House Divided (90 page)

In these happy hours, Anne forgot to wonder how soon they could depart, but she knew that Cinda was trying to secure the necessary permission. Then one day when Cinda returned to the house after a morning's absence, Anne saw in her eyes some profound emotion. She sprang to the older woman's side.

“Aunt Cinda? What is it?”

“Why—we're going home.” Cinda spoke in a hushed voice, like a whisper.

“Really, Aunt Cinda?” Anne was breathless with delight; and Julian struggled up from his chair.

Cinda nodded. “Yes. We'll get our passes this afternoon, leave tomorrow.”

Julian cried: “Grand, Mama! Grand! How did you do it? Did you have any trouble?”

Cinda nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, a great deal of trouble. But it's ended now.” She spoke like a person asleep, and she opened her hand and extended it to them. A rectangular white card lay in her palm. They peered at it, their heads together. Anne saw a few lines written in a small neat script, and Julian read the signature aloud.

“‘A. Lincoln'?” His tone was a question, and Cinda nodded again, in that strange abstraction, and Julian asked: “Mama, did you see him?”

“Yes,” said Cinda. “Yes. I saw Abraham Lincoln.” She turned away, holding the card between her two hands, and walked quietly along the hall and up the stairs.

August-October, 1862.

 

 

T
HE Howitzers left Richmond on the twenty-sixth of August. Brett had no word from Cinda. He wrote Vesta at the Plains that her mother was gone to Washington, and he asked Tilda to stop in as often as possible at Fifth Street, where Mrs. Currain, alone with the servants, was happily content; but there was no more he could do.

Four or five days of marching brought the Howitzers to Rapidan Station, where they heard the news of Lee's great victory at Manassas. On the fourth of September, pushing on toward the Potomac, they camped within two or three miles of that battlefield, and Brett and some others rode over to see the terrain. Brett would all his life regret having done this. The Yankee dead had lain unburied for days under the broiling sun, and the swollen, bursting bodies, covered with maggots, were sometimes so many that from a distance the ground seemed solidly carpeted with blue uniforms. The Confederates had buried their own dead and collected their wounded; but since the Confederate surgeons had inadequate facilities and insufficient medical supplies even for their own men, hundreds of wounded Federals still lay where they had fallen. An ambulance train sent from Washington was just beginning to collect those Northern wounded who had survived four or five days of hunger and thirst and pain.

Sunday at dusk the Howitzers moved into Maryland. They crossed the Potomac at White's Ford. The water was sometimes more than belly deep for the horses, but a sandy island in midstream gave a chance to halt and rest. Before Brett reached the farther shore night had fallen; but a fine moon almost at the full shone across the water
and silhouetted the dark figures of men and horses and woke reflected gleams from gun barrels and from the metal in harness or bridle. Brett paused to watch and to listen to the shouts and curses of the drivers, the splash of plunging horses, the clank and rattle of accouterments.

While he waited, he heard his name called, and answered, and Faunt rode up from the water's edge to join him; so Brett had his first news of Anne and Cinda. “We saw them halted by a Yankee picket,” Faunt said. “And one of our men who lives in Alexandria slipped into town last Sunday to see his family and brought word that they stayed a day or two at Dr. Mason's house there, and then went on to Washington.”

Faunt and Brett had only a few minutes together. Stuart had crossed into Maryland at this same ford two days before; but Faunt, weakened by a severe attack of dysentery, had stayed two days in Leesburg to recruit his strength. He spoke of that great victory at Manassas.

“I rode over the battlefield,” Brett told him. “It was horrible. The Yankees hadn't been buried. You could smell them for miles.”

Faunt laughed shortly. “Remember what Catherine de Medici says in that book by Dumas? ‘A dead enemy always smells sweet!' ”

Brett looked at the other in the moonlight. “I haven't read much Dumas.” His tone must have betrayed his distaste, for Faunt said a curt good-by and rode away.

In Frederick, two or three days later, Brett saw Burr for a heartening hour, and heard the story of the ball which Stuart and von Borcke had organized Monday night at the Academy at Urbana. “When the fun was at its peak,” Burr explained, “the Yankees attacked our pickets and the officers had to leave their pretty partners and gallop off and take a hand. But after the Yankees were driven away, they went back and danced till daylight. Then the ambulances came along and turned the Academy into a hospital, and the young ladies in their party dresses took care of our wounded. That's quite a mixture of fun and fighting, Papa.”

Brett asked whether many Marylanders were enlisting to fight with the Confederates. “I expect that's one of the things Lee hoped for,” he suggested.

