His enthusiasm in the end infected Tommy. “I’ll talk to Rollin, see what he thinks,” he promised. Vesta asked where Rollin was, and Tommy said: “Gone to call on Miss Dolly.”
“I should think he’d have more pride!” Vesta flushed with anger.
“Well, he likes her pretty well.” Tommy hesitated. “I’ll see what he says. He really wants to be in the cavalry.”
But Rollin proved ready enough to do what Tommy did; so these two saw Colonel MacRae, and persuaded him to accept them, and departed to join the regiment at Manassas; and Julian returned to Yorktown and there were no menfolk left in the house on Fifth Street. Mrs. Brownlaw’s insistences set them to making garments for the soldiers; but because they did not wish to leave Jenny alone, they worked at home, and Jenny was as busy as they. Mrs. Brownlaw came one day to say that battle was near, so everyone must roll bandages or scrape lint. Already there were wounded in Richmond.
“And there will be so many more, Mrs. Dewain; hundreds and thousands of our dear men.”
She spoke with such unction that when she was gone Cinda said spitefully: “The old buzzard! Just gloating over the awful things ahead! Jenny, don’t pay any attention to her! Don’t let her frighten you, darling.”
Jenny shook her head. “I’m not frightened, Mama. Clayton’s where he wants to be and where I want him to be.” Cinda recognized her own thought, her own words. “So—I am not afraid.”
In these days of waiting for the coming battle they had many callers. After one influx Cinda said wearily: “Oh, why do women talk so much? Talk, talk, talk! Now they’re saying the Northern soldiers are all thieves and cutthroats; but they can’t be any worse than those terrible New Orleans regiments. And to hear these women talk you’d think every Southern soldier was a Paladin—whatever a Paladin is—and that every one of our men was an FFV or something, instead of just being mostly good yeomen or farmers; yes, or white trash. And I’m sick of hearing that any Southerner can whip any ten Yankees with one hand tied behind him!”
“I think they just talk to keep themselves from thinking,” Vesta suggested. “And because they’re scared.”
“Well, so am I,” Cinda admitted. “But I wouldn’t let Jenny hear me say so. But why can’t they be frightened decently and privately!”
The waiting tormented her till Brett had a Sunday at home and she could talk her fears away. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m sick and tired of being brave. I’m scared, Brett Dewain. If anyone says Manassas to me again, I’m going to scream!”
“You won’t scream,” he said surely. “Whatever happens, you’ll face it.”
“I can face anything but talk. At least I think I can, hope I can. And of course, I never let go to anyone but Vesta and you!”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
“Why does it all have to happen, Brett Dewain? Why in Heaven’s name didn’t Lincoln let the South secede as we wanted to? He’s like some brutal husband compelling an unwilling bride! Even if his armies conquer us, they’ll never be able to command our hearts! Lincoln reminds me of Napoleon, tumbling poor Marie Louise in the bridal carriage! Won’t men ever learn that they can’t just demand to be loved?”
Brett smiled. “I’m not quite sure whether you’re discussing secession or the secret of a happy marriage.”
“They’re the same thing, in a way; or they would be, if wives could secede. If I wanted to leave you, wouldn’t you let me?”
“Not as long as I kept my strength!”
“Thank Heaven for that! Oh Brett Dewain, don’t ever leave me! But I still think Lincoln’s a brutal fool!”
To tell Brett her terrors was to ease them; yet he never denied the dangerous realities. Mr. Lincoln’s call for four hundred thousand men, he said, was a warning the South must read. “But we’re going merrily ahead, drunk with the idea that ‘Cotton is King,’ that we can blackmail the North and France and England into letting us have our way.” His tone warmed. “And we’re arguing about states’ rights and about our personal rights, instead of forgetting ourselves for the general good. I hear that Colonel Myers was ready to call out General Walker over some imagined slight! Wise and Floyd out in Western Virginia are too busy quarrelling with each other to fight the enemy. We’re ready to lose a battle while we argue about our personal dignity; but in the North, people are surrendering their liberties without a protest. The Northern Congress isn’t in session, so President Lincoln has a free hand, and he’s using it, and the Northern people let him, follow him blindly. They’ll sacrifice everything to win. We must be ready to do the same.”
