House Divided (28 page)

“You've met your man often enough!”

The other laughed. “I don't mind one man shooting at me, but I've no desire to face the bullets of a regiment!”

“You don't mean that seriously!”

“Oh, yes, I do.”

Tony had been till now so lost in his own problem that he had closed his mind to the implications in the other's attitude; but now, striking like lightning through the confusion that beset him, came the almost incredible thought that Darrell was afraid! He himself had been afraid a while ago; he was, if he let himself face facts, frightened now. But he had thought himself alone in this secret cowardice. Even the suspicion that Darrell was a craven gave him sudden courage. He felt himself a Paladin, spoke in sharp contempt.

“Indeed! I had thought you were half Currain; but apparently you're Streean through and through!”

Darrell swung sharply toward him; and Tony, facing the other's coldly blazing eyes, for an instant regretted his word. But after a silent moment the young man grinned.

“Hard names break no bones!” he said lightly. “And I wouldn't want to call my brave Uncle Tony Currain to account! Even though he has proved himself a fool!”

Tony, emboldened by impunity, spoke with heavy dignity. “Since that is your opinion, you will no doubt be leaving Chimneys.” As though he were a bystander he approved his own tone, his bearing, his stern words.

“At once,” Darrell smilingly assured him. “Within the hour.”

Tony hesitated, abruptly unwilling to be left alone. “It's late. Tomorrow will serve.” Perhaps he could still make peace with the boy.

But Darrell shook his head. “At once,” he repeated. “I've a neglected bit of business in Martinston to which I must attend.” Tony thought of Miss Mary Meynell. Probably Darrell would go to say good-by. “I'll lodge at the tavern there. So, Uncle, you brave man, I bid you a fond good day!”

 

When Darrell was gone Tony thought the great house was intolerably empty and silent. Even Joseph, bringing his supper, seemed to make less noise than usual, and when Tony had finished eating, the quiet was like the silence of a forest filled with watching eyes of wild things. There was no murmur of voices in the kitchen, no sound of singing from the quarter behind the hill. He dared not go to bed, to the loneliness that awaited him there, so he sat a while on the veranda with his fears, hating Darrell because the young man's unconcealed amusement at his predicament today had goaded him into this folly, and hating that other man, that Lincoln, whose malignant schemings were at the root of all this turmoil. From fear and hating he passed to self-pity, and suddenly, like an erring little boy awaiting punishment, he wished Nell Albion were here. She would know how to cheer him, to reassure him, to give him again that sense of power and of capacity which had been so sweet this afternoon. He had bad within the week a letter from her, announcing her imminent return to Richmond. Perhaps she was in Richmond even now.

Tony's thoughts dwelt on her; he remembered little forgotten things, intimate and warm and exciting. He stirred in his chair, and fires long smouldering awoke in him. Why, he had been a fool to let her go!
She could when she chose surrender herself as lavishly as a nigger—though not because she loved him, to be sure; there had never been that pretense between them. No, it was simply that she was at such moments completely physical, as readily and gratefully compliant as an animal. His pulse was a slow pounding in his throat; saliva filled his mouth so that he swallowed again and again. The night breeze touching his cheek was like her hot fingers, burning. He rose with a fierce surging movement, strode to and fro, paused, looked off into the night, went lightly down the wide steps and slipped away through the darkness to the quarter. In the great iron fire troughs down the middle of the street between the huts stale embers sent up heavy smoke. He kept himself hidden in heavy shadow, his hands clasping and unclasping, nails biting palms. In one of the shut and shuttered cabins a dog barked, and a sleepy voice shouted for silence, and Tony heard the thump of a thrown stick of lightwood and a dog's yelp of pain; and then quiet came again. He moved furtively away, remembering this wench and that one, slim dark girls rolling their eyes at him as he rode by, whom he had seen and ignored. Well, he was paying for that blindness now! There must be a dozen who would gladly serve if he knew where to find them.

