December 1666 – Massachusetts Bay Colony
Snow dusted the crooked roofs of Boston’s narrow streets, settling in the hollows of its Puritan heart. But beneath the weight of the colony’s strict laws, no garlands adorned the doorways, no merry songs filled the air. Christmas was forbidden here, deemed a Papist folly, an affront to holy order. Yet in the dim glow of a flickering candle, Henry Nicol worked, his calloused hands stitching a tiny green leather boot.
Henry was a shoemaker, known for his steady craft but little wealth. His trade had declined in these hard years, and the fines levied on those who defied the Puritan rule had emptied his coin pouch further still. Yet he could not let Christmas pass without a gift for his daughter, Anne. She was only six, with golden curls and a laugh like church bells. Though she dared not ask outright, he knew what she longed for—a Yule log’s warm glow and a new dress of deep red wool. These, Henry could not give. But a small boot? That he could manage.
Catherine, his wife, stirred at the hearth, careful to keep their meager fire from roaring too brightly. They were watched—always watched. Since the Puritans had declared Christmas celebrations unlawful, there were those eager to report any sign of defiance. Among them was Albert Greene, a moneylender with a heart as cold as the winter wind.
Henry had borrowed from Albert in a desperate attempt to provide for his family, but even that debt had not been enough to buy Anne’s dress. And Henry had begun to suspect Albert knew more than he let on. The man’s eyes lingered too long on the scraps of green leather Henry had gathered, and he had asked pointed questions about how Henry spent his nights.
On December 23rd, Henry felt the first shadow of danger. As he walked home from his shop, he noticed a man loitering near his doorway—an officer of the colony, no doubt. The man watched but did not follow, his presence a silent warning. Someone had reported him.
“Catherine,” Henry whispered that night, as they lay wrapped in the cold embrace of their bed. “They are watching.”
She turned toward him, fear flickering in her dark eyes. “What will we do?”
Henry’s mind raced. If he was caught, the punishment would be swift—a fine they could not afford, perhaps imprisonment. Yet he would not let Christmas pass in silence. “I will lead them away.”
The next night, Christmas Eve, Henry donned his heaviest cloak and slipped into the streets. Snow muffled his steps as he made his way toward the house they had once rented, now occupied by a widow and her sons. He knocked lightly.
The door creaked open, revealing a wary woman. “Who is it?”
“Mary, it is Henry Nicol,” he whispered. “Forgive the hour. I must speak with you.”
She frowned but let him in. Henry feigned casual talk, asking after her boys, the weather, the harvest. All the while, he glanced toward the shadows outside, certain the officer was near.
Then, with a sudden farewell, he stepped out the back door, climbed the low wall of the yard, and disappeared into the alley beyond. He heard the door burst open behind him, the officer’s shout of frustration, and he ran.
Through the winding streets, he wove his way home, taking long loops, careful steps. By the time he reached his own threshold, the officer was far from here, searching an empty house.
Inside, the candle burned low, casting golden light upon Catherine and Anne. The child clutched the small green boot to her chest, eyes shining with wonder.
“Merry Christmas, Anne,” Henry whispered, pulling them both into his arms.
They knelt together, murmuring prayers of thanks, defying the cold laws with the warmth of their love. Outside, the night remained dark and watchful, but within these walls, Christmas lived on, a secret and sacred joy.
And though danger loomed, Henry knew this: no law, no Puritan decree, could ever silence the spirit of Christmas.
