Cinda was amused, and he told her about Chub Welfare and the bull frogs, and made her laugh again. “But I’m surprised your men get sick,” she remarked. “They ought to be healthy enough—country folk.”
“The country people seem to get measles and mumps and things like that more easily than men from the cities,” he told her. “I don’t know why, but it works out that way.” He said thoughtfully: “Lots of things in this war have worked out in ways I didn’t expect. For instance, there’s mighty little fighting. We’ve had only three hours of it in four months.”
“There was fighting enough at Manassas.”
“I’m sorry, Cinda. Didn’t mean to—–”
She said gently: “It’s all right, Tony. I’m all right. I can even forget, sometimes.” She added, her eyes thoughtful: “I wonder if it wouldn’t be wise for the whole South to forget Manassas, Tony. That victory may be the ruin of us.”
“Oh, I don’t think a good victory ever did anyone any harm.”
“I’m not so sure! Everybody thought after the battle that the war was won. So now no one’s doing anything!” She spoke scornfully: “Except parade down to Mr. Libby’s tobacco factory to peep at Congressman Ely in prison there. He’s one of the sights of Richmond. People would almost pay to see him, like a lion in a cage.”
“Not much of a lion!” Tony reminded her. “Didn’t we catch him hiding in the woods, after the battle?”
“Oh yes, he’d come out from Washington to see us beaten!”
“I hear everyone in Washington who could hire a carriage drove out to watch, brought their ladies, promised them a victory ball in Richmond.” He asked: “Is it true the Yankees had thirty thousand pairs of handcuffs, to use on the Southerners they were going to capture?”
“I don’t know,” Cinda said wearily. “Oh, I’ve heard all the stories, but I wonder if they’re true. Some of the Northern papers say we tied prisoners to trees and stabbed them, and stuck bayonets into them. Of course that’s a lie; but probably our papers tell us just as many lies about the Yankees.” She shook her head. “Have you seen Tilda? You must drop in on her, Tony. She’ll be hurt if you don’t.”
“Oh, I will,” he agreed; but her suggestion surprised him. None of them had ever cared whether Tilda were hurt or not.
It seemed to him, when he called at the house a few blocks out Franklin Street, that Tilda, who had always been as thin as a slat, began to be a little plump; and there was something sleek and complacent about her. “You’re looking well, Tilda,” he remarked. “I guess the war agrees with you.”
“Why, you know, I think it does,” she admitted. “I love having Richmond so full of our boys home to be admired and praised. I declare it seems as if half the army was trying to beau Dolly around! She’s having just a wonderful time!” She asked: “Do you see much of Enid?”
“We ride over now and then, yes.”
“How is she?”
There was a sharp curiosity in her tone which surprised him. “Why, the same as ever, I suppose.” He smiled. “She thinks the war is just a scheme of Trav’s so he could get away from home, takes it as a personal affront. But Enid’s always discontented, fussing about something.”
“Did—does she say anything about Faunt?”
He lighted a long cigar, careful of his tone. Obviously Tilda too had eyes to see. “Oh, she always asks the latest news about everybody,” he said casually, and asked in his turn: “So Dolly’s having a high time, is she? I expect you like watching her goings on.”
“Of course I do,” Tilda assented, and she added quickly: “Oh, I s’pose I ought not to be enjoying it all so much, and of course I’m sorry about Clayton; but really, Tony, he shouldn’t have been in the army at all. Neither should you, for that matter! Nor Trav! You ought all of you to be farming. Redford says food is going to be ever so scarce this winter, and someone has to feed the soldiers, even if there isn’t much glory in it.”
He spoke in drawling amusement. “I suppose Mister Streean and Darrell feel they’re making a sacrifice.”