He went sullenly back to the house, to his brandy—and to rebellious decision. Tomorrow he would recant, would refuse this command they offered him, make some excuse. Damn the excuses! Let them think of him what they wished! He would not, could not go off to war, to battle, to death! At whatever cost he would be free.

But in the morning Ed Blandy rode up to escort him to Martinston for a muster and a drill, and he could not shame himself in Ed's eyes; and thereafter, caught in the hurry and stir of many preparations, he forgot his qualms. None of them had any knowledge of military matters; and except for a few pistols and flintlocks there were no firearms. Chelmsford Lowman received a letter from his brother in Georgia describing the pikes which Governor Brown was having made: blades sixteen inches long and two inches wide, with a three-inch spur on either side, and a hollow shank a foot long to receive the staff. Long Tom Mills, the blacksmith in Martinston, made a dozen or so of these; and his smithy became a rallying point where men had other weapons fashioned to their own designs, and in every house in Martinston
lamps and candles burned late as needles flew in busy improvisation by wives and daughters anxious to do their share.

Tony decided that to harden themselves for a military life, the men should sample it; so patrols were sent out to protect Martinston on every side. They were required to shelter themselves, and to prepare their own rations, and to keep guards posted all night long. Rain the first night damped their enthusiasm; Chester Freedley's nerves toward morning betrayed him into firing at some weeds swaying in the gusty wind, and his companions on picket retreated in very bad order indeed to the tavern in Martinston. The second night Pete Needles shot and killed Judge Meynell's lop-eared old mule when it failed to answer his challenge. Two nights later a picket sleeping in Chelmsford Lowman's barn set the hay on fire, so that the whole company had to turn out to fight the flames—and Mrs. Lowman drove the fire fighters, once their work was done, into headlong flight with a brush broom. Bob Grimm developed an extravagantly painful boil in an extraordinarily painful place, and everyone was sneezing from exposure and hollow-eyed for lack of sleep before news of the attack on Sumter and then of the Fort's surrender sobered them all.

Monday, the stage driver reported that Mr. Lincoln had called upon North Carolina to help crush the Confederacy; and that night Tony and Judge Meynell, Chelmsford Lowman and Jeff Whitaker—these were his lieutenants in the company organization—spent long hours in fruitless conjecture as to what would happen now. When the others said good night at last, Judge Meynell lingered; and after some empty talk, he asked, his tone overly casual:

“Captain Currain, what about your nephew? I haven't seen him in ten days.”

Tony had half forgotten Darrell, had wished to forget him. He said honestly: “I regret to say that he declined to join us. He returned to Richmond.”

The other's head for a moment drooped as though this word had wounded him. “I'm sorry. He was always welcome at our home.”

Tony offered a lame defense. “Of course, he's a Virginian, Judge.”

“True,” the other assented. “His place is with Virginia troops.” He seemed about to say more, but he did not. When the Judge was gone, Tony thought Darrell must have departed without a word of farewell
to Miss Mary, and he felt an indignant anger at the graceless young man.

Next day they heard the answer sent by Governor Ellis to Lincoln's call for two North Carolina regiments for immediate service, and Tony mustered the company and read to them that stern note.

Tony was surprised to find that as he read his own voice grew strong with anger. He finished and a hoarse exultant shout answered him, and he himself caught fire.

“So, men of Martinston, the issue is joined,” he cried. “The treacherous villain in Washington, having goaded our sister states beyond endurance, now calls us to furnish soldiers to consummate his crime. Will we do it?” He answered his own question. “By the Almighty, no!” A hoarse shout of approval answered him. “Ought we to do it? No! No! We are Southern men, and we will fight to the death against those who make war upon the South! The Governor has given us our battle cry; resistance to this wicked lawlessness, this unrighteous war!” Seeing in their intent countenances the unanimity of their agreement with every word he said, he felt real greatness in himself, unmeasured powers. After all, he was a Currain! He had a fine heritage; he would do it honor now.

He set out that day for Raleigh, to announce to the Governor that the company was ready for orders. Major Hill had already been installed as commandant at the camp of instruction there. When Tony reported to him it was in a voice that rang with pride.

