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.
3
May, 1862
TO TONY, the tale the letters told was a jest of which he was the butt; and when he laughed—his mother and Cinda and the others heard more than once that night his jeering mirth—it was at his own folly in allowing himself during these last two or three years to be proud. Trav and Faunt and Cinda, yes and his mother too, had often in the past reminded him that he was a Currain, as though this fact imposed upon him some obligation, as though when he acted in any way except decorously and uprightly he was betraying his heritage.
Ha! Heritage? A fine heritage to be sure, from a father who had gone prowling after every pretty wench he saw. His own thoughts amused Tony more and more. He wondered how many little bastards that father of his had sired, to grow up and to breed in their turn a second generation. Why, there might be dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of white trash, in the North and in the South, in whom ran the famous Currain blood! How many were there who, if they knew the truth, could call him Uncle; could say Uncle or Aunt to Faunt and Trav, to Cinda and Tilda?
And one of them was nephew Abraham! Abraham Currain Lincoln! He remembered all the names Lincoln had been called. Scoundrel, blackguard, gorilla, nigger-lover; yes, Lincoln was all those things. But also, nephew Abraham was clever, clever enough to get himself elected President of the United States. Why, the Currains ought to be proud of their kin! If a Currain were going to be a scoundrel, he should at least be a successful one! Scoundrel, blackguard, gorilla, nigger-lover! Tony laughed under his breath. He himself had been thought a scoundrel and a blackguard in his day. And as for nigger-lovers—well, he would match his own get of little pickaninnies against all his father’s bastards, in numbers if not in color. The quarter at Chimneys was full of them, born to wenches whom he had sent on from Great Oak in his unregenerate younger days. Some of them were grown now, and had children of their own, bright mulattoes, their blackness diluted with the famous Currain blood!
Yet Faunt and Trav and Cinda would not be amused, as he was, by this revelation. Tilda might be, but not the others. This would jolt Trav out of his smug complacency; no doubt of it. Faunt? Why, Faunt had already set the torch to Great Oak, as though to lay his father’s house in ashes could somehow destroy his father’s grandson up there in Washington.
Yes, Faunt would take this even harder than Trav. This would go a long way to destroy, in his own mind, that image of himself which Faunt had created; that gallant cavalier, that man of sorrows, that brave and noble gentleman whom Faunt imagined himself to be. Faunt would never be the same man again, not now.
Cinda? Of Cinda Tony was not so sure. Somewhere in this sister of his there was a rocklike foundation of character which Tony secretly respected. A good sister, blaming him when he deserved it, praising him when praise was his due; a good daughter, affectionate and patient no matter how unreasonable Mama might be; a good wife to Brett Dewain; a good mother. Yes, Cinda was a fine woman! She, and perhaps Trav, were strong. You could not be sure what changes might be made in them by this discovery.
As the journey to Richmond dragged on, Tony forgot his amusement and began to be sorry for himself. He had learned in these two or three years to think of himself as a good man, capable of doing his just part in the world; and he had relished that feeling. But now he knew this belief had been an illusion. He was actually what till so short a time ago he had seemed to be: the depraved and rascally product of his father’s depraved and rascally Currain blood. To imagine that he was anything else had been just the weakness of his middle years, marking the onset of senility.
Yet he could grieve for that lost illusion and for that lost, admirable self. In this grief, wishing to be comforted, his thoughts turned to Nell Albion, who for so many years had found ways to content and reassure him. When the carriage with his mother and his sisters and the little train of Negroes with led horses and riding laden mules came to the house on Fifth Street, he was hungry for Nell, eager to go to her. Cinda bade them in; but Tilda hurried away, and there were the people and the animals to be lodged somewhere, so he and Faunt did not accept Cinda’s invitation. They turned the people over to Caesar for disposal; and then the two brothers faced each other, a question in their eyes.
“I don’t want to hear a lot of empty talk,” Tony said. “I’ll not go in. There’s a lady upon whom I propose to call.”
Faunt nodded harshly. “Talk? No, no talk,” he said, and licked fevered lips.
“Come along with me,” Tony suggested. He was suddenly amused at the notion of introducing Faunt to Nell. Faunt must have known, for years, the truth about Tony’s relations with her. In derisive challenge, he added: “I’m going to call on Mrs. Albion.”
This was an invitation which Faunt in the past would never have accepted; but now he hesitated only for an instant, then turned his horse. �
��Very well,” he said.
When they reached Mrs. Albion’s discreetly retired little house, once to Tony so familiar, she was not alone. They left their horses at the rail, and a Negro maid whom Tony did not know admitted them. Mrs. Albion showed no surprise at their coming. She greeted Faunt easily, and she introduced them to the two gentlemen already here. “Mr. Berry; Mr. Mosby.” Mosby was in uniform, a small man with sandy hair and a level eye which Tony thought somehow disquieting. Mr. Berry was even smaller than Mosby, aggressively erect. Mrs. Albion said agreeably: “We were about to have a small supper. I hope you will join us.”
“By all means!” Tony agreed. “We’re just from the road, and hungry.” He looked at Faunt. “And I, at least, would be heartened by a tot of brandy.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Albion brought decanter and glasses from the side table. They drank, and the Negress served them; and when they began to eat, Mrs. Albion, like a good hostess leading the conversation, broke the momentary silence.
“Mr. Berry has a newspaper in Western Virginia,” she explained, and Mr