“Why, they are! Redford’s just worked to death. Darrell’s desperately in love with that sweet little Anne Tudor, but it doesn’t prevent his being a wonderful business man! He’s in Mississippi now seeing about sending some cotton through the lines.” They heard the front door open, heard Streean in the hall, and she said quickly: “Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that! It’s a secret! But of course we can’t eat our old cotton, and Redford says if we can get food in exchange for it—–”
Then as her husband appeared she checked in midsentence, but Streean had heard, for he said at once: “Hello, Tony. Glad to see you. Yes, we can make our cotton feed us and fight for us.” He went to his desk as though to look for something there, and Tony said in surprise:
“I thought we meant to hold our cotton so the Northern mills would have to shut down.”
“That’s the official policy, but we have to be practical, too. Oh, that reminds me.” Streean closed the desk, stuffing some papers in his pocket. “I’m about to pay my respects to an old friend of yours, Mrs. Albion. Care to come along?”
Tony waited a moment so his tone would not betray him. “Yes, I’d like to join you, yes, if I won’t be intruding.”
“Not at all,” Streean declared. “She’ll be delighted, I know.”
Walking out Franklin Street to Monroe, Tony found himself at the prospect of this encounter pleasantly excited. A maid servant, not Tessie whom he remembered, admitted them. As he followed Streean into the house Tony heard a door close somewhere; and he recognized the sound. That was the side door, opening into the small garden through which a path led to the wicket gate. He himself, when he was with Nell and unexpected callers came, had sometimes slipped away through the garden. Who was Nell’s—patron now? He felt an almost jealous pang.
Before she appeared, Tony heard the latch click on the wicket, and he strolled to the window that looked that way and saw not one man but two departing. Then Nell appeared. That serenity and poise which had always seemed to him so contenting was still hers; she was as beautiful as she had always been.
She greeted Tony without embarrassment, like an old friend; and he suspected she had seen his glance toward the garden, for she said at once: “I was sorry to keep you waiting, but two gentlemen were just leaving.”
Streean obviously had not guessed this. “Eh? Who were they?”
“From Baltimore,” she explained. “They’re working with General Winder on secret service, so they preferred not to be recognized. I knew them in Washington, so they came to pay their respects.”
“Winder’s police, eh? Well, they’ll find plenty to do here. Richmond’s full of Northern agents. The New York Herald has just published a complete schedule of all our forces under arms, their location, their commanders. I suspect that information came out of the Adjutant General’s office. General Cooper is Northern-born.”
Nell smiled. “You might as reasonably suspect Ordnance, or the Commissariat,—or even your own department. There are many loose tongues in Richmond.” She added, indicating a newspaper on the table. “The gentlemen who just left were discussing the destruction of Hampton.”
Streean nodded. “Butler’s taking revenge on helpless women and children for the licking we gave him at Bethel.” Hampton was down at the tip of the Peninsula, not far from Tony’s duty at Yorktown, but he had not heard this news; and he crossed to pick up the paper, the day’s Examiner. The Federals—said the Examiner—had burned the town, “destroyed it not by sections but wholly, completely, fully,” before they evacuated the place.
When Tony laid the paper aside and sat down, he only half listened to their conversation. In old days Nell would have taken him upstairs where the chairs were comfortable and a man could be at ease. That she did not do so now might be deliberate, to remind him of what he had cast aside; but probably it was only because Streean was here. They were speaking of the victory at Manassas, and Nell said it was a pity the Confederates had no
t pursued the shattered Yankee army. Streean laughed. “You sound like Mr. Benjamin, Mrs. Albion. He wants to be Secretary of War, so he’s trying to curry favor with President Davis by criticizing Beauregard.”
“I wasn’t criticizing General Beauregard! President Davis himself was at Manassas. He could have ordered the pursuit. Since he didn’t, he must take the blame.”
“Not at all,” Streean insisted. “Beauregard, or rather Johnston, stopped the pursuit. General Longstreet had his guns ready to open on the Yankees as they poured into Centerville; but Johnston ordered him not to do so, and after that it was too late.”