April, May, 1861

 

 

C
INDA and Brett were still in Charleston when upon the fall of Sumter President Lincoln issued his call for troops. Brett read aloud to Cinda passages from the proclamation. “He says the laws have been opposed and their execution obstructed ‘by combinations too powerful to be suppressed by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings' and wants ‘the militia of the several states of the Union to the aggregate number of 75,000 in order to suppress said combinations.'” And he explained: “He says the troops will be used to recapture Sumter, ‘to repossess the forts, places and property which have been seized from the Union.' And listen to this, Cinda. ‘I hereby command the persons composing the combinations aforesaid to disperse and retire peaceably to their respective abodes within twenty days.'”

In sudden violence, Brett crumpled the paper and crushed it between his hands; and he laughed harshly. “‘I command you to retire to your homes!' Why, damn the man, we're in our homes! It would be funny if it weren't so infuriating.” He added more quietly: “You understand, Cinda, he's actually demanding that Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, all the border states furnish troops to fight South Carolina and the other Southern states. The War Department wants three Virginia regiments, with seven hundred and eighty men in each. Twenty-four hundred men! Why, there aren't that many men in Virginia who would fight against the Confederacy!”

“I suppose not.” She spoke in a low tone, her hands clasped to stop their trembling. “Does that mean—Well, what does it mean, Brett Dewain?”

“Why, Virginia will fight with the Confederacy, not against her, of course!”

“I suppose everybody's furious.”

“Furious? Every man in Charleston's trying to join some regiment or other.” He laughed. “They're making a joke of it. They say when a new man wants to join up, they sprinkle water on him; and if he doesn't sizzle they decide he isn't mad enough to make a good soldier!”

She smiled with him, but she said: “I must be getting old, Brett Dewain! I hear ladies talking so big about all the things we're going to do, and they just sound like silly children to me. Do you suppose people are any more sensible in Richmond? Charleston's so tickled with itself for starting a war that I want to—well, to slap its face, if it had one! Charleston ought to have its ears boxed, if you ask me!”

He chuckled. “Treason, Cinda! If they heard, they'd talk tar and feathers.”

“I can't help it! I'm sick of idiotic, chattering women talking about the ‘glorious news' and how thankful and happy they are.” Her own thoughts made her angry. “I'll insult someone if we stay here. Let's go to the Plains, stay a few days and go on home.”

“The ladies are worse than the men, I suppose.”

“I certainly hope the men aren't as bad,” she agreed, and she said: “Miss Barnwell today—in a perfect fright of a hat—was sure our soldiers will just march into Washington and take over the Government. Oh, they're all the same, their tongues rattling like dried peas in a gourd! I hear more silly talk in an hour than I've heard in all my life before. According to them, Lincoln is a blasphemous fanatic, ready to turn a pack of thieves and cutthroats loose on us; but we'll kill the last man of them! Or if we don't, if they kill every man in the South, why, then Southern women will take arms against them! They can kill us all, but they can't conquer us, even after we're dead! You never heard such nonsense, Mr. Dewain. One minute they're talking about a quick and glorious victory, and the next they're going to fight to the last man and woman. Mrs. Caswell raved today till I thought she'd have apoplexy. She was red as a beet! She said if a man of her acquaintance delayed twenty-four hours in marching off to battle she'd cut him dead forever after! If I were a man and related to her I'd face any danger to escape being near her. They talk so much and so foolishly
I wonder if underneath they aren't all just as scared as I am.”

“Faunt thinks it's because we're afraid we do so much bragging.”

“I know it! All the ladies keep saying we're going to whip the North in a month and we're going to do this and we're going to do that; but actually they're thinking: ‘What if we don't?' Women make me tired! If our men can't whip the Yankees I'd rather be beaten than saved by all this female talk!”

Brett smiled at her violence; but he said thoughtfully: “The South's a woman, Cinda. In our refusal to face facts, our ignorance, our silly scorn of the enemy.” He added: “Actually, of course, we've hard trouble ahead.”

“Everyone seems to think England will take our side for the sake of our cotton.”