“I wouldn’t want to sacrifice everything! Not our honor, our self-respect!”
“I’m not sure that to sacrifice personal honor for the Confederacy isn’t the highest valor.”
“You’re splitting straws! Or is it splitting hairs?” He did not smile, and as always when she saw him thus concerned she forgot her own fears. “Now, now, Mr. Dewain, you’re worrying. Remember what old June’s always saying. Never take any more worry into your heart than you can kick off the end of your toes!”
“All the same,” he said grimly, “I’m tired of hearing men talk about what their self-respect requires!”
After Brett went back to Yorktown, Cinda kept a high head for Vesta and Jenny to see; but when she was alone, the weight of the sluggish crawling days settled crushingly upon her. The Yankees were moving at last, moving toward Manassas where Beauregard waited to receive them. The Northern papers came to town, full of exultant boasts. “On to Richmond,” they said, was the battle cry. Cinda tried to be as confident as everyone around her seemed to be, but heartsick terror filled her.
Thursday of that week she heard that the Yankees had tried to cross a. little creek at Manassas called Bull Run and had failed and fallen back. Was this victory? Some said yes, some said no. Some called the skirmish merely an opening gun, an overture; but Richmond held its breath for another waiting day, and another.
In church Sunday morning Cinda saw that President Davis was not there; and she guessed the truth even before she heard—or felt, rather than heard—a slow deep thunder far away. She looked at Vesta, met the girl’s eyes, saw that Vesta too had heard. That must be the growl of distant battle. Yet even this certainty brought some measure of peace; for now the waiting, at least, was done. Surely nothing could be worse than waiting.
When the service ended, she and Vesta hurried home to be with Jenny; but Jenny all that long day was the brightest of them all, needing no reassurances, with a strength in her that seemed to shine. Cinda thought of the baby, now so near. Perhaps after the battle and the victory—yes, victory, surely—Clayton could come home for a while, to be here till the baby was born.
They had just finished supper when the door bell clamored. Before Caesar could answer it, Vesta raced through the hall. Cinda rose and tried to follow, but her knees failed her; yet from where she stood as the door opened she heard Dolly’s cry.
“We won! We won! Oh, Vesta, we won!”
Cinda instantly was strong again, and Jenny came proudly to her feet. They met Dolly in the doorway, and Dolly kissed them all, laughing, glowing with happiness.
“We beat them, Aunt Cinda!” she cried, and she spun around the room, arms wide, skirt whirling. “We whipped them, whipped them, chased them all the way back to Washington with their tails between their legs! We won, won, won! Isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it wonderful?”
Needing no prompting she rattled on. She had been at her father’s office in Mechanics’ Institute waiting for news. “Everybody was there! I don’t mean right in Papa’s office, but in the square, and in the streets, and in Mr. Walker’s office; and then every so often someone would go to the Spottswood to see if Mrs. Davis had heard anything from the President, and we kept hearing that we’d won and that we’d lost and that they were still fighting and that—oh, everything!
“But just now Mr. Benjamin—I think he’s wonderful—he decided to go to the hotel again, and I went with h
im, and sure enough Mrs. Davis had a telegram from Mr. Davis and he says it was a glorious victory and that we’re chasing them back to Washington! Oh, Aunt Cinda, I’m so excited!” Abruptly she whisked toward the door. “Heavens! I’m so excited I left poor Lieutenant Parker outside, never even thought of asking him in. But I can’t stay anyway! I just came by to tell you! We’re going back to the Spottswood now to hear the latest news. Vesta, want to come?”
Vesta smiled at her mother. “No, I’ll stay home. Nobody will really know what happened till tomorrow anyway.”
“Why, we thrashed them! That’s what happened!” Dolly in her delight kissed each of them again. “There! ’By! Poor Lieutenant Parker! He must think I’m just insane!” She was gone with a flurry of wide skirts; Vesta saw her run down the steps to the young officer who waited, take both his hands, cry: “Oh, was I hours? I’m so sorry!” Her clear, happy voice came back through the darkness as she and her escort moved away.
