House Divided (64 page)

Trav dismounted, introduced himself. “I came to inquire after two of your men, Colonel,” he explained. “Kinfolk of mine. Lieutenant Cloyd, Lieutenant Dewain.”

Colonel McRae shook his head, spoke in sober sorrow. “We have not called the roll, Captain.”

But from the shadows beyond the fire a young man stepped forward, spoke to Trav. “Captain Currain, I'm Rollin Lyle. Lieutenant Cloyd was my friend.”

Trav recognized the youngster. “I remember you, sir.” Yet he noted the past tense, and his heart slowed its beat.

Rollin looked to Colonel McRae as though for permission to speak. The Colonel nodded, and Rollin said: “Tommy—Lieutenant Cloyd—led us across the plowed field. He carried no weapon, not even a pistol.” His voice caught. “He never wanted to kill anyone. But he led us, calling back to us to come on. We had to wheel and double-time in order to take our place in the advance. At first we were beyond
musket range, but then the fire of the Yankee battery reached us.” The young man's voice was steady now, steady as ice. “Lieutenant Cloyd was all right till the battery fired their last round, just before they drew back into the redoubt. That was close range. That last round of grape riddled him.” The low tone suddenly was bitter. “Tore half his side away.”

Trav swallowed dryness. “Killed him?”

Rollin almost laughed. “Killed him? God, yes! His insides spilled out in the mud.”

Trav remembered Vesta, so full of happiness, something within her rich and sweet and warm; Vesta whom he had left asleep in that humble cabin hours ago. His throat burned with a swelling rage, at war, at death.

But Tommy was dead, no help for him. What of Julian? “You knew Julian Dewain too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he—alive?”

“He was alive at the fence, sir. Then we got orders to withdraw. I haven't seen him since. They were firing at us as we went back across the plowed ground.”

Trav nodded. “Have you seen Julian's boy? Elegant was his name.”

“He was with us at the fence, sir. He'd been shot in the face, but he followed Julian all the way. I saw them there. But they didn't come back.”

Half to himself, Trav muttered: “I must find them.”

Young Rollin Lyle said proudly: “Tommy is here. I carried him in my arms when we were ordered to withdraw.”

That was something; but—Julian might be lying wounded in the night, wounded and dying. Tommy was past help, but there might be help for Julian. Colonel McRae spoke in heavy tones. “We've parties out collecting the wounded, Captain.”

“May I borrow Mr. Lyle long enough to show me the field, Colonel?”

Colonel McRae looked toward the road, where in darkness marching men trudged through the mud. “We'll not move for a while, an hour or more,” he assented. “But don't get him killed. I've lost men enough today.”

Trav turned to Rollin; but the young man hesitated. “Tommy's body's under the trees over here, sir. Can't he be taken somewhere?”

“When we come back,” Trav agreed. “Time enough then. Will you show me the way?”

So Rollin led him floundering through a thicket and across a ravine, stumbling in the darkness till they reached a fence which served to guide them and thus came out into an open field. Ahead and to their left, smoking torches moved here and there; the night silence was broken by gasps and groans and sudden screams of unbearable pain as wounded men were lifted and moved. Trav hesitated; but Rollin strode diagonally to their left across the open, and they came to plowed ground where their feet sank ankle-deep in sticky mud; and they passed two men helping between them a third, whose leg dangled, who whimpered like a fretful child, from whose leg as it swung came the faint sound of grating bones. The men paused, panting; Trav drew close to peer into the hurt man's face. This was not Julian.

“I wish we had a torch,” he said.

One of the men laughed. “Be glad you can't see all there is to see,” he retorted.

Trav and Rollin stumbled on. “This was the way we came.” Rollin spoke in dull tones, heavy with weariness. “Out of the woods back there, and out into the field here, and then to the left. The fence is ahead, against the woods.”

From somewhere off that way a musket shot sounded; then a shouted command. “Stop that shooting! Let them pick up their wounded!” That was a Yankee voice, the accent and the intonation strange. So the enemy was there, watching from the wood.

They met other men, laboriously carrying groaning human burdens back across the field. Ahead of them someone threw a torch aside to have both hands free for the duty they must do; and Trav picked up the still blazing splinter and thereafter they could see their way. Dead men lay here and there. Any one of them might be Julian, so at each one Trav held the torch near to see and to make sure. In the sudden light, black beetles came tumbling awkwardly out of open wounds to scuttle into darkness and wait till the light was gone to resume their gluttony. Trav looked upon them in a cold stillness, feeling
none of that physical weakness which had beset him at Big Bethel, full rather of a black and terrible wrath.

But he did not find Julian among them, and Rollin led him steadily forward.