“I know. ‘Cotton is King.' I hear that everywhere, like a lullaby to soothe babies. But we'd better start helping ourselves, instead of counting on help from others.”

“Oh, Brett Dewain, how did we ever get into such a mess?”

“The politicians,” he said harshly. “The politicians. They made the war, but it's the people who will have to do the fighting.”

“Our boys,” she murmured, and she caught his hand. “Oh, I'm so tired of talk, talk, talk! Brett Dewain, I want to see Clayton. I want to see our boys.”

 

When they came to the Plains, Cinda clung to her tall son there, and she played by the hour with her grandchildren. She delighted in five-year old Kyle, active as a squirrel, and in Janet, forever babbling a language of her own out of which single recognizable words burst with a surprising clarity.

The day they arrived at the plantation Tommy Cloyd rode over to say good-by. He had joined the De Kalb Rifle Guards. “And I start for Richmond tomorrow,” he explained.

Brett asked smilingly: “All by yourself, Tommy?”

The youngster flushed and grinned. “No, sir, we'll be in the First South Carolina Volunteers. Colonel Gregg's regiment.” He explained: “The regiment's been on Morris Island, and when orders came to go to Virginia, most of the men said they wouldn't go, because they'd just enlisted to fight for South Carolina. Only about half the regiment is
going; so they're taking in some more companies, and combining some of the others, and we got our chance. Captain Boykin says we'll be the first regiment from the South in Richmond.”

Cinda said teasingly: “Vesta's there, Tommy. She'll be glad to see you.”

He reddened to the ears. “Yes, ma'am. I want to see her, too.”

He stayed for only a few moments, going on to say good-by to his mother before returning to join his company in Camden; and when he was gone Cinda met Clayton's eyes. “Hear that, Sonny? Your fire-eating South Carolinians mean to do their fighting as far as possible from the Yankees!”

“Well, we believe the state comes first, Mama.”

Brett spoke gravely. “But, Clay, we're all in this together. If each state keeps its soldiers at home, the Yankees will gobble us up one by one. Ten thousand soldiers in South Carolina won't lick one company of Yankees in Virginia.”

“There'll be plenty of South Carolinians in Virginia, sir! Tommy's regiment will be the first, but there'll be more.”

“There will have to be,” Brett commented. “We must have an Army of the Confederacy, not just a lot of home guards.”

Cinda said protestingly: “Oh, you two! You won't settle anything by talking!” She left them, went to find Jenny and the children. Jenny was in the store room with old Banquo, measuring out what would be needed for dinner, and Cinda said: “Banquo, you old rascal, you get littler all the time. You're no bigger than a pint of cider!”

The Negro chuckled with delight. “Dass right, Missy. When de tall was give out, I no dere.”

“How's that new wife of yours?”

Banquo made a contemptuous sound. “Her ain' no wife ob mine, not no moah.”

“Why, Banquo, I thought she was a mighty pretty woman.”

“Huh! Reck'n dass de trouble. You know what? Dat no-'count nigguh done had two children so fur, Missy, and bofe ob dem was twinses. My Paw nevah had twinses! Nor me neither, not yit! No, ma'am, I ain' gwine truck wid her no moah!”

Cinda laughed till she cried at Banquo's jealous suspicion, but when he was gone Jenny said in quiet amusement. “Perhaps she just has a
talent for babies. Banquo certainly has! I see a lot of pickaninnies around the place that look like him.”

“Fie on you, Jenny! Don't you know ladies never notice such things?”

“Don't they?” Jenny smiled. “I suppose that's why you never notice anything.”

Cinda's eyes opened wide. “Jenny! Darling! Really?” Jenny nodded, radiant; and Cinda asked: “When?”

“August, I think.”

“I'd never have guessed! But there, I should have, with Clayton looking like a cat after it's swallowed the canary!”

Jenny's eyes shadowed. “He's glad, of course. But—I wish it weren't happening just now.”

“Nonsense, darling! It will take Clayton's mind off—other things.”

