House Divided (23 page)

“Tony? Of all people!”

“Well, he at least understands. He's—he used to be a gambler too. And give Tony credit, Cinda. He's changed a lot. Maybe it will do Darrell good to be at Chimneys for a while.”

“Chimneys didn't reform Tony,” she declared. “It was getting rid of Mrs. Albion. Brett Dewain, do you suppose Enid knows the truth about her mother?”

“Now don't go getting a down on Enid. Her mother isn't her fault!”

“I know, but I was just thinking. If she does know, she must be simply scared to death we'll find out. I'm almost sorry for her—except when I'm furious with her for being such a fool about Faunt! If she makes a spectacle of herself over him, I'll scratch her eyes out!”

“Fierce!” he said, affectionately smiling; and they settled into silence; but before they slept she spoke again.

“Julian just tumbled head over heels when he saw Anne Tudor, didn't he? Standing straight as a ramrod to show off his uniform.”

He laughed. “Give him time, Mrs. Dewain! You've Burr to marry off before you take Julian in hand.” Her thoughts, when they spoke thus of their sons, rose like a great wave of terror that threatened to overwhelm them all. She clung to Brett, and understandingly he gentled her and soothed her, whispering: “There, sleep, sleep, sleep, my dear.”

 

Cinda was happy presently to be at home again in Richmond. “I declare, I'm tired,” she confessed to Brett. “I'm too old for such goings on.” He had returned from an hour downtown to find her in her room, half-dressed, her hair loosed, drowsing on her couch. “I had June bring my shocking box—she thinks it's the devil's own magic—and took a full charge, and then she rubbed the back of my neck and I tried to sleep, but I kept thinking about our Christmas. I wonder if we'll ever have such a good time all together again.”

“Of course!” He came to touch her head in caressing reassurance. “You know, Mrs. Dewain, you have a lovely suit of hair.”

She pressed her cheek against his hand, speaking like a dream. “I kept thinking all the time: ‘Enjoy this, Cinda Dewain! Drink deep this sweet cup! Remember every moment. These are memories to cherish always. For it's the last time, Cinda Dewain; it's the last, last time.'” And suddenly she drew him down, clung to him, weeping in his arms.

It seemed to her during the weeks that followed that their world rushed headlong toward destruction. By the end of January the Gulf States had followed South Carolina out of the Union. Virginia proposed a Washington conference to seek some compromise, but even while it convened, delegates from the Gulf States met in Montgomery, formed the Confederate States of America, and named Jefferson Davis their provisional President.

Yet this step led to no immediate clash of arms, and Cinda began to be hopeful. “Will the North just let them go on and set up their government,
Brett Dewain? Isn't President Buchanan going to do anything?”

“He can't, very well. He'll be out of office so soon.”

“Who elected Mr. Davis President?”

“Why, the states that have seceded. Except Texas. Her delegates didn't get to Montgomery till after the election.”

“Delegates? You mean the delegates elected him, just decided by themselves?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course. This has all been managed from the top, Cinda. It isn't safe to let the ordinary, ignorant voters take a hand in settling serious matters. That's why Lincoln is dangerous, you know. He believes in letting a popular vote overturn the Supreme Court or the Constitution at any time. That would end government by law, if ignorant people could change laws whenever they chose.”

Cinda nodded. That was true, of course. It would be ridiculous to let poor white trash and little farmers with a few acres of land try to tell such men as Brett Dewain, for instance, what he must do. If President Lincoln wanted that, he was not only a blackguard but a fool besides. “That old scarecrow! Brett, he's the ugliest man I've ever seen! In his pictures, at least!” She laughed suddenly. “Do you know who he looks like? A little?” He shook his head. “Like Tony!” she said. “That same bony look. But for goodness' sake don't tell Tony I said so.”

Brett smiled. “I'm not likely to. Some day you'll talk yourself into trouble, Cinda.”

“Oh, I'd never say it to anyone but you!”

 

In February Virginia elected delegates to a convention to consider joining the Confederacy; and though the delegates were by a large majority loyal to the Union, Brett was reluctantly convinced that eventually Virginia would secede. Early in March he went to Great Oak to discuss with Trav the business adjustments he was making in anticipation of that event; and when he returned, Enid came with him.

“I just had to come,” she told Cinda. “Everything I own is in rags, and there's no really good sempstress at Great Oak or even in Williamsburg. Of course, if it isn't convenient, I can put up at a hotel.”