So they came to the rail fence. A shallow ditch ran along its face. “I saw Julian here,” Rollin said. “The guns were close, yonder by the redoubt, lined up across the road. Tommy was killed just this side of the road.” His voice was remote and calm. “The Twenty-Fourth Virginia was on our left. We lay down along the fence here; and when we got orders to retire they ran along the fence into the woods, into cover. But we had to go back across the open field. I picked up Tommy and carried him.”

Trav moved along the fence, stepping over and around the bodies scattered here. When it was necessary he turned one till the face could be seen. The faces were curiously alike in their blankness, with open mouths, half-open eyes. There were faces bearded and beardless, faces of boys and of men, faces sometimes shattered by the impact of a heavy ball. Trav searched painstakingly. If Julian were here he must be found.

Once he thought his search had ended. They came to a Negro sitting with his shoulders against the fence and with a white man cradled in his arms. But the Negro was not Elegant, and the young man in his arms had a thin beard, and both were dead.

“That's Bob Crawford,” Rollin said mildly. “He was in our company.”

They went the length of the fence and back again; but Julian was not here. Perhaps earlier searchers had found him, helped him away. That chance remained; but certainly he was not here. Trav turned uncertainly to look at Rollin.

“We might as well go back.”

So they retraced their course, yet still Trav turned aside to look at every dark form they passed, holding the torch to every countenance, making sure and sure. There were men whose arms or whose legs had been shot away, men whose faces were smashed to pulp, men who lay in dark pools of blood that had spilled out of them, men who showed to the casual glance no wounds at all. They came to one man
who was still alive, whose eyes were open, who looked up at them with the eyes of a trapped animal, his teeth bared in a snarl, a thin blood-trickle from his mouth.

“We can carry him,” said Trav.

But when they raised him to a sitting posture, the man coughed, and out of his mouth came a huge gush of blood; and when they laid him down again he twitched and twitched, his head jerking up, falling limply back, jerking up off the ground again. His feet began to kick and jerk harder and harder, then more and more weakly. Then head and feet were still. So he died.

So he was dead, as Tommy was dead. Perhaps Julian, too. They had been so much alive, so short a time ago.

In a convulsion like that of the man who had just died, Trav threw his head far back. He looked up. The clouds were breaking. He saw a calm and distant star, watching with no pity.

His teeth grated.

This war. This blood-spilling, this bowel-spilling war! This war made by a man named Lincoln.

By a man named Lincoln, in whom ran Currain blood.

Trav's jaws clamped shut. Blindly, stumbling across the muddy field, he strode away. He forgot Rollin on his heels, forgot all else in deadly rage and blinding pain.

May, 1862

 

T
ILDA thought that interminable journey to Richmond would never be done. The heavy carriage lurched and swayed and jolted till her bones ached. Cinda and Mrs. Currain seemed to relax, but Tilda could not do this. She sat tensely braced, and each shock was like a blow. The others were silent as though they slept; but when sometimes a torch, or the light from a blazing fire beside the road illumined their faces, she saw their eyes were open, fixed and shining glassily.

She herself was full of words she did not speak, of thoughts that were all ejaculations. The revelation in those letters laid on her no burden of grief or guilt. It woke instead a sort of triumph. She delighted in the consternation of these others, her mother, Cinda, her brothers; but that their distress and shame were also hers she easily ignored. True, she was as much a Currain as any of them; but since she married Redford Streean they had forgotten this, had let her live in mean and tawdry semi-poverty, had left her no part in their lives except to envy and to covet. They had never accepted Redford as one of them; he was always “Mister Streean” to them all. Oh, they had held their heads so high!

Well, their heads would be lower now! Redford Streean might be mean and base as in her heart she knew him to be, but at least he was not the uncle of Abraham Lincoln, that ogre from the North who had provoked this war and death and ruin. The cream of the jest was that the war that left her brothers and sisters paupers would not ruin Redford Streean. While they saw their world collapse he would find ways to erect a fortune, which she would share. One day, when these others
were penniless, she would be rich! She imagined herself playing the kindly benefactress to them all.

She recognized the likelihood that even in their rags they might be contemptuous of Redford's wealth, but if they were, if they persisted in their hoity-toity ways, she could soon enough bring them to terms. This knowledge of their father's shameful crime was a weapon in her hands. If they held themselves too high, she would know how to bring them low!

