House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “I know,” Trav agreed. “But it’s too late to think of that now. We’ve got to go ahead.” He asked Tilda: “Is Enid asleep?”

  “Yes.” Tilda hid gleeful relish behind a sympathetic tone. “But Trav, she says she simply won’t go back to Great Oak with you alone. I’ve talked and talked to her. I can’t go, but she says she’ll go if Faunt goes with you.”

  Trav looked uncertainly at his brother. “What do you think, Faunt? Can you spare a day or two?” Faunt seemed to hesitate; and Trav said humbly: “I don’t know much about handling women. She might have hysterics or something, but if you’re along—–”

  So Faunt assented. He suggested that since they would be all day on the road their departure might be delayed until morning, and Trav agreed to this. Tilda stayed that night with Enid, and Enid forgot her grief in the prospect of having Faunt near her.

  “I shall persuade him to stay at Great Oak a while,” she declared. “Till I can face life again.”

  Tilda wished she could go with them, to watch Enid and Faunt together. What a fine tumult it would make if Enid brought these two brothers to be enemies! If Trav were once aroused, what would he do?

  18

  April, 1861

  OF THE Currain men, Tony was the first to put on a uniform; yet he would have said that for him to turn soldier was beyond all possibility. Since his neighbors were outspoken against secession, and because he relished the respect they had accorded him, he had taken their opinion as his own and stood for adherence to the Union. It had not occurred to him that war has an alchemy of its own; that the very men who most love peace may become, when the issue can no longer be evaded, first in war.

  It was almost two years since he had come to Chimneys, and here Tony had been happier than ever before. He was the great man of the locality, accepted by his neighbors not only as a successful planter, but as one acquainted with public affairs, whose least word deserved attention. Like a drunkard become abstinent, he wished others to perceive the new virtue in him; and it was not any desire for the young man’s companionship but some faint thought of impressing Darrell with his new-found importance which led him to invite the other to Chimneys.

  Darrell readily accepted. “If I vanish for a while, it will give my creditors time to give up hope of collecting what I owe them.” At Chimneys he delighted in the novelties of rural life. When a caravan of covered wagons set out to carry farm produce to some distant market, he went along, enjoying the nights in camp beside the road, the clannish spirit which knit the country folk in close alliance against the townsmen, the leisurely homeward journey when the vehicles were laden with molasses, sugar, coffee, spirits. He watched with a lively interest the preparations to roll Tony’s tobacco crop to market. Through the great casks a wooden spike was driven from end to end to make an axle, and a split sapling served as shafts. A box nailed across these shafts carried bedding and provision for the journey; and a mule and an ox were hitched tandem to roll the squeaking and protesting casks laboriously along the muddy highways to the nearest plank road and so to their destination. Darrell went on ’possum hunts with the Negroes, who came home with their prey, caught alive after the tree in which they took refuge from the hounds had been felled, dangling like furry balls from a long split pole in which their tails were pinched to hold them fast. He followed the Negroes and their hounds as they ran rabbits till the little creatures took refuge in some hollow log from which, kicking and sometimes screaming with terror and pain, they were dragged out at the end of a forked stick twisted into their soft hides. He hunted the wild hogs, tall, thin, hairy, snake-headed, ferocious if they were brought to bay; he relished the hilarity of log rollings and looked forward to the pig stickings and the corn huskings in the fall.

  This life was completely different from any he had known; but he might have tired of it except for two things. For one, when in the evenings they were alone, he and Tony regularly turned to cards. Tony was a poor gambler. Darrell liked to win, and he had learned long ago that to cheat a little now and then was not difficult. But he was tactful, steadily praising Tony’s play, approving his sagacity, sympathizing with his ill fortune. “If the luck ever ran for you, I’d not have a chance. Some day it will.” Tony lost steadily; so Darrell found his stay here highly profitable.

  And another circumstance spiced his life here. One day in Martinston Tony introduced him to Miss Mary Meynell, Judge Meynell’s daughter. She was seventeen, an only child; and except for the rare occasions when she had gone journeying with her father or her mother, Martinston was the only world she knew. To her, Darrell was a figure from another world. She listened to his talk with her father and Tony; and she learned to know by heart his every intonation, the way he smiled, the fine lift of his head. His half-quizzical deference filled her with delicious, frightening dreams; his easy compliments made her cheeks bright with happiness. Tony, always ready to embrace a delusion, thought Darrell might marry her and settle down at Chimneys and succeed in due time to the position he had himself achieved. When Darrell’s devotion became so manifest that it could no longer go unremarked, he suggested this; and Darrell, though his eyes twinkled, did not deny it.