Cinda assured her she was welcome, but she told Brett furiously: “You make me so mad! Letting her get around you! As if I hadn't troubles enough without her on my hands. I've a notion to give her a piece of my mind.”

He chuckled at her wrath. “Don't! Keep every bit of that mind of yours. Even a piece is much too good for her.”

Enid read them a letter from her mother. “Everybody in Washington is running around like a chicken with its head off,” Mrs. Albion wrote. “Abe Lincoln's afraid to show his homely face. You know he's grown a beard, as if that would disguise him; and he sneaked into Washington, didn't dare come in on his special train, pulled a shawl over his head like a woman and crawled in before daylight Saturday morning and hid himself. They say he won't dare try to be inaugurated, because there are men waiting to shoot him with air rifles the minute he stands up on the platform. He's just like a scared old rat dodging around in alleys.”

Before they heard this, Lincoln had taken office; nevertheless Cinda found in Mrs. Albion's letter a grain of hope. “Lincoln's being such a coward is some comfort, anyway. If the Northerners are all afraid, maybe they won't dare do anything.”

But Brett did not agree. “I hear from New York that Lincoln is stubborn—like most ignorant men. He refuses to listen to any compromise on the question of slavery in the territories, and suoh a compromise is the only hope.”

“Oh, it's all so foolish! What will he do?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. Try to hold Fort Sumter, I suppose.”

“I had a letter from Louisa Longstreet today,” she reported. “She says Major Longstreet has written Governor Moore of Alabama offering his services if they're needed. She says the Major thinks there'll be war.”

“Where are they now?”

“Albuquerque. I suppose all soldiers hope there'll be war. After all, that's the only thing they know how to do!”

He smiled. “Don't be spiteful, Mrs. Dewain. Colonel Lee, for one, doesn't want trouble. He's done a lot to keep Virginia calm so far—in spite of fools like Roger Pryor.”

“I feel as though I were walking along the top of a picket fence, with a pit a mile deep on either side. It would be almost a relief to fall off—or something.”

The intolerable strain of waiting would have been for Cinda torment enough; but Enid made it worse. With a maddening persistence she spoke of Faunt, and always in such fond and tender tones that Cinda had to fight back her anger. The day came when she could endure no more. They were alone together and Enid sighed and said: “I declare, Cinda, I don't see how Cousin Faunt can stay at Belle Vue with all this excitement in Richmond. Don't you think he'll—–”

So Cinda exploded. “Oh, for Heaven's sake, Enid, that's the twentieth time you've asked about Faunt! Why don't you get over being such a little fool?”

“Why, Cousin Cinda, whatever do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean! If you start making sheep's eyes at Faunt I'll box your ears. And Faunt will laugh at you! And Mama'll throw you head over heels out of Great Oak!”

“Why, Cousin Cinda, I think you're—–” Enid began to whimper.

“Oh, stop snivelling and whining and pretending to be so innocent!”

“But, darling! Oh, Cinda dear, you just can't believe—–”

Cinda's anger fed on her own realization that she was cruel and unreasonable. “Stop it! You make me perfectly furious!” She imitated the other's tone. “ ‘Cinda dear, when's Cousin Faunt coming?' ‘Cinda dear, Cousin Faunt this!' ‘Cinda darling, Cousin Faunt that!' I'm not your Cinda dear! I'd like to turn you over my knee, and I may do it too. You'd better pack up and go back to Great Oak! I simply can't stand having you around another minute.” And when Enid wailed aloud, she said angrily: “There, there, stop that caterwauling! A little plain talk won't hurt you! Behave yourself and we'll get along, but right now you'd better go on home! I've too many other things on my mind to bother with you! Go on upstairs and wash your face! You're a sight!”

Enid wept and pleaded, but Cinda did not yield. Already ashamed of her outbreak, which she knew was provoked much more by her own anxieties than by anything Enid had done, she refused to relent, as though by standing her ground she could justify herself. If Enid had fought back, had answered anger with anger and hard words with
hot rejoinders, she might have weakened; but Enid could only weep.

“Oh, you hate me! You hate me!” she sobbed. “And I've so wanted you all to love me! I've tried so hard!”

“Well, try a little harder,” Cinda advised her, and added implacably: “Next time you come!”

So Enid went back to Great Oak. Not till she was gone did Cinda confess to Brett the reason for her abrupt departure. “I know it was mean of me, and I know I lost my temper; but she kept talking about Faunt till I couldn't stand it another minute, so I packed her out of the house, shipped her off home.”

“Did you tell her why?” His eyes were twinkling.

“Yes, I did!”

