Summary:  From near and far, greetings abound throughout Virginia City.
Rating:  G  1,560 words

Written for the 2024 Bonanza Brand Advent Calendar

Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 5*

Tidings of Joy

The night of the Christmas pageant was clear and crisp, as if the good Lord Hisself was in on the plan. Shoot, maybe He was. There weren’t no more deserving family—what was left of one, anyway—than the Hemingways.

I stood across the street in the evenin’ shadows, takin’ it all in. The bonfires had been built up nice and big on either side, just like Adam and Little Joe had promised, both to light up the area and give off some heat. No one would be complaining about the cold tonight. The older students had pulled all the chairs out of the school and the church and set them up right in the middle of the street, all facin’ the Hemingway home. Somebody had cobbled together a quick stage outside the front door—not much to look at, but sturdy and big enough to get the job done.

Everybody had come together for this one, like I knew they would. Not because they thought my scheme was anything but foolishness, but because the Hemingways were our neighbors and they had been through a real rough time lately.

Maybe, though, it weren’t so foolish as the town all thought. We’d sure see.

I caught sight of Missus Hemingway in her front doorway, talking to Abigail Jones, and clapped the shoulder beside me. Our guest staggered—that box of his weren’t light—but didn’t drop anything. I nodded his attention toward the ladies. “Come on, Hughes. There’s Missus Hemingway now, let’s go get you introduced and start settin’ up.”

He followed me across the road, ignoring the stares and mutterings that followed us. I’ve never known why everybody in this town seems so dad-blamed set against trying out new ideas—you never know but one of ‘em might work—but that didn’t matter none tonight. Tonight, we were all gonna try for the sake of one little girl who wanted ta be an angel more than anything.

Miz Jones scurried off as we arrived, callin’ for the shepherds to stop chasing those sheep around the stage and start gettin’ the animals settled down. Missus Hemingway smiled up at me as I introduced my new friend, and it was the first real smile I’d seen on her face in a long time. She’d lost her husband last month just like that, and until just a coupla weeks past we hadn’t known if little Maggie was going to pull through either. It was a right miracle that little girl was recoverin’ now, even if the going was slow.

“Missus Hemingway, this here is David Hughes. He’s the one I was tellin’ you about, from England, that’s put together this here transmitter.”

“Mr. Hughes.” She nodded to him, her eyes lingering on the box, and I could tell that even she had her doubts. It didn’t matter—Carol Hemingway was overwhelmed by the support she and her daughter had from the town, and she was willing to go along with just about any crazy notion to help her little Maggie be a part of the Christmas pageant tonight. The girl still wasn’t able to leave the house, she was that weak, and until recently of course no one had been allowed in to visit. I had seen those blonde curls peeking over the windowsill earlier this evening, though, and two little eyes following all the progress from the upper window. She wanted to be out with those other kids in the worst way. This wouldn’t allow for that, but maybe it would help in some little way. Missus Hemingway looked back to me. “Mr. Cartwright, I’m so grateful to you for all you’ve done to make this idea happen.” She gazed helplessly at the chaos in the street before her house. “It’s … well, it’s just given us so much joy.”

“Weren’t nothing at all, Ma’am.” I waved away any other thanks and motioned to Hughes and his box. “You want to show us where we can get this set up?”

“Yes of course—please come in.”

We followed her through the parlor and up the stairs, then back toward the front. The house was bare, with not a sign anywhere that the holiday was near. I wondered if they didn’t have the heart to celebrate this year, but when we reached the front bedroom I found that all their holiday fixin’s had been crammed into that upper room. The walls were hung with pine boughs, red ribbons and strings of popcorn decorated the furniture and fixtures, holiday spices filled the air, and a tree stood in one corner. Of course—Missus Hemingway would have put all their decorations up where her daughter could enjoy them too. Watchin’ her face soften as her gaze fell on her daughter, I could see too that Missus Hemingway just didn’t feel much like celebrating anywhere else.

Maggie was settled on a low couch beneath the front window, wrapped in a white quilt. She wore a pair of paper wings and a halo made of silver tinsel, and with her wide excited eyes she was just the cutest little angel ever. “Mr. Hoss!” She grinned, showin’ a coupla missing teeth, and her eyes fixed on the box. “Is this it? Is this what’s gonna make everybody hear me tonight?”

“It sure is, Miss Maggie. You just do right what Mr. Hughes tells you, and everybody out there will be able to hear that angel announcin’ the birth of Christ.”

Hopefully.

There was a lot of static—it was the problem that had kept Hughes from being able to market his invention or get anyone to take it seriously—but he was workin’ on it. As long as Miss Maggie talked loud enough, though, everyone should be able to hear her over the top. Abigail Jones had written up the angel’s lines in short sentences, so hopefully Maggie would be able to catch her breath in between and manage the volume needed.

Hopefully.

Hughes got the thing set up on the side table, ran the wires to the battery, made sure the carbon bar was loose between the contacts. As he started showin’ Maggie and Missus Hemingway how it all worked, Abigal Jones appeared in the doorway.

“Are we ready?” She eyed the transmitter doubtfully, but nodded firmly when Hughes pronounced everything set. “We’ll start in ten minutes then—I have to get everyone into their seats and the children and animals in their places. Why I let Peter Simmons talk me into allowing chickens at the birth of Christ …” Miz Jones left, shakin’ her head, and then I heard her down below givin’ last minute instructions.

Well, this was it. It was either gonna work or it wasn’t, but Miss Maggie was gonna have her part in the pageant and I guess in the end that was all that really mattered.

The narrator’s first lines drifted up to us, and we settled back to listen. The story went on like it always does—like it did that first time, and all down through the years. The high voices of the children and the bleating of goats and bawling of calves and even the clucking of chickens added their backdrop, washin’ over us all against the flickering light of the bonfires and a starlit sky. I was so caught up in it that I almost missed Miss Maggie’s cue, but Missus Hemingway’s movement to light the lamp in the window caught my eye just in time. Hughes leaned forward and plugged the last wire into the battery.

Nothing happened—no cracklin’ static met that final connection. Hughes’ expression fell, and my own heart sank. Maggie would say the lines, of course, and maybe no one would even tell her it hadn’t worked. But we had so wanted the audience to hear that sweet voice …

O’ course, Maggie didn’t know what was supposed to happen. She just went on and started in with those well-known words—“Behold! I bring good tidings! And great joy!”

And somehow, even without all the static that usually meant the box was workin’, them words rung down from that upper window and across the street. Hughes and I gaped at each other, too surprised to even make a move for the transmitter. A low murmur rose up from the watchin’ crowd, but it weren’t loud enough to interrupt and Miss Maggie just kept on, breathin’ between each sentence, until the final “good will to men!” finished, clear as day—and followed by a burst o’ static that near deafened me.

Hughes snatched the wire out, wonder and surprise and frustration all on his face. Missus Hemingway sat down beside little Maggie, huggin’ her laughing daughter with tears rolling down her face. And I just stared at that transmitter box, and the Christmas decorations around us, and the scene unfoldin’ on that little homemade stage below, and knew I’d been right earlier on.

Seemed like the good Lord Hisself was in on the plan, after all.

Merry Christmas!!

Prompt: Microphone, 1827  … Although, this was actually a later version called a carbon microphone that was developed during the second half of the century (in the 1870s, but if the show writers can stretch historical timeframes so can I ;-). It was, so says Wikipedia, called a transmitter at the time.

Character: Hoss

Link to Day 6 of the Bonanza Brand Advent Calendar – A Goodyear Christmas by Heather-Crysalis