“They were certainly glad to see us here in Frederick,” Burr said. “But I don't think very many have enlisted. No.”

From Frederick the Howitzers toiled up the pass across South Mountain, the horses straining with cracking sinews as they breasted the steep grade; then with wheels braked hard they came briskly down to Hagerstown. Thence new orders sent them back across the Potomac at Williamsport and so to Shepherdstown. They lay idle there during the bitter day of fighting at Sharpsburg, and they heard there of Jackson's fine capture of Harper's Ferry. Three or four days later, temporarily under Stuart's command, they crossed into Maryland again to fight a skirmish near Williamsport; but by that time Lee had completed his withdrawal into Virginia, and McClellan did not pursue.

 

A week after Sharpsburg, the Howitzers were in camp two miles from Martinsburg when at dusk Brett saw a man on a great black horse accompanied by a gigantic Negro passing along the road toward town. He recognized Trav, and at his shout Trav swung Nig that way and dismounted and the two men clasped hands.

Trav had intended to push on to Martinsburg. “I'm told General Longstreet is there,” he explained. “But I'll spread my bed near yours tonight and go on tomorrow.” It was hours before they slept. Big Mill somehow found a chicken for their supper, and they ate and drank and talked; but most of all they talked. Brett was hungry for any word of Cinda and of Julian; but Trav could tell him little except that Cinda and Anne were at Mr. Gilby's in Washington.

“There've been two letters from Cinda. Vesta brought one over Friday evening. I left Richmond Saturday.” This was Wednesday.

“Vesta's home?” Brett asked eagerly.

“Yes. Jenny stayed at the Plains.”

“I knew she was going to. How's Julian? When is Cinda bringing him home?”

So Trav explained that Cinda when she wrote had not yet seen Julian. “They emptied the Washington hospitals to make room for wounded from Manassas. All the Confederate wounded were moved, but no records were kept, and Cinda hasn't found out where Julian is.”

Brett swore. “She must be half-crazy!”

“Her letter sounded sort of—desperately calm,” Trav admitted. He had to answer many questions, till Brett reluctantly accepted the fact that the other actually could tell him nothing; so at last they came to talk of other things. “I spent a few days at Chimneys,” Trav said. “James Fiddler, my old overseer there, came to Richmond to say he'd left Tony. I judged there was something wrong, so I went down.” He paused, went on: “Tony has sold off some of the people, Brett. Chimneys was overstocked, and those we sent there from Great Oak had little to do. At any rate, he sold them.”

“Well, that was probably good business.” Brett laughed in grim amusement. “We hear Lincoln's going to set them free, anyway. Not that that will make any difference to them; but they'll be worth less and less from now on. All the same, I wish Tony hadn't sold them.”

“Tony's a lost man, Brett.” Trav hesitated, then went on: “He's taken a negress into the house as his mistress, a bright mulatto girl named Sapphira. He tried to seat her at the table with me.”

Brett felt the other's sorrow. “Tony was lost long ago, Trav. He had his little time, captaining that Martinston company; but he was lost before that.”

“He'd begun to have some self-respect. I suppose this Lincoln business knocked it out of him.”

“When were you down there?”

“I got back to Richmond on the ninth. We'd had the news of Manassas at Martinston. Richmond was still drunk with triumph, talking about hundreds of Yankees killed and captured, and hundreds of muskets and guns taken, and mountains of stores. People thought Lee's army was marching into Maryland like conquerors, to seize Harrisburg and Baltimore and Washington.”

Brett said drily: “The army might have done better if President Davis hadn't announced two months ago that we were going to carry the war into Northern territory. Well, maybe time will teach us not to brag too soon. How long were you in Richmond?”

“Two weeks or so. I'm not strong yet, and seeing the way things are at Chimneys took a lot out of me. I stayed in bed a few days. Vesta got there the Saturday after I did.” He smiled. “She was furious because Cinda hadn't waited so they could both go to Washington. She
showed me Cinda's letter, and one from Burr. Have you seen Burr since Sharpsburg?”

“Yes, he came through without a scratch. At Boonsboro and again at Sharpsburg, when we retreated, Fitz Lee's men relieved the pickets. At Sharpsburg that meant extending the brigade along the whole line of battle, dismounting his men to stand to while the army crossed the Potomac behind them. For hours McClellan had nothing in front of him but that thin line of pickets; but they pulled back at dawn with no trouble.”

“That must have seemed like a long night!”

Brett chuckled. “Yes, even Burr admits it.” He asked: “How's Enid, and your mother?”