  “It might happen,” he asserted. “It might turn out so. But I’ve little to offer any girl, Uncle Tony. Judge Meynell would never consent.”

  “You’ve a great deal to offer,” Tony assured him. “After all, Darrell, you’re a Currain on your mother’s side.” Darrell smiled, and Tony added hurriedly, “I mean no aspersion on your father, but naturally we Currains have a certain pride of family; and aside from the question of family, I shan’t stay at Chimneys always. It can one day be yours.”

  “It’s rather outside the world,” Darrell dryly commented.

  “There’s talk of a railroad to link Danville and Greensboro. That will shorten the trip to Richmond.”

  “Well, to be sure—” Darrell chuckled lightly. “Chimneys would not be unattractive if Miss Mary shared it.”

  Tony was pleased with this possibility. He even discussed it with Miss Mary’s father, and found Judge Meynell as pleased as he. “Darrell seems a fine young man,” the Judge agreed. “Of course, in these troubled times, no one can see very far into the future; yet it is in just such uncertain hours that young hearts turn to other young hearts most hungrily.”

  “Has Darrell said anything to you?”

  “Not yet, though I have begun to expect it. Of course Miss Mary herself will make the decision; but I shall put no obstacle in the way.”

  North Carolina in February voted against calling a convention to consider the state’s relationship with the Union; and to Tony this seemed to determine the state’s future course. But on a Sunday in March when Darrell after dinner had ridden away to town, and Tony was lying down, Pegleg Joseph came knocking at his door. “Some gemmen tuh see you, suh.”

  “Eh?” Tony had been half asleep. “What’s that?” Joseph repeated his message. “Who is it, man?”

  “Dey’s Judge Meynell, and Mistuh Lowman, and Mistuh Blandy and some othehs. Mistuh Darrell done come back wid ’em, suh.”

  Tony, in puzzled surprise, descended to find the group waiting on the veranda. Besides Judge Meynell and the postmaster from Martinston, Tom Shadd and Lonn Tyler and Ed Blandy were in the group. “Well, gentlemen?” Tony said inquiringly.

  Judge Meynell cleared his throat. “Mr. Currain,” he began, and then hesitated and looked at Ed Blandy and asked: “Will you read him Major Hill’s letter, Mr. Blandy?”

  Ed fumbled in his pocket. “Maybe you’d better read it, Judge.”

  Judge Meynell nodded and took the letter and unfolded it. “I think you know Major Hill, Mr. Currain,” he suggested. “He’s head of the North Carolina Military Institute at Charlotte.”

  “I haven’t that honor,” Tony admitted. “But I know my brother thinks highly of him.”

  “He and Mr. Blandy are old friends,” Judge Meynell explained. “This letter came from him yesterday.” He cleared his throat and bega
n:

  “‘Dear Mr. Blandy—Do you remember the problems I used to set you; those mathematical puzzles in which it was always the Yankee who was the poltroon or the knave? If ten abolitionists conspire to shelter a runaway slave, and the Southerner who owns the negro overtakes them and thrashes two abolitionists, how many run away?’”

  The Judge looked at Tony. “Major Hill and Mr. Blandy and your brother had a common interest in mathematics, I believe,” he said, and read on:

  “‘We’ve a more important problem to which we must find an answer now. If Abe Lincoln says twenty times that he will not provision Sumter nor seek to hold it, and then tries to do so—as he will—how many lies has he told? When South Carolina seizes Sumter, this famous liar, like a dog with a can tied to his tail, will howl that we’ve attacked the North, will move to war against the Gulf States; and when that happens, North Carolina will not stand idly by. Having done our utmost to keep the peace, we will also do our utmost in war. As an old soldier, I expect to draw my sword. I would wish to have such men as you by my side. Can you not organize in your community a company? If you can, make haste. The time is short. The Yankees are dullards at arithmetic, but we will soon show them some examples in subtraction.’”

  The Judge slowly refolded the letter, cleared his throat again. His gravity awoke a flutter of panic in Tony. He drew out his knife, cut a bit of tobacco, put it in his mouth. Judge Meynell, as though for permission to proceed, looked to the silent listeners before he continued.

  “Sir,” he said, “Major Hill’s judgment may be trusted. It seems likely that within the month we will be at war.”