Yet Cinda knew this was not true, and Jenny knew it too. Virginia passed the ordinance of secession; and except for Maryland's half-hearted compliance, every border state refused to assist in coercing the South. That night after they were abed, Brett said, almost gratefully: “I'm glad of one thing: slavery is no longer the issue, nor our right to secede. On those issues I'd have had a divided mind; but not on coercion! We're fighting for the right to decide for ourselves the government under which we choose to live! The North proposes to govern us against our will; we insist on the right to govern ourselves.”

“Of course we do,” Cinda agreed. “And I'd like to see them try and stop us!”

“Well, they'll try,” he reminded her. “But—if we're not to live as free men—it's better to die.”

Cinda, thinking of Burr and Julian far away, came into his arms. “Why—fight then, Mr. Dewain,” she whispered. Her voice failed, she steadied it. “Will you join a South Carolina regiment?”

“I think not. After all, I'm a Virginian by birth.”

“Then we'd better be getting back to Richmond. Burr must be missing us. We might stop in Charlotte to see Julian on the way.” She asked the question she dreaded putting into words. “What will Clayton do?”

“He's going with his neighbors here, when the time comes.”

“I haven't told you,” she said, “but Jenny's having another baby in
August. I think I'll have them all come to Richmond, as soon as Clayton goes. I'll want all my family together, and it will be cooler for Jenny in Richmond, pleasanter, not so lonely.”

“Fine,” he assented. “The Plains will be in good hands. We're fortunate in our overseer. Mr. Fleming will stay on. He's a warlike old fellow, but Clayton and I convinced him that he's necessary here.” He added: “And you can always come back here. I'm arranging to stock the Plains with things we'll need.”

She asked, surprised: “Need? What do you mean? We raise almost everything, and we can always buy what we don't raise.”

“I'm not so sure,” he told her. “It's not easy to organize a new nation. There are so many details, and—money is one of them. The Confederacy is printing money, and borrowing money; but unless we impose heavy taxes, our money will depreciate, buy less and less.”

“If that's so, won't we have taxes?”

“I doubt it. You see, taxable property is mostly slaves and land and the Constitution of the Confederacy says that direct taxes have to be proportioned to population, on the basis of a census which hasn't yet been made. So till there's a census we can't tax slaves or land.” He added: “I know that's just a technicality; but the big owners of land and of slaves control the government, and they won't let any tax be laid till the census has been taken. It would be a violation of our rights, and we're great sticklers for our rights, you know.”

What he said meant little to her. “I haven't the remotest notion what a direct tax is,” she confessed. “But I can tell that you think we ought to have one.”

He hesitated. “Well, actually I'm not sure what I think. As a man who knows something about business I know we can't run the Confederacy without taxes; but as an owner of land and slaves I'd hate to pay taxes on them.” He added: “But in any case, I'm sure we must lay in supplies while we can still get them. We have the people to feed, you know.”

“I wonder what they're thinking about all this. I never feel that I know what's going on inside their woolly black heads.”

He chuckled. “Nothing to worry about, I'm sure; not as long as we give them food to put in their black stomachs.”

In a swift passion of terror and of tenderness she clung to him. “Hold me close, please! Closer! Closer!”

“Steady, Cinda.”

“Oh, I'm not going to cry! I won't cry! Brett Dewain, do you know what I wish? I wish I could have another baby for you.” He kissed her hand, and she insisted, “Well, I do. Whenever I know you're troubled, I always love you most! I mean—not with just my heart. With all of me.”

“I know.”

“Remember when our first little Burr died, I made you have another one, just as quick as we could. Aren't you glad we have the second Burr now? He's so like you! And then the little girl after Vesta. I knew you wanted another girl, and she was dead before she was even born, and I could hardly wait to have another for you, and then she turned out to be Julian, and I could never have the little girl we wanted, no matter how we tried.”

“Easy, Cinda. Don't distress yourself.”

“I'm not distressing myself. I'm just remembering how much I've always loved you.” She laughed richly. “Haven't you ever thought, maybe just once, way in the back of your mind, that I was an abandoned woman, the way I've carried on with you?”