How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas

by Jeff Guinn

  “Sara is responsible for this,” John Mason shouted to us.

  “So many people, Sara,” I cried as I took my turn hugging her.

  “Oh, there are many more, Auntie Layla,” she replied, and as we hugged I saw over her shoulder that thousands of men, women, and children were pouring into the High Street marketplace from every direction. “I have to go do some things,” Sara said, causing me to reluctantly let her out of my embrace. “We want our demonstration to be efficient as well as peaceful.”

  Her parents and I watched in wonder as this painfully shy child stood in front of ten thousand people and led them in singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” so loudly that the sound must have echoed inside the fine brick home where the mayor of Canterbury was cowering.

  “It’s a Christmas miracle!” Elizabeth Hayes exclaimed. “Everything is going to be perfect.” But Arthur nudged me with his elbow and pointed. One of the Trained Band had mounted a horse and was galloping away through the West Gate.

  “He’s off for reinforcements, Layla,” Arthur said. “The protest isn’t successful yet.” Everyone else, it seemed, was singing, and I wondered what would happen next.

  Gradually, almost mechanically, Alan raised the club while the mayor cringed at his feet. It was one of those terrible moments when everything seems to happen in slow motion.

  CHAPTER Twenty-three

  For about an hour, everything went according to plan. Arthur suggested that we set our own sentries at each of the six city gates, so that reinforcements from the Trained Band couldn’t storm in and take us by surprise. This was done—those few dozen Trained Band members already inside the walls of Canterbury were so overwhelmed by the number of demonstrators that they simply leaned on their muskets and watched as we marched and sang. Mayor Sabine, apparently, had no intention of coming back outside his house. Our thousands of protestors were behaving admirably. They sang Christmas carols, marched along all the main streets chanting “God bless Christmas,” and courteously requested those merchants who had their shops open for business to please close their doors in honor of the birth of Jesus.

  Most of the shopkeepers were happy to comply. They, too, loved Christmas, and only were working that day because Mayor Sabine had ordered them to do so. Perhaps a dozen others, mostly Puritans whose stores were owned by the mayor, haughtily refused to close. Because the purpose of our march was to support the right of anyone to believe as he or she wished, we took no further action. If they wanted to remain open for business on Christmas Day, this was their privilege—just as it was our privilege to celebrate the holiday we loved so much.

  Initially, Arthur, Elizabeth, Alan, and I were kept in the middle of the protestors. Everyone was worried that the mayor and his soldiers would try to recapture us. But it soon became clear that we were in no immediate danger, and, besides, Arthur simply couldn’t resist joining Sara and John Mason at the head of the marchers. I found myself there, too, with Alan and Elizabeth not far behind.

  It was grand fun to go up and down Canterbury’s streets, singing carols and seeing the smiling faces of city residents who suddenly realized that it might be possible to keep the holiday as an important part of their lives. The sun was shining, we were out of the dungeon, and it was Christmas! So an hour flew by, and Arthur whispered to me that it was now time to conclude.

  “I’m rather surprised that more of the Trained Band hasn’t arrived here already,” he murmured in my ear. “I wonder what is keeping them.” We didn’t know until later that our Christmas protest wasn’t the only one that day. In towns like Ipswich and Oxford, there were smaller but still effective demonstrations by working-class people who wanted their beloved holiday back. Some Trained Band troops were on their way to those places. In London, the Lord Mayor had another protest to quell. Canterbury’s, though, dwarfed all the others, and it obviously was only a matter of time before more soldiers reached the city. Mayor Sabine had hopefully learned a permanent lesson, our protest had been potent but peaceful, and Arthur was right—we needed to go.

  “I’m the one to give the signal, Auntie Layla,” Sara called to me, and I was struck by how happy she looked, how excited. She raised her arms high in the air and waved. John Mason and our other captains all along the line of the march started shouting, “Disperse! Disperse!”

