yet another month’s reprieve on mortgage payments. Or was it a dubious St. Louis banker demanding coinage in exchange of paper money that kept increasing while the gold and silver to back it decreased?  Likely either client would use this day to his advantage, the season of good will, comfort and joy, blessings unbounded and the Lord of Misrule unleashed in rare form.

Colonel? Sir? Are you well? It’s Mr. Tolman to see you, sir.

Yes, Bartlett.  Send him in. Ben crossed the room in three long strides and peered out the opened door down the sunless hallway. The carpenter sat in the lobby, balancing a black felt hat on one knee and a large rolled sheaf of paper held like a staff in his opposite hand.  He bore a look of anxious anticipation. Another matter on his agenda for the day. The new house under construction. Surely the young man didn’t intend to make more changes and continue progress, with winter looming ahead. Hadn’t they already settled matters and agreed to suspend for the season, until fair weather returned?

Yes, do send him in. Ben tried to sound sharp, orderly and in control, but the look on his clerk’s face mirrored his tenor, testy and defeated.

Y-yes, straight away, sir. Bartlett spun on his heels, leather soles clicking across the polished wood.  About halfway down the hall, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. Sir? Mr. Coles also sent word asking if you are to be in the Land Office later or should he suspend work early, considering the day and all.

The day? Have I mistaken the calendar? Tis only the twenty-third of the month. The newspaper.  The note. Merry Christmas, indeed! Perhaps it had been Coles after all, distracting him, confusing him with some sort of ruse to make a subtle reminder of the season and thus garner an earlier end to the work day.  The note had been his after all. Well, he would show them all who was president of the bank, Receiver of Public Monies and no frivolous holiday would master him.

Of course, sir. The clerk scratched a nervous finger against his nose, leaving a diminutive ink smudge. But, since Christmas Eve falls upon a Sunday this year, some are choosing to suspend work earlier to...

Have I not authorized a full day on Monday, next? With a full day’s wages no less for all bank staff? Even as he stated it, his mind ran down the columns of losses it would mean to an already dwindling bank, but he was ever a man at his word, and when the board approved this decision some weeks back, the accounts appeared far more solvent than at present. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, no less, giving those so inclined, two full days of riotous revelry.

Y-yes, indeed, sir. The clerk back stepped his way toward the lobby. You’ve been most generous with us all. I would be here tomorrow, that is, were it not for...

Yes, I’m certain you would, Bartlett. But as it were, I would be here Monday next, ready to do a full day’s work while others make themselves idly merry. He would settle with Coles at the Land Office as soon as he quit with whatever pressing business the carpenter had in store  Send in Mr. Tolman and see that we are not disturbed. I will take no more calls today. Anyone else may see me at my other location or wait until tomorrow...

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and the Lord’s Day, sir. Bartlett broke in, a bit too eagerly. And as to Monday... You did promise, that is to say... if it’s still agreeable.

So I did. Ben cleared his throat, hating the correction and the lapse in his thinking. Then business day, next, will suffice.  Perhaps it explained the newspaper and the note, which may indeed have been a jest or a very early preview in light of the holiday coinciding with the end of a business week and the beginning of another.

Yes, sir. He turned to go, but Ben had one more thought.

Oh, say! Bartlett? Do you perchance to know who left the newspaper upon my desk this morning?

Newspaper, sir? Pardon? Bartlett squinted at him. You were the first in the office this morning as far as I know, as far as you, yourself said. Perhaps it was left from yesterday.

"It was this morning’s newspaper. The Missouri Gazette. December the twenty-fourth." Ben muttered to himself.

The Christmas edition? Impossible, sir. Today is only the... Bartlett said, chuckling.

Twenty-third, Ben intercepted, Yes, we’ve quite discussed the calendar at length this morning.

Mr. Warren has only sent over copies of today’s paper within the hour. The first any of us have seen. It must have been a mistake.  Or a preview copy, perhaps?  A misprint, perhaps?

A misprint? More a humbug. Ben let the word fester in the air. That was what the article called his bank, if not himself personally.  There was a note along with it... I only wondered if you knew of any prior visitors to my office, who might have deposited such a preview copy?

No one else has a key save the one you hold and the one kept in my desk. Unless, they left it before end of business yesterday. But no one to my knowledge. I can ask about and see. Perhaps it was an early holiday jest of sorts. 

Tomorrow’s newspaper? Left yesterday? After I was gone? Ben didn’t mean to accuse or interrogate his poor clerk, but the look on the lad’s face clearly showed the impact of his words.  What sort of jest is this?

Bartlett looked a bit nervous. I assure you, sir, I would never...

Easy, lad. I accuse you of nothing. But someone left the paper and it couldn’t possibly have gotten there on its own.

He relaxed.  Mr. Warren is known for his frivolity this time of year.  As our resident newspaper editor and chief, he may have certain connections across the river. If it was dated this Christmas Eve, it is likely a forgery as a jest in this season of mirth and left somehow before you arrived early this morning.  Perhaps the Lord of Misrule has visited you early? Barlett laughed.

Ben did not. "I don’t fancy such