Bartholomew Rudd's Christmas Guest

It was snowing heavily that Christmas Eve in Fountain City, Wisconsin. The small town, still a bit rough around the edges in this year of 1866, lay nestled near the Michigan River. Good people lived here, and Christmas Eve services were held at midnight. The songs and quiet worship brought a sense of peace and contentment to the frontier town.

Bartholomew Rudd had attended that midnight Christmas Eve service. Now he was headed home. Having reached the age of fifty-three as a confirmed bachelor, he was resigned to not having a wife and children waiting for him at home. He would spend the holiday alone—or so he thought.

As Rudd walked home through the falling snow, his soul swelled with the warmth of the season. He loved this town, and the walk home from the church was pleasant, even with the chill in the air. Candles glowed from windows, their welcoming light warming his heart. In the quiet peace of the houses he passed, he could imagine children tucked snugly in their beds, dreaming of the gifts St. Nicholas would bring in the night.

The falling snow laid a blanket of silence over the dark streets. The only sound that came to Rudd’s ears was the crunch of his own boots on the thick snow.

Wait—that wasn’t quite right. As Rudd walked along, it seemed to him that he could hear another set of footfalls, almost an echo of his own. But that was absurd. The streets were dark, deserted. No one else was abroad on this silent night.

There it was again—footsteps just slightly out of time with his own steps. And was he absolutely certain he was alone on the street? He hated to admit it, but a prowler or a pickpocket would have no respect for the sanctity of Christmas Eve. Rudd picked up his pace. He couldn’t see anyone hiding in the shadows, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being followed.

He reached the safety of his front steps, panting and slightly out of breath from his quick walk. He turned around, hoping he wasn’t about to be mugged on the steps of his own house.

The street behind him was empty. The only thing following him was the swirling snow. And the only tracks in the snow were those left by his own boots.

Rudd stomped the snow from his boots before unlocking his door. Then he stopped as something odd registered in his mind. The snow was still falling thickly … but the shoulders and sleeves of his greatcoat were dry. He wore no hat, and he could feel the fluffy flakes hitting his hair. But when he pulled off a glove and reached up, his hair felt dry too. It was as if he’d companionably shared a friend’s umbrella on the walk home from the church. No snow had touched him.

What a strange evening! Rudd shook his head. He’d heard of Christmas miracles; he just never thought such a thing would happen to him. He unlocked his door and went inside, pausing to hang up his greatcoat and pull off his boots. His toes were chilled, and he was looking forward to poking his hearth fire back to life.

He took several steps into his study before he registered the figure sitting in the chair next to the fire. Rudd stopped, confused and a little alarmed. Before he could call for help, though, the figure leaned down and prodded the fire with the poker. The fire blazed up cheerfully, and Rudd recognized the stranger.

“Andrew? Andrew Putnam!”

The figure stood, a stranger no more. “Bartholomew! So good to see you!”

The men shook hands. They’d been friends since childhood, growing up together in the Wisconsin river town. Adulthood had seen the men go their separate ways. Rudd had been content to stay in Fountain City. Andrew Putnam, meanwhile, had gone off to seek his fortune in the East. He’d ended up in Washington, DC. He currently held a position in Andrew Johnson’s administration.

“Well, I’ll be! Andrew Putnam, back in rustic Fountain City for a visit. It was so kind of you to stop by to see me, and on Christmas Eve, too.” Rudd was pleased beyond measure for the chance to catch up with his old friend.

“Have you eaten? My housekeeper keeps a good pantry. Let’s have a late supper.”

“Thanks, that sounds wonderful,” Putnam said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here by the fire while you play the host. I’m still quite chilled from my journey.”

“Of course, of course! Make yourself comfortable, please.” Rudd hurried to the kitchen and threw together two heaping platefuls of food—cold roast beef, hardboiled eggs, good cheese, a bowlful of nuts for cracking, stout sourdough bread, and a pot of his housekeeper’s marvelous apple butter, put up just that fall and fragrant with spices. He grabbed two bottles of ale as well, and brought the whole heavy tray into the study. If Putnam was reluctant to leave the cozy fire—and Rudd didn’t fault him for that—why, they’d just eat in front of the hearth. No harm in that!

Rudd sat down and poured each bottle of ale into a glass. “Merry Christmas! To absent friends, absent no more!”

Putnam raised his glass with a grin. “I’ll drink to that!”

The men visited for a couple of hours, fondly reminiscing about their childhood in the town. Finally, though, Rudd yawned, and realized the lateness of the hour.

“And here I call myself a good host, keeping you up until the wee hours chatting! We’ll have plenty of time to talk in the morning. You’ll stay the night, won’t you? Plenty of room at this inn for you, my friend.”

Putnam nodded. “Of course I’ll stay. Thank you.”

Rudd showed his friend to the door of the guest room, and told him good night. Putnam merely nodded again.

Rudd headed off to his own bed. But once he got there, he found it hard to drop off to sleep. He told himself it was just the excitement of Putnam’s visit plus the late supper, as he stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. He finally dropped off to sleep around dawn.

The housekeeper’s knock on the door woke him. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Rudd, sir! Your breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Bartholomew shook himself awake. He’d had only a few hours’ sleep. Then he remembered—Andrew was here! Rudd dressed quickly and went to see if his friend was up and about yet. Surely the smell of his housekeeper’s good coffee would have drawn him out of bed.

On his way to the guest room, Bartholomew passed by the open door of the study. His steps slowed, then stopped. He stared into the room, disbelieving the evidence right before his eyes.

The small table still stood next to the fireplace, where the fire had long since smoldered down to ashes. Two glasses and two plates sat on the table. But only one of the plates was empty … the other was still piled high with food. And one glass was still full to the brim with ale, now gone warm and flat.

Bartholomew hurried to the kitchen to find his housekeeper. Had Andrew perhaps left early that morning? But the astonished housekeeper swore that no one had left the house, and she’d been there since shortly after dawn, as usual. Nor had she made up the guest room, as no one had slept there the night before.

Rudd spent Christmas Day wandering the house in a fog. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. He knew, without a doubt, that he’d enjoyed a conversation of several hours with his friend. But there was no sign that Andrew had ever been in the house. The two disparate facts nagged at him, an itch deep in his mind that could not be scratched.

That night, Bartholomew fell asleep in the chair in front of the study fireplace. The other chair sat empty, almost mocking him.

A knock on the front door woke him the next morning. Rudd sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and stretching to relieve the kink in his back from spending the night in the chair.

His housekeeper met him before he got halfway down the stairs. She handed him the telegram, which was postmarked Washington, DC.

“Sir: The family of Andrew H. Putnam wishes to inform you of his death on the first day of December, 1866. We know you join us in mourning his passing.”

Stunned, Bartholomew read the two stark sentences over and over. The puzzle was finally solved. The crunch of footsteps accompanying him in the snow, the uneaten meal, the full glass of ale, the empty bed … Bartholomew Rudd had spent Christmas Eve visiting with a dead man.