“Oh Mama's happy as a cow in clover, managing the house to suit herself.” Trav did not speak of Enid. He seldom did unless he must, so Brett was not surprised. “Tilda's bragging about Streean's speculations,” Trav added, and he said thoughtfully: “You know, Brett, she brags so much about how clever he is that I think she's a little ashamed of him.” Brett did not comment, and Trav said: “Streean apparently had a lot of salt that he'd bought cheap, and he sold it at a dollar and a quarter a pound just two days before General Loring drove the Yankees away from the Kanawha salt mines and the price fell to five or ten cents.” He added: “By the way, Dolly says Tony has gone into partnership with Streean, bought shares in a blockade-runner.”

“Probably they'll make money,” Brett said. “Streean seems to have a knack that way, and no conscience to hinder.” He asked: “Had Richmond heard about Sharpsburg before you left?”

“Only through the Northern papers. The Philadelphia Inquirer claimed a victory and said Longstreet was wounded and Jackson a prisoner. Everybody assured everybody else that it was just a Yankee lie; but when we started for Gordonsville we began to meet trains full of wounded, and to hear some of the truth.”

“We weren't there,” Brett said. “We've hardly fired a gun.” Big Mill added a few sticks to the dying fire and Brett stared into the new flames. “We camped one night at Gainesville and I rode over to look at the Manassas battlefield. The Yankee dead hadn't been buried. I'll swear you could have smelled them ten miles down the road.” He set his jaw hard. “Lots of wounded still there.”

“Ours?”

“Theirs mostly. We buried our dead, but we couldn't wait to bury the Yankees.” He added in a lower tone: “But we left our dead to rot on the field at Sharpsburg.” He wiped his brow. “There were hogs getting fat on the bodies at Manassas, Trav. I'd like to take some of the damned politicians who made this war and show them a week-old battlefield.”

Trav asked: “What went wrong at Sharpsburg, Brett?”

Brett looked around to be sure no one was within hearing. “I think General Lee asked too much of the men,” he said. “Half the army was worn out on the march from Manassas. They say Jackson gave orders to shoot stragglers, but a lot of men simply couldn't stand the pace. I doubt if we had thirty thousand men at Sharpsburg when the battle opened, and McClellan had three times that. Lee and Jackson are alike. They want to fight—and to Hell with the odds! But it's death on the men.” After a moment he added: “I hear Longstreet didn't want to fight at Sharpsburg, but he did the work of a thousand men once they got at it. Give him my compliments when you see him.”

 

The army lay inactive for a while. There was a drought in the Valley, all but the larger stream beds dry; and once or twice troops had to be moved to a better supply. But food and forage were plentiful, and the men complained of too much beef to eat rather than of too little; and there was time to bring from Richmond and Staunton new uniforms, guns, munitions. There was time, too, for Trav and Brett more than once to see each other. When next Trav rode out from Martinsburg, Brett asked at once:

“How's Cousin Jeems?”

“Fine,” Trav smiled. “He wasn't out of bed when I got to headquarters, the day I came; but Captain Goree and I waked him. He's a sight in his night shirt, Brett. I noticed he was limping and he swore at himself for being such a damned fool that he wore a loose boot and blistered his heel and had to fight at Sharpsburg in carpet slippers.”

“Any of your friends hurt?”

“Major Sorrel got a shaking up from a shell burst. He tried to settle down and play invalid in someone's home over in Shepherdstown
where there were a couple of pretty daughters, but the Yankees shelled him out. Walton got a bullet through the shoulder, nothing serious.” He laughed at a sudden memory. “Major Fairfax rode a big stallion named Saltron, and a round shot struck it fairly in the rump and the Major came back swearing mad because the Yankees shot Saltron in the butt! Longstreet told him to be thankful he didn't get shot in the butt himself!”

Brett chuckled. “How does the General feel about things?”

“He says the army will soon be better than ever; and he believes there never lived as fine a commander as Lee.”

“That's probably true,” Brett agreed, “unless Lee's too fond of a fight. He certainly shouldn't have fought at Sharpsburg. With the river behind us we'd have lost the whole army if they'd beaten us.”

“He didn't plan to fight there,” Trav said. “But a copy of one of his orders fell into McClellan's hands, so McClellan knew where we were and what we meant to do. It was a near thing whether he wouldn't cut the army in two; but the fight at South Mountain gave Lee time to reconcentrate.”

“I wish I could share Longstreet's confidence in our eventual victory.”

“He doesn't believe we should ever invade the North,” Trav explained. “He says to win the war the North must invade the South, and that whenever she does so we can smash her armies just as we did McClellan and Pope this summer. His point is that we don't have to conquer the North. They have to conquer us.”