  But then things began to go wrong. We’d set sentries at all six entrances to the city, and at this exact moment the ones at the North Gate shouted, “Soldiers coming! Maybe a thousand!” and that caused great concern among our number, though there was really no reason to panic. Even if a thousand Trained Band troops really were coming, we still outnumbered them ten to one. They could hardly arrest us all. But instead of filing quickly through the other five city gates and heading for their homes, almost everyone followed a natural instinct of gathering again as a large group in the town marketplace, while the North Gate sentries swung the heavy wooden doors closed and barred them from the inside. Arthur, Sara, Alan, Elizabeth, John Mason, and I tried to tell everyone to just remain calm and go home as we had planned, but instead thousands of voices suddenly raised again in “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” with the addition now of percussion—the soldiers were pounding on the North Gate and loudly demanding to be let in.

  The man with the proclamation produced a hammer and nails. He ran to the mayor’s house and tacked the thick packet of papers on its heavy wooden door. Then some of the teenaged marchers were overcome by youthful exuberance. Two footballs were produced, and a wild game broke out, with boys running and kicking the ball and shouting out friendly insults to one another. One of the footballs, kicked crookedly, bounced through the door of a dry goods shop that had remained open, and a dozen of the players charged in after it, accidentally knocking over some display shelves. Bolts of cloth rolled into the street, and the Puritan shopkeeper ran after them, shrieking that criminals were destroying his store. The crowd outside was between carols, and so his cries were clearly audible to the soldiers outside the North Gate, who understandably assumed that a mob was rioting inside the walls. They stopped banging on the gate, took up axes, and began knocking it down instead. Afterward, the Puritans would claim that pro-Christmas rioters not only broke down the gate, but burned it, too. Nothing was burned in Canterbury that day, but the rumor has persisted ever since.

  The sounds of the wooden gate cracking apart frightened our demonstrators, who now expected to be attacked by the soldiers any minute. Despite instructions to remain calm from Arthur and me, some reached down for stones to throw or lengths of wood to use as clubs. Then the gate broke open and a long column of Trained Band forces marched in, all of them armed with muskets or heavy cudgels. The newly arrived soldiers seemed stunned at the vast number of demonstrators in the marketplace. Our ten thousand protestors were unnerved by the presence of the soldiers. An open space of about twenty yards separated the two groups, and, with tension mounting, Arthur and I knew something had to be done. We stepped in between. Sara tried to come with us, but her mother, reasserting parental authority, grasped her arm and firmly pulled her back.

  The leader of the soldiers came forward to meet us, and identified himself as Colonel John Hewson. “What’s the meaning of this unlawful gathering?” he demanded. “How dare you riot like this!” Our demonstrators had fallen silent. Everyone could hear what he said to us, and what we said to him.

  “This is a demonstration, not a riot,” Arthur corrected. “We have come to celebrate Christmas, which is our right.”

  “Parliament says different,” Colonel Hewson replied. “We heard shouts from someone who’d been attacked. What’s that all about?”

  The owner of the dry goods shop scurried to the colonel’s side. “These ruffians charged into my shop, breaking things and shouting they’d do the same to anyone who didn’t join them in celebrating Christmas,” he claimed. “I’ve been savagely beaten, and I demand that you arrest them all!”

  “That’s not true!” I shouted. “Some of the boys were pl
aying football, and the ball was accidentally kicked through his open shop door, and there was some damage. But nobody did it on purpose, and certainly no one hit or threatened him. He’s making that up.”

  “You’ll have to tell it to the courts,” Colonel Hewson said. “Quick, now, all those who broke things in this man’s shop step forward and surrender.” I had to admire the colonel. He was vastly outnumbered, and faced with a very difficult situation. But he was remaining calm, and that, at least, was reassuring.

  “No one will come forward,” Arthur said firmly. “Colonel, there are perhaps five hundred teenaged boys here today. I doubt this shopkeeper can specifically identify those who, for a few seconds, were inside his store. You know you can’t arrest them all. Listen to me, please. I promise you that we will disperse now, and go back to our homes. A collection will be taken up to compensate this man for the goods that were lost, even though he lied about what happened. We’ll also raise money to repair the gate your men broke down, if you like. So there will be no permanent loss or damage. You’ll get credit for resolving such a potentially dangerous situation, which you would certainly deserve. We can all leave here in peace. What do you say?”