  Tony saw Darrell at one side, leaning against the railing, watching with a sardonic amusement; but these others wore solemn countenances. Judge Meynell was a fat little man with that excessive dignity which small men so often assume; Chelmsford Lowman’s Adam’s apple worked in his lean neck as he swallowed nervously; Ed Blandy and Tom Shadd stood shoulder to shoulder. They were steady men, as like as brothers. In that moment’s silence that fell on the Judge’s words the others stirred and then were still; but Lonn Tyler drawled an affirmation.

  “We’ve made our brags. Looks like we’ll have to back ’em.”

  Tony felt that he must speak. “But, gentlemen, we North Carolinians have stood for a peaceful settlement.”

  “That’s true, and it is to our eternal honor,” Judge Meynell assented. “But if Lincoln aims to choose his own time and make war upon the South, we must be prepared to act.” He paused, and after a moment went on. “Mr. Blandy brought that letter to me. Yesterday and the day before we found almost a hundred men who will join us. This morning in Martinston we had a meeting.” He cleared his throat impressively. “At that meeting, sir, relying on your loyalty and your valor, the company by unanimous vote elected you captain. We are come to receive, Captain Currain, your first orders to your men.”

  Tony set his teeth on that comforting morsel of tobacco, shaken by something that was half terror, half pride. He was no man of violence; he knew that well! More than once in his life he had heard from other men remarks meant to affront, and had taken refuge in a pretense that he did not hear. The knowledge of his own timorousness was in him now; the certainty that in any warlike crisis he would flinch and fail.

  Yet—they were waiting for his assent. These men who knew him only at his best, these men respected him. They had chosen him now for leadership. Almost their belief in him made him believe in himself; almost, yet not quite. In another moment he would have found some word of negation; but he saw Darrell, watching him, smile and turn aside. Many men in Tony’s lifetime had thus turned their backs on him in silent scorn. If he refused, so now would these men here.

  By the Almighty, he would not refuse! After all, he was a Currain! He tried to speak, and choked and tried again, mumbling uncertainly, then finding words and gaining confidence from them.

  “I beg you will pardon my hesitation. This great honor. This surprise. I am an old man, gentlemen. You could find a better leader. You yourself, Judge Meynell. You, Mr. Lowman. You, Mr. Blandy. I am the oldest of you all, my health uncertain.” For any evasion it was Tony’s long habit to offer ill health as an excuse; the word was automatic now. Yet he desired no excuse, not with Darrell listening. He spoke hurriedly, suddenly afraid they would take advantage of his reluctance. “Yet, gentlemen, if we must fight, why, then every brave man will do his utmost. Such as I am, I accept!”

  He had a moment, even then, of terror. He wished he could recall the irrevocable word; but his assent brought them pressing around him, clasping his hand, thanking him as warmly as though already he had led them to glorious victory. So his fears faded. Why, this was like something out of his sweet dreams; this unsought eminence, this trust, this freely proffered loyalty! He stepped easily into the part he must hereafter play.

  They stayed for some talk, of weapons, of uniforms, of all the steps which by way of preparation must now be taken. When they were gone and he and Darrell were alone Tony was still supported by pride; but Darrell, as the others rode down the hill and disappeared, said mockingly:

  “Well, Captain Currain, you’ve had a taste of military glory. Do you find it heady wine?”

  “I’ll do the best I can.” Tony spoke in honest humility.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Darrell’s drawl was all derision; but Tony desperately wanted reassurance. “You know me better than the others, Darrell. Probably Faunt or Trav or Brett would doubt my fitness for this work.”

  “Oh surely not, Uncle Tony.” The words were overly unctuous, but Tony took them at face value.

  “Thank you, Darrell. If you think I can do my duty . . . After all, I can face a bullet as easily as any man.” He tried to laugh. “I won’t say I can shoot as straight; but there will be good marksmen behind me.”

  “Then you’d best not get too far out front.”

  Tony tried to smile at the poor jest. “You’ll join us, I hope. We’ll need young men like you!”

  Darrell shook his head. “Not I.”

  “Oh come now, every brave man—” Tony was suddenly deeply anxious to bind Darrell to his side. There was a cold audacity in the other which he secretly envied and admired. Darrell before he was eighteen had called out his man and downed him with a bullet in the shoulder; his encounters were almost as numerous as those of Jennings Wise—though not so harmless. He was a deadly marksman with pistol or rifle, a fine horseman. As a soldier he would be a host in himself. “Every brave man will be needed,” Tony repeated. “I’m an old fellow, Darrell.” There was clumsy affection in his tone. “I’ll do the best I can; but I’ll need men like you beside me.”

  Darrell smiled: “Sorry, Uncle. I’ll never make a soldier. I’m no hero.”

  “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.