“If you count on General Longstreet as a Davis partisan, you’ll be disappointed,” Nell assured him. “He’ll never forgive President Davis for that question at their first meeting here in Richmond.
Tony asked curiously: “What question, Nell?”
The use of her first name was an inadvertence; but he saw her faint color and thought she was pleased. “Why, the General reported for duty, and President Davis asked him whether he had settled his accounts with the Federal Government. Longstreet was paymaster in Albuquerque, you know; and naturally he resented the question as impugning his personal honor. He turned red and said very stiffly: ‘Sir, I come as an honorable gentleman to offer my sword to the South.’ ”
Tony nodded. “As if Longstreet were an embezzler. Were you there, ma’am?” This time he addressed her more formally.
Before Nell could speak, Streean answered him. “Mrs. Albion knows everything that happens in Richmond,” he explained. “Her masculine acquaintance is large—and talkative.” His tone became harshly derisive. “But General Longstreet didn’t—as she so poetically puts it—‘offer his sword.’ He asked for a place in the Paymaster’s department. Of course no one can blame him for wanting to handle money rather than men. After all, there’s more profit in it.”
Tony, to his own surprise, resented the slur. He felt his cheeks stiff. “Mister Streean, I have the honor of General Longstreet’s acquaintance; and my brother is serving on his staff.”
Streean laughed carelessly. “Oh, no offense, Tony.”
But Tony did not smile. “Do I understand you to suggest that General Longstreet seeks personal profit from this conflict?”
“Eh?” Streean looked at him in surprise and then in understanding. “Why, God bless me, no!” He glanced at Nell and said, as though to throw the onus on her: “No, in spite of Mrs. Albion’s opinion I’m sure he is wholly devoted to Mr. Davis and the Confederacy.”
“It is not Mrs. Albion’s opinion, but yours, sir,” Tony reminded him, “about which I wish to be perfectly clear.”
Streean was almost abject, his brow glistening. “I have the highest possible opinion of General Longstreet, of course.”
“Then your remarks were subject to an unfortunate misconstruction.”
“I regret that most sincerely.”
Tony nodded, accepting these amends, thinking remotely: Why, I was angry, ready to push the matter to an issue. He looked at Nell and saw an amused twinkle in her eye, and then Streean came to his feet and mopped his wet forehead and said he must be going. Tony made no move to go with him; and Streean’s departure was like flight.
So Tony was alone with Nell. Their eyes met, and they smiled together. “You’ve changed, Tony,” she said approvingly.
“Why, yes,” he assented. “Yes, I think I have.”
“But—don’t play the bully too often, my dear. Not all men are such cowards as Mr. Streean.”
There had never been any pretense between them. “I was as surprised to hear myself as you were to hear me,” he admitted. “I met General Longstreet only once, but I liked him.” He asked: “Who told you about his interview with the President?”
She evaded his question. “Oh, I see a great many people.” She asked curiously: “You enjoy being a soldier?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I enjoy feeling that I’m needed, and that I’m useful.”
“I believe you do.”
“It’s a new experience for me,” he reminded her, and smiled, almost embarrassed. “I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve known me a long time.”
“I’m not sure that I ever knew you, Tony,” she said gently; and he was deeply pleased. “What’s happened to you?”
“Why—I suppose, come to think of it, you’re responsible. You persuaded me to go to Chimneys, and I found myself the big man of the neighborhood. And I liked it.”
So they fell into easy talk, of what since their parting his life had been, and hers. Tony stayed an hour or two, and when he left her, strolling back toward Fifth Street, he thought they had been as comfortable together as in the past. Yes, even more so; for in the old days there had always been an undercurrent of antagonism between them. He recognized that now, and wondered why. Perhaps in each of them there was even then a sense of guilty shame and a readiness to blame the other for their relationship. Probably Nell justified herself to herself by remembering that but for him she would be penniless. He decided to make sure, as tactfully as possible, that she did not lack for money now.