Through the night the carriage made slow progress; but now and then wagons ahead of them pulled off the road to wait for dawn, and insensibly the flowing stream of travel on the roads began to thin. With daylight, they were able to proceed more steadily; there were no longer so many maddening delays. They stopped at New Kent Court House so that old Thomas could bait the horses while the Negroes who still followed them in a straggling band cleaned the carriage of accumulated mud. Faunt and Tony arranged for a private room in the tavern, and they all went in for long enough to eat sparingly, to relax their wearied muscles. Tilda was full of words, but the tavern keeper hovered near with questions about what was happening at Williamsburg; and Faunt kept him in play, so that they had no moment together and alone.

When they came out, the carriage was halfway clean, and they pushed on. At the house on Fifth Street, Tilda did not stay, did not even go indoors. “Mama's so tired you'll want to put her right to bed,” she told Cinda. “And I must see if the children are all right. I'll come first thing in the morning.”

Cinda did not protest, and Tilda hurried homeward; but halfway there her pace lagged. Should she tell Redford Streean this incredible thing that had happened? She itched to do so, to share his hilarious and derisive mirth; but if she told him, it was herself he would deride! A sense of his own inferiority was a canker in the man, a sore that steadily tormented him; and certainly he had no love for her. The fact that she was a Currain gave her some importance in his eyes; but if he knew the truth, her only ascendancy over him would vanish forever.

More than that, he would delight to spread the tale abroad; and if he did that, if he betrayed the Currain shame, what of Dolly? Tilda's
pride in Dolly was tempered by misgivings. She had always assured herself—and others—that it was the right of every pretty girl to flirt and coquet as she chose, until she married and went into that semi-retirement which was the lot of even the most charming young matrons. She had never admitted even to herself any real concern over the child's pretty follies; but secretly she sometimes wished Dolly would marry and settle down into the safe world of wives. If this scandal were spread abroad, the Currains would be laughed at; and if Dolly ever thought people were laughing at her, she was capable of anything.

So Dolly must never know, and therefore Redford Streean must never know. “If I can't tell someone, I shall simply burst.” Tilda spoke half aloud, talking to herself. “But I just can't tell a soull” Yet it would be fun, now and then, to remind Cinda and the others of the truth. “When they start putting on airs!”

She walked slowly till she remembered that Redford Streean was gone to Raleigh, or to Wilmington, or somewhere down south on what he said was government business. She suspected his departure had been prompted by fear that Richmond would be abandoned to the Yankees. Better men than he had fled, during these weeks just gone. But at any rate, he would not be at home; she need not face him. And of course Darrell too was away.

So she hurried her halting steps. The door was bolted. She rang, and presently rang again. It was Emma who answered, her greasy black countenance sweat-dappled, her apron soiled, her short pigtails in twists of dirty paper. Tilda promised herself that some day she would have a butler as dignified and as courtly as Cinda's Caesar. Redford might even buy Caesar himself, when Brett and Cinda became so poor they had to sell their people. To be sure, Caesar, who felt himself privileged to show his feelings, had never concealed his contempt for Redford. Well, if they bought him, they would take all that out of him, with a whip if necessary.

Tilda vented her envious anger on Emma. “What are you doing, answering the bell? Where's Sally?” Sally, for all her impudence, was a comely young woman. That was why her babies were lighter-hued than she, that was why Redford had her in the house. But at least, in Dolly's discarded finery, she kept herself presentable!

Emma snorted. “She up wid Mis' Dolly!” The fat black woman shook with obscene mirth. “Mis' Dolly gittin' fixed up tuh kill, lak she'd slep' her last!”

Tilda knew the phrase. She had heard it herself, many a year ago, on the morning of the day she was to wed Redford Streean. Her old May, sister of Trav's April and Cinda's June, had greeted her thus that morning when she brought the waiter with Tilda's breakfast. “Well, Honey, you's slep' you' last!” But the phrase was for brides, and Dolly was not a bride; not unless a great deal had happened in these days of Tilda's absence! Yet a great deal might have happened! Tilda turned and ran up the stairs to Dolly's room.

When she opened the door she saw Sally watching in critical appraisal while Dolly revolved slowly in front of the long mirror, inspecting herself with a lively appreciation. Dolly looked over her shoulder at her mother, and Tilda thought how beautiful she was in that posture, her shoulder so sweetly rounded and so warmly white against the dark masses of her hair. She saw too that the girl's eyes were unnaturally bright, with some charming excitement, and her color was high.

“Why, Mama,” Dolly cried, prettily surprised, “I didn't think you'd get here today.”

“We just this minute did,” Tilda told her. “I walked from Aunt Cinda's.” She sat down limply, and Dolly twirled twice around before the mirror.

“Isn't this pretty, Mama?”

“Lovely,” Tilda assented. “Who's the lucky young man you're going to bewitch?”

“Captain Pew. He'll be here any minute.”