  Col. John Hewson

  Colonel Hewson looked past us at the thousands of demonstrators milling nervously in the marketplace. He certainly noticed some had stones or sticks in their hands, obviously ready to fight if they thought it was necessary. The colonel was a soldier with enough experience to recognize a good offer when he heard one. He compressed his lips into a tight smile, and nodded.

  “That seems like common sense,” he said. “If you all go quickly; if, in twenty minutes’ time, not one of you is still inside these city walls, then—”

  Just as I allowed myself a sigh of relief, the front door to the mayor’s fine brick home flew open, and clumsy, heavyset Avery Sabine once again lurched toward the marketplace. Colonel Hewson never finished agreeing to Arthur’s proposal, because the mayor interrupted him.

  “Colonel! Colonel, I say!” Sabine bellowed. “Shoot these Christmas rioters. Shoot every one!” He shoved his way through the line of Trained Band soldiers, and stood, snorting, by Hewson’s shoulder, glaring at Arthur and me.

  The colonel said reasonably, “Your honor, these people have just promised to disperse peacefully. They’re going to pay for any damages. Let’s leave it at that, and be glad we had no bloodshed.”

  “We won’t leave it at that!” Sabine blustered. “I’m a man of great influence, and if you don’t do your duty here, I’ll see you reduced in rank and sent to serve in the loneliest outpost in England! Do what I say! Shoot them all, starting with these two! They were arrested by Blue Richard Culmer last week, along with another man and woman, for planning to incite this terrible riot!” He made a threatening gesture toward Arthur and me. Someone in the ranks of demonstrators behind us, panicking, launched a rock in the mayor’s direction. It missed him, and bounced off the leg of a Trained Band soldier. He, in turn, raised his musket and pointed it at the crowd.

  “Stop this at once,” Arthur shouted. He turned toward our protestors and said, “There must be no violence. None!” Some of our people had their arms raised to throw rocks or swing sticks, but Arthur’s air of command was sufficient to make them lower these weapons. Colonel Hewson did the same with his troops. “Muskets down!” he cried.

  But Avery Sabine, his courage restored by the presence of armed soldiers, had no further interest in a peaceful conclusion. He snatched a stout club from one of the Trained Band troops, and, swinging it over his head, charged directly at me, probably because I, as a woman, seemed less formidable than Arthur. Alan jumped up in front of me and took Sabine’s blow on his arm. The force of it knocked him down.

  Seeing Alan on the ground, the mayor turned from me, stood over the fallen sailor, and raised his club again, ready to finish him off. Colonel Hewson and Arthur desperately shouted for their respective followers to stand back, and as they did Alan ducked away from the mayor’s second blow and regained his feet. Moving nimbly, he yanked the club from Sabine’s grasp. Suddenly unarmed, Sabine reverted to his natural cowardice and turned to run. But his clumsiness betrayed him. He tripped over his own feet and sprawled in the street.

  Alan Hayes was a kind, decent man. From the day when we first began planning the Christmas Day protest, he had not only understood but insisted on a strict philosophy of nonviolence. But in the last week he had been arrested, along with his wife. He’d been frantic with worry about his daughter. He’d been held prisoner in a dark, smelly dungeon with only stale bread and dirty water for nourishment, and twice he’d been locked into public stocks. Now his arm ached terribly from the mayor’s unprovoked attack, and Sabine, the one who’d laughed at the possibility Sara would have to live in the streets, lay fallen before him. Gradually, almost mechanically, Alan raised the club while the mayor cringed at his feet.

  It was one of those terrible moments when everything seems to happen in slow motion. Arthur and I both began to rush to Alan’s side, desperately wanting to prevent him from clubbing the mayor, which would certainly force Colonel Hewson to order his troops to shoot, which in turn would result in panic and more death when the demonstrators fought back against the soldiers. But Alan was too far away. I saw the club come up and knew we couldn’t reach him in time.