On his way back to duty Tony stopped at Great Oak and heard Enid’s familiar complaints. “Trav leaves me and Mama and the children alone here, with such terrible things happening all around us.”
“Nothing very bad,” Tony suggested.
“Bad? I’d like to know what you call what the Yankees did at Hampton! Burned half the town! They say President Tyler’s house is just ruined—the carpets all ripped up, and things broken and chopped to pieces till the house itself might just as well have been set on fire.”
“General Butler’s men didn’t do that,” Tony assured her. “We burned the town ourselves, General Magruder’s orders.” He had seen before he left Richmond this admission in the newspapers.
“Why, they did too! The Yankees, I mean! It said in the Examiner that they did it!”
“That was last Friday’s paper,” he corrected. “But the Examiner says now that General Magruder ordered the town destroyed. Union sentiment was strong there, and it was a refuge for runaway negroes and deserters. A school teacher named Raymond—he deserted from Hoffler’s Creek—had turned the Female College into a boarding house for Northern officers. So we cleaned out the whole rat’s nest!”
She abandoned the argument but not her anger. “Well, I don’t care! With that sort of thing going on all around us, Trav had no business leaving his mother helpless here! Of course I don’t matter; but he ought to think of her!”
“How is she?”
“She isn’t down from her nap yet. But she’s perfectly exasperating, Tony. She’s so silly, just refusing to listen to all the terrible goings on. She won’t even believe Clayton’s dead.”
“I hope she never does believe it. She never saw him more than once or twice a year, anyway.”
“I know, but her being so stubborn means I can’t talk to her about anything! I’m so lonesome, Tony!”
He felt some sympathy for her. After all, it must be dull for a pretty young woman to spend day after day with no other company than his mother and the children. “Why don’t you ask your mother down for a while?” But he knew even as he spoke that this was an absurd suggestion. As nice as Nell was, she would be out of place under his mother’s roof, so he added: “Too bad you can’t go to Richmond for a visit with her, but of course Mama can’t stay here alone.”
“Oh, I know! I’m just a prisoner here!” Her tone altered slightly. “Tony, when’s Faunt coming home? They’re all just wasting time out there in Western Virginia, not accomplishing anything!”
His sympathy gave way to a quiet anger at this pretty little idiot. “You’d better forget Faunt!”
“But why? I think he’s wonderful! I just love him!” With a malicious amusement in her eyes, she added: “Why shouldn’t I, I’d like to know? After all, he’s my brother-in-law.” He suspected she was deliberately provoking him, and did not speak, but she said lightly: “You’re a fine one to pret
end to be so proper!”
So she knew about him and Nell. He eyed her thoughtfully, wondering whether she had ever suggested the truth to his mother. God knows, he himself had in the past often enough given his mother hours of sorrow and shame; but he would never willingly hurt her again, nor make her grieve.
Nor should this common little nobody ever do so! He came to his feet and stood over Enid, so close to her that she had to lean back in her chair to look up at him. “Teach that tongue of yours to mind its manners, Enid,” he said in icy tones. “If you ever discuss me with Mama, I’ll make you regret it!”
She pressed her hand to her lips, staring up at him, seeing the anger in his eyes; and she squirmed sidewise out of the chair and backed away from him. Then they heard Mrs. Currain on the stairs, and Enid slipped through the passage into the library as Mrs. Currain came in from the hall.
Tony, once Enid was gone, spent a pleasant hour with his mother. The routine of her days had never changed. Her morning inspections were as rigorous, her careful measuring out of the daily allowance of stores was as meticulous, her supervision of every activity about the place as exacting. She found security against the oppression of great events in her absorption in familiar little things; and Tony let her tell him every detail of her small problems and discussed them with her in perfect gravity, glad that no matter what happened around her, as long as Great Oak stood, his mother and her life would remain unchanged.
House Divided Page 43