Vesta closed the door, and in the flickering gaslight the three left behind looked questioningly at one another; and Cinda thought that now they must wait again, that this time the torment would be even more poignant. She had wished to ask Dolly about losses, but no one yet could know who had lived, who—lived no more. So they must wait again!
Some time during the night rain began to fall, and a blustering wind to blow. Dawn was a dreary, lead-hued hour. Vesta and Jenny came to Cinda’s room for breakfast; but at once afterward she dressed and went downstairs. Caesar, June, all the house servants moved in hushed silence. Were they sullen at this defeat for the Yankees—since it was also defeat for them? Had they thought the Yankees would march into Richmond and forthwith bring them freedom? Did they want to be free, these jolly, lazy, funny black people whom no white person could ever fully understand, could ever really know? Was it not incredible folly to expect a slave to continue of his own free will to be a slave; to expect him to serve and to protect your loved ones at home while you fought to hold him bound? How long would these black people wait before they struck? No one could read their minds. It was easy to think them fools, but they had secret wisdoms of their own. Just now, for instance, old Caesar probably knew more than she about what had happened at Manassas. She wished to question him, yet dreaded what he might reveal, till in the end anxiety overcame her dread.
But he knew only things she might herself have guessed. White folks had come to Richmond last night, he said, to get bandages and medicines. “Seems like de Yankees kilt about a million ob us uns. De Richmond soldiers, dey jist about all got kilt, and de gin’r’ls, de hull passel ob ’em.” Cinda recognized his extravagances, shut her mind to them. She would be less wretched if she did something, something; so she decided to pack baskets with food and with cordials, and send them to the trains to be carried to the wounded. Anything was better than idleness! Fill the hampers, even though to do so emptied the wine cellar and cleared the store room shelves! She threw herself into a debauch of giving, finding easement so.
Despite the driving rain, Vesta went to the Spottswood and to the Enquirer office seeking news. When she returned, Cinda looked at her in silent questioning, but Vesta shook her head.
“Nothing about anybody, any of our menfolk,” she admitted. “President Davis is coming home tonight with General Bee’s body, and some others. The bodies will lie in state in the Capitol; the high officers, that is. No one knows much yet, no names, I mean.” She added in a low tone: “Everyone’s very quiet. There’s no—celebration, the way there was after Bethel. Dolly’s the only one I’ve seen who seems—well, you know, happy.”
Cinda made no comment; there was none to make. This had been no Bethel, no petty skirmish with one poor boy killed. Not one but many now had died.
The day dragged away; the city was drowned in rain like flooding tears. Cinda wished to meet the President’s train, but Vesta dissuaded her. “It’s pouring, Mama. You’d get soaked through—and there’ll be such a crowd you couldn’t move.” So after supper these three sat for a while together, talking of everything and nothing; till at last Jenny stirred and rose.
“Well,” she said, smiling at them, “I’m going to bed. We can’t just sit here.” She touched her forehead with her hand. “I’ll sleep soundly. The wind last night kept me awake, but now I’m tired enough to sleep.”
Vesta rose to go up with her and Cinda asked: “Are you coming down again, Vesta?”
“Yes, I’ll just tuck Jenny in.”
Cinda, left alone, could not be still. She moved to and fro, adjusting the hangings at the windows, moving a chair from one spot to another and back again, straightening a picture. Things needed dusting. Unless you kept after servants every minute of the day nothing was done right and regularly. She was at the book shelves when she heard some faint sound behind her and turned.
Trav stood in the doorway. Cinda felt no sense of surprise. He was wet, his boots muddy, water running from them along the floor; and his face had a strange blankness like a mask.
“I came in the back way,” he explained. “I waited till Caesar said Jenny had gone upstairs.”
When Cinda spoke, her own voice was strange to her ears. She remembered once as a little girl looking down into a deep well, seeing her small head reflected against the sky in the dark mirror of the water far below; and when she called some word down the well, that reflected self answered like an echo. Her voice had the same hollow sound now. “You’ve brought Clayton home,” she said; a statement, not a question.