“Good Lord, Cinda.” He laughed in spite of himself. “That tongue of yours will be the ruin of both of us some day. What did she say?”

“Oh, played innocent, and said whatever did I mean, and called me Cinda dear, and began to cry and said she loved me so and—oh, I don't know! She said she'd tell Travis on me and I dared her to!” She grimaced helplessly. “The Devil was in me, I suppose! I'll make up with her some day, but I couldn't stand another minute of her. But I don't want to make a row that will upset Mama.”

“Did she start off for Great Oak alone?”

“No, I sent Burr to see her safe home. But I told him to come right back. I don't want him out of my sight!” She dismissed Enid with a gesture. “Brett, let's send for Clayton and Jenny too. I want my children here with us, now that the whole world's likely to blow up any minute!”

“I'm going down to the Plains for a few days myself. Some things I want to attend to there. You might come along.”

“What things?”

“Business.”

“What business, Brett Dewain?”

“Well, Cinda, if war does come, the food will be scarce. I'm going to stock the Plains with enough to be sure you all have enough to eat, at least.”

“Us? Where will you be, Brett Dewain?” Yet she knew the answer he must make.

“Every man will be needed, Cinda.”

She pressed her hand quickly to her breast. “Queer,” she said, in a low voice, “I felt my heart freeze, just then. It's turned into an icy block.” He kissed her, and she said evenly: “If you're going to the Plains, so am I. I'll go wherever you go, Mr. Dewain. As long as I can.”

April, 1861

 

 

B
EFORE their departure a letter from James Petigru decided Brett to go first to Charleston. “That's where the explosion will come, if it must come,” he told Cinda. “Mr. Petigru is a Union man and he thinks some of us ought to be there to try to hold back the hotheads.” Brett, though he had never taken an active hand in politics, had the respect of everyone who knew him.

So to Charleston they went. The journey was long and wearying, the cars full of excited travellers; and there was a crowd at every stop to ask for news. At Nichols's Station where they entered South Carolina, a custom house had been established and their baggage was examined. Brett commented: “Here's one reason secession isn't practical, Cinda. Imagine a custom house everywhere a highway crosses a state line.”

“You don't have to persuade me, Brett Dewain.”

“I'm just trying my arguments on you.”

They reached Charleston on Saturday. Brett suggested that since he would be much engaged, Cinda might wish to lodge with some of their friends; but she preferred to put up at a hotel.

“The Planters?” he asked.

“No, we'd know everyone there. When I can't be with you, I'd rather be alone. Let's stay at the Charleston. I like room to turn around, like the big rooms there.”

He assented. In the hack that took them from the station through the streets full of red-faced, arguing men, and with elaborate uniforms everywhere, she closed her eyes. “I want to shut myself in,” she confessed. “Play ostrich, hide my head in the sand.”

Brett was at once caught up in many conversations. He met Judge Longstreet that first evening. Judge Longstreet was in his seventies, the youthful years when his
Georgia Scenes
made the whole South laugh now long behind him. For more than twenty years he had served as president of one or another Southern college, Emory and then Centenary and then the University of Mississippi and finally of South Carolina College; and since the days when nullification was an issue he had taken on the platform and in the press a leading stand in support of states' rights. He looked younger than his years, clean-shaven, with sad frowning eyes and a firm compressed mouth; and Brett found the old gentleman, who had so long preached the virtues of slavery and the wisdom of secession, now full of dismay at the imminent outbreak of the storm he had helped to raise.

“I fear I was wrong, Mr. Dewain,” he admitted. “War in the abstract is one thing; but to think of those boys from the College going off to be shot to bits is horrifying. If cutting out my tongue would cancel some of the things I have said, I would gladly do it.”

Brett tried to reassure the old gentleman. “Other tongues have said the same things,” he remarked, “even if you had been silent.” He added: “Mrs. Dewain had a letter from Major Longstreet's wife. He has offered his services.”

“Yes, so he wrote me,” the Judge assented. “He spoke of the sorrow his decision cost him: to turn his back on the Union, stand with his relatives.” He asked: “Can you see any road to a settlement, sir? I've published a pamphlet, in effect recanting all I have said in the past; but I fear it had few readers. I urged above all that we refrain from aggression. Then at least we can enter the contest with clean hands, with no guilt upon our hearts.”