“Captain Pew? Whoever is he? I can't keep all your beaux straight, Honey.”

“Oh, he's a blockade-runner or something. Papa says I must be nice to him, and he's simply enchanting, so handsome and so dangerous-looking.”

“Papa? Is he home?”

“Oh yes, he came back as soon as he heard about the Yankees get ting New Orleans. He had a lot of sugar he wanted to sell if the price went up, and it did, and he made heaps of money; but he was furious because he didn't have salt too!” Tilda felt a quick pride in Redford's cleverness; but if he were in Richmond he would be here
presently, and she dreaded facing him with this secret in her thoughts. If he guessed she was hiding anything he would be sure to bully it out of her. Dolly, intent upon the mirror, said casually: “Everyone says we'll just have to let the Yankees have Richmond. Mrs. Davis is gone, and all the men in the Government. Did you see any Yankee soldiers?”

“No.” Tilda hesitated, itching to tell Dolly the whole story; but she dared not. Yet there was one thing she could tell. “But Great Oak's burned down, Dolly!”

“Oh Mama, honestly?” To Tilda's surprise the girl's eyes filled with tears. “Really and truly, Mama?” It was as though she pleaded for a denial of this bitter word.

“Yes, really and truly!” Tilda told her sharply. “But I don't know why you have to start snivelling!”

“But it was so heavenly there!” Dolly whimpered. “I used to pretend to myself I'd live there some day.”

“Nonsense! You never would! You can be sure of that!” Tilda relaxed in her chair, groaning. “I declare, I'm just exhausted. We travelled all last night and all day today. The roads were crowded, and so muddy.”

Dolly's quick tears as quickly dried; she made sure the traces were removed. “All the same,” she declared, “I'll get even with those old Yankees somehow! See if I don't.”

Tilda did not understand. “Get even with them? What for?”

“Why, for burning Great Oak.”

“Oh Uncle Faunt did that. After we left, he set it on fire.”

“Uncle Faunt?” Dolly whirled to face her, her eyes blank with astonishment. “For Heaven's sake, why?”

Tilda wished she had been more cautious, hurried to cover her indiscretion. “He simply couldn't bear to let the Yankees have it. We could see the fire against the sky for miles. Uncle Faunt felt terribly.” This much at least she could tell. “Of course, we all did; but you know, he takes things hard.”

Dolly stared at her, but before she could speak the door bell rang, and the girl cried: “Oh that's Captain Pew! Mama, tell him I'll be right down, will you?” She laughed in a pleasant excitement. “Do hurry, won't you. He hates being kept waiting. And he has a fearful temper anyway!”

Tilda started to say: “Let Sally tell him!” But if she did, like as not Sally would refuse, and Dolly would say she needed Sally to help with the last touches of her preparations. Besides, Tilda was curious to see this new beau of whose temper even Dolly spoke respectfully. A bossy man with a temper might be just the husband for Dolly! She rose to obey. A mirror warned her that she was dishevelled from her journey; but he would have no eyes for her, not if he expected Dolly! From the stair head she saw Emma lumbering toward the door, and she warned the fat old woman away with a hiss and a fierce gesture, and waited till Emma had disappeared before she opened the door.

Her first emotion was a sharp surprise; for Captain Pew was not the charming boy she had expected to see. He was old enough to be Dolly's father, thirty-five if he was a day. Yet it was true that he was a mighty handsome man, though since dusk was falling it was too dark here in the hall to see him clearly. “Good evening, Captain Pew,” she said quickly. “I'm Dolly's mother. Do come in! She'll be right down.”

He bowed. “Ma'am, I would have thought you Miss Dolly herself if you had not told me!”

Why, he was nice—in spite of that teasing twinkle in his eye. “Absurd man!” She heard her own words with astonishment. She was simpering like a girl, under his silly compliment. “All cats are gray in the dark! Light the gas, do.”

He drew a match and the fumes stung Tilda's nose. In the sudden flare of the gas she saw that he was as handsome as he had seemed in semi-dark, tall and slender yet clearly very strong, with a clean-shaven chin and a delightfully sharp mustache and strange, disturbing eyes. No wonder he had swept Dolly off her feet. Perhaps old Emma was right! “There, come in and rest yourself. Dolly won't be long.”

She had a few minutes with him in the drawing room. His deep voice was exciting, his grave courtesy faintly frightening. Tilda felt in him something deliciously disturbing. No wonder Dolly had lost her head! In Captain Pew the girl might meet just the master she needed. Tilda was laughing and chatting as gaily as a girl when Dolly, with a prettily apologetic cry of welcome, appeared like a radiant picture in the door.