“Yes.” Trav was always so calm, yet now she was as calm as he. “But—I didn’t want to upset Jenny.”
“Where is he?”
“In a cart, up at the corner.”
She thought in a far wonder: Why, how simple it sounds! And I don’t feel anything. I must have known. “Jenny’s gone to bed,” she told him softly. “We’ll wait till she’s asleep. She didn’t get much rest last night.”
Trav nodded assent. He looked down at the mud on his boots, looked in distaste at his soiled garments; and she remembered that he had always been as cleanly as a cat, resenting dust and grime. War, clearly, was a muddy, dirty business; Trav would hate that part of it.
“Never mind,” she said. “Water won’t hurt the floor. Sit down, do.” Why, this was like a polite afternoon call. She heard herself asking, in the artificial tone with which a hostess revives a lagging conversation: “Was the battle interesting?”
Trav, still standing, twisted his hat in his hands. “I didn’t see much of it.” He wiped his mouth. “I wasn’t there Thursday, when they had the first of it. I was bringing up a wagon train with supplies. They say General Longstreet did well that day. His men were nervous, but he steadied them.”
Vesta appeared in the doorway and cried in quick delight: “Oh, Uncle Trav!” She ran to embrace him.
“Easy, you’ll get all wet,” he warned her.
“I don’t care! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come! Where’s Clayton?”
Cinda said quietly: “Hush, dear! Don’t wake Jenny.” Vesta turned to her, eyes widening. Her color drained away, and Cinda said in that same even tone: “Clayton’s dead, but Jenny needs her sleep.” Vesta pressed both hands over her mouth, her eyes tremendous; and Cinda added: “Uncle Travis was just telling me about the battle.”
Vesta’s knees gave way; she sank into a chair. Cinda in a remote satisfaction reflected that it was a good thing Vesta had changed into a simple dress with no stiffening. In her present posture, with her head thrown back and her feet extended and tears without sobs streaming down her cheeks, hoops and crinoline would have billowed upward in awkward absurdity. What strange thoughts one had!
“Go on, Travis,” she directed. “About the battle.”
“Why, Longstreet’s brigade wasn’t in it much, except the little fight Thursday,” Trav explained. He sat down stiffly, choosing a haircloth chair. “Sunday we were mostly just waiting, or going ahead across the ford and then coming back again. Some time along in the afternoon the Yankees started
to run. I don’t know why. They had to go through Centerville, so General Longstreet took us forward to hit them as they went by. We went through some of their camps, and the kettles were still on the fire, whole quarters of beef hanging up, wagons loaded with things. I stayed there with my men to collect all that and take care of it.” He added in a slow tired way: “So I didn’t see any of the fighting, really.”
Cinda saw Vesta, though her tears no longer flowed, trembling terribly. If the child had something to do, she would not suffer so. “Vesta, won’t you go listen at Jenny’s door? Perhaps she’s asleep.”
Vesta obediently went up the stairs, groping like one suddenly blind. Trav said: “I got permission that night to go see Clayton, Cinda. What happened to him was, he was carrying some orders, riding across a field where there was a cross fire. He was hit in the leg. I guess he didn’t know it was as bad as it was, because he kept on till he got weak from bleeding and fell off his horse. I suppose someone saw him fall, but they were all hard at it, so they couldn’t stop to take care of him.” He looked at his hat, crushed in his hands. “Anyway, they didn’t get to him till after the Yankees ran away. He was already dead.”
She wondered whether the room was as cold as it seemed to her to be. “Is he alone now, Travis?” Alone, cold, in the rain.
“Two of my men are with him, and I sent Caesar out to stay with them.”
She looked toward the door, wondering why Vesta did not return; and to think of the girl made her think of Tommy. “Do you know anything about the Fifth North Carolina regiment?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s in Longstreet’s command. But they weren’t in any of the fighting.”
She was glad of this much reassurance. “I’ll see where Vesta is,” she decided, rising.
She found Vesta in the lower hall, leaning against the newel in limp weariness; but at Cinda’s coming the girl straightened. “Jenny’s asleep,” she said. “I looked in to make sure.” She added: “I’m all right now, Mama.”
House Divided Page 39