“There is still some hope, yes,” Brett told him. “But not if the Montgomery government lets the Confederacy plunge into war. The Confederacy is nothing yet but a name.” He made an angry gesture. “No money in the treasury, no taxes levied—or likely to be. They begin by borrowing; but they have no one in the South who is even capable of engraving the bonds they purpose to put on the market. Their currency and their bonds must be manufactured in New York. There isn't a mill in the South that can make bank-note paper. Evans, Cogswell and Company here in Charleston hope to manufacture the bonds,
but they have to find workmen and materials first.” And he said strongly: “No sir, to set up a government requires much more than the decision to do so. It will be a long time before the Confederacy can make good their case in war. Delay is the best hope, delay and negotiations.”

Longstreet agreed, and when Brett talked to Mr. Petigru, who had from the first stood staunchly for the Union, he found that Mr. Petigru was of the same opinion.

“I had some hope even the secession delegates would come to their senses in time,” Brett admitted.

Mr. Petigru shook his heavy head. He was a massive man, broad of chest and thick-bodied, his hair long enough to touch his shoulders, with a wide mouth full at once of strength and gentleness and eyes that seemed to survey the world with understanding and compassion. He was Charleston's foremost citizen in spite of the fact that he held no public office; and he was a brilliant lawyer and a famous wit, but there was no jesting now in eyes or tone.

“No, Mr. Dewain,” he said. “No, when the Convention met, it was already too late. This was all managed from Washington, on a plan predetermined. Time might have led to a settlement, so no time was permitted. Immediate, absolute, irrevocable secession was the program; and it was rushed through.” He added grimly: “And now the program calls for war, to make reunion impossible, to prevent reconciliation and a reconstruction of the Union by far-seeing men of business like yourself.”

Brett said a doubtful word. “I'm afraid our opinions have little weight today.”

“That is true,” the other admitted. “Yet delay may give time for a change. When a pot is at the boiling point it must either boil or cool off. It cannot be held at highest pitch forever. Simple delay is not much of a program, Mr. Dewain; yet to that we are reduced. Every day that passes without a shot being fired brings hope a little nearer.”

 

Sunday Brett supped with Mr. Petigru and with John Manning, the former governor, at the Charleston Club. Half a dozen others were in the party, including Senator Wigfall and old Edmund Ruffin. Brett heard from them the most recent developments in the negotiations regarding
Sumter. Three weeks before, Mr. Seward, speaking for President Lincoln, had promised Judge Campbell of Alabama that the Fort would be evacuated; and a fortnight later this pledge had been repeated, with apologies because its fulfillment had been delayed. As recently as yesterday, when the Secretary of State was again urged to carry out the promised evacuation, Mr. Seward replied by telegram:

Senator Wigfall explained these things to Brett and asked his opinion. “Some of us think Mr. Seward's promises are a trick to delay our action. I know Mr. Petigru believes in delay. You're a man of sense. What is your view, Mr. Dewain?”

Brett hesitated. “You and I do not see eye to eye, Senator,” he remarked. “No one questions that to secede was our right; but I believe it was also a mistake—and it may prove a costly one.”

Edmund Ruffin exploded with a wrathful vehemence. “Costly? Why, sir, secession is the first step toward the creation of a great and powerful nation. The Confederacy, controlling the mouth of the Mississippi, will control the trade of its tremendous watershed. With its monopoly of cotton the Confederacy can confer prosperity upon the North and upon Europe, or deny them that prosperity at will. Our farmers, relieved from the necessity of paying the tribute to Northern industry which iniquitous tariffs now impose upon them, will go on to an undreamed-of prosperity. A glorious future—–”

Senator Wigfall gently interrupted him. “Excuse me, sir. I asked Mr. Dewain to appraise the worth of Mr. Seward's promises. Let us hear him.”

Brett answered with reluctant honesty. “Why, I suspect that when Mr. Seward presumes to speak for the President he mistakes his man.”

Old Mr. Ruffin cried: “Absurd, sir! Mr. Seward is the
de facto
President of the United States! He will control every action of that ass the Black Republicans have set in the presidential chair.”

“Politicians may think so,” Brett admitted. “Even Mr. Seward may think so. But if I am well informed, Mr. Lincoln will make his own decisions. And I'm convinced he will never surrender any Union fortress.”

“Exactly,” Senator Wigfall cried. “You hear that, gentlemen? If we want the Fort—we must take it.”

There was a murmur of agreement, but Brett spoke urgently. “I believe to take Sumter would be a mistake. If you take it, you will unite the North behind Mr. Lincoln. There's no real war party in the North today. The disposition there is to accept peaceably your peaceable secession. Mr. Lincoln will never be able to carry Congress and the North into war against you unless he can trick you into beginning hostilities.”