  But as the club rose, the door to the mayor’s house swung open again. Thirteen-year-old Sophia Sabine raced out and threw herself over the prone form of her father. The sight of the child caused Alan to hesitate. As he stood there uncertainly, Sara pulled out of Elizabeth’s grasp and ran to wrap her arms around him.

  “No violence, Poppa,” she reminded Alan.

  Then everything was quiet for a long moment. I remember how, despite the throng all around me in the marketplace, I could hear birds chirping, and the rushing of the Stour River. The Trained Band soldiers shuffled in place, waiting for Colonel Hewson’s instructions. Everyone stared at the four figures in front of them—Sophia shielding her father, Sara embracing hers.

  Then, fearfully, Mayor Sabine stumbled to his feet. Alan lowered his club. They, too, seemed uncertain what to do next.

  Sophia and Sara gazed at each other. Then they both took a step forward and hugged one another tight, tears streaming down their faces.

  “Merry Christmas, Sophia,” Sara said.

  “Merry Christmas, Sara,” Sophia replied. She reached out, took her father’s arm, and gently led him back into their house. Sara stood looking after them as the door shut. Then she turned, took Alan’s hand, and pulled him back toward the rest of the demonstrators. The club dropped at Alan’s feet. There was no more anger left in him.

  In moments, it seemed, the crowd began to melt away. The protestors quietly walked toward the various city gates that led to the right paths home. The Trained Band lowered their muskets. Colonel Hewson shook Arthur’s hand and signaled for his soldiers to form a column.

  “You’ll see to raising the money for repairs?” he asked.

  “I promise,” Arthur said.

  “That’s enough for me,” the colonel said. “I don’t know what will happen next. You may be wanted in court. Do I have your word of honor you and the other three who were originally under arrest will stay in the area until everything is settled? Good. Then our work here is finished for today.”

  Arthur smiled and wished the colonel a Merry Christmas. The colonel wished him one back. “I hope your message gets to Parliament loud and clear,” he said. “I love Christmas, too!”

  Finally, only Arthur, Alan, Elizabeth, Sara, and I stood in the marketplace. All four of us adults looked like quite a sight, since we were all dirty and ragged from our week in prison.

  “You need baths!” Sara suggested, reverting in that moment from a poised protest leader to a mischievous thirteen-year-old child. “The smell is making my eyes water!”

  “I’ll smell you, young lady!” her father joked, grabbing Sara and nuzzling her hair while she squealed with
laughter. “Well, let’s all go home. Arthur, I have no idea of what food we might still have left, but will you join us for Christmas dinner?”

  “Please do, Mr. Arthur,” Sara added. “It would be so nice if you did.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are we friends, now, Sara?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed rude before, sir,” she answered. “From now on, I’m going to try harder not to be so shy.”

  “Then you’ve just given us a fine Christmas present, my darling,” I said to Sara, and held her hand as the five of us walked happily back to the cottage, singing Christmas carols and feeling thankful for our lives and all the blessings we enjoyed.

  After scrubbing ourselves thoroughly with well water and changing into wonderfully clean clothes, we ransacked cupboards and finally assembled a Christmas dinner of dried fruit, potatoes, a few stringy winter vegetables, and fresh water. There was also bread, but Arthur, Alan, Elizabeth, and I had already consumed quite enough bread during our week in prison. We wouldn’t want any more for quite a while. Afterward, I produced some candy canes for dessert, and we sang a few more carols. Almost as soon as it was dark, we all felt quite exhausted and were ready for bed. Arthur, who was staying with us for the night, paused as he prepared to go outside for a final washing-up at the well.

  “Now, that was quite a Christmas!” he declared. By the time he came back inside, everyone else was already asleep.

  I settled, over the next forty years, for watching her whenever I could. I personally delivered Christmas presents to her son, Michael, and to her daughters. The three youngest were Elizabeth, Gabriella, and Rose. The oldest girl, the first child born to Sara, was named Layla.