The Senator chuckled. “I'm afraid, Mr. Dewain, you overrate this backwoods lawyer. You attribute to him a capacity for statesmanlike guile of which he is completely incapable. Abe Lincoln is a nobody, a second-rate politician with neither ability nor character.” He added strongly: “But, sir, even if you are correct in thinking he wants war, I assure you that for us, too, war is necessary. I need not mince words in this company. As a loosely knit organization of independent states, the Confederacy cannot long survive. If it is to live, it must be unified by battle. Until we are bound together by blood, we will be a nation only in name.”

There was a moment's silence, and Brett nodded in sombre understanding. It was not to defend slavery, not to demonstrate the right of secession, not to thwart the abolitionists, not to escape the tariff laws passed by the industrial North; it was simply and straightforwardly to set up a new nation that these men were bent.

Senator Wigfall added a further word. “This necessity was recognized when we met in Washington in January. It was faced and it was accepted, Mr. Dewain.”

Brett asked curiously: “What was this meeting of which you speak, Senator?”

“Why, sir, fourteen senators from what are now the seceding states met on the night of January fifth. We decided to prompt the secession of our various states, to meet at Montgomery in February and form the Confederacy. Every step in our program was planned that night, and that program has been followed to the letter-except that we at first expected to name Mr. Hunter of Virginia as President, and would have done so if Virginia had followed us out of the Union.”

Edmund Ruffin said quickly: “That is why we must now take
Sumter: to move Virginia. Without Virginia and the Border States, the Confederacy can never achieve respectable stature; but if we attack Sumter, Mr. Lincoln will call the North to arms, and Virginia and the others will unite with the Cotton States to resist coercion.”

Brett for a while said no more, silently considering these several individuals. Senator Wigfall was a tall, powerful man with the muscular neck of a gladiator, his masses of black hair barely touched with gray, his square jaw and strong mouth not wholly hidden by the new beard beneath his dark mustache. His eyes were at once fierce and resolute. His passions, Brett thought, would never make him forget shrewd wisdom, never make him neglect the devious way that might most easily lead to the goal he sought. Edmund Ruffin, that spidery little old man with his lank white locks, was in stature no more than half the Texan's size; but in him there was an equal conviction of the justice of their cause—and an equal readiness to achieve by guile what force might not easily accomplish.

Mr. Petigru broke the brief silence: “You are wrong, gentlemen. My voice has little weight, yet I tell you, you are wrong. It is inconceivable that you can create here a new nation divided from the North by nothing but an imaginary line and an idea. You had the legal right to secede, but you were wrong to exercise that right. That you did so was a great misfortune. If you precipitate this conflict, you invite a terrible and tragic outcome.”

After a moment the Senator spoke in courteous dissent. “Every man respects your opinion, Mr. Petigru, no matter how strongly he disagrees with you. But you are mistaken, sir. The Yankees will not fight. I know them well. They're cowardly rascals! We have ruled them ever since the founding of the Union, seating our Presidents in the White House, kicking and cuffing the Yankees like so many dogs. They're poltroons, sir!”

Brett replied: “If you begin war, sir, they will fight; and they will come against you with three or four men to your one.”

“We'll find graves enough to bury as many men as they care to send,” old Mr. Ruffin retorted; and Senator Wigfall said amiably:

“Pshaw, Mr. Dewain! As a man of business, you know that without our cotton, Northern industry will collapse. Cotton is king, sir. Cotton rules the world. To get our cotton, the North must yield. England
and France must become our allies, must fight on our side if we need them.”

“I'd be sorry, even if you are right, Senator, to bring Englishmen to fight against our countrymen.”

Edmund Ruffin banged his small fist upon his knee. “Absurd!” he cried in shrill tones. “I tell you, sir, I would rather see one of the English princes established as our monarch than live under the Lincoln government. That young prince who came to Richmond last October —I was pleased with him.”

“The English will prefer to keep him to be their own king in due time,” Brett suggested.

“No matter! One of his brothers would do!”

Brett felt his cheeks burn angrily, but before he could speak there was an interruption, a messenger with a telegram for Senator Wigfall. He read it; then looked around triumphantly.

“Well, here is the answer to our doubts. President Lincoln has sent formal notice to Governor Pickens that he proposes to provision Sumter.” He came to his feet. “So! As for me, gentlemen, my course is determined. A bold stroke will swing Virginia and the Border States, will end their indecision. I shall telegraph President Davis, urging that we attack the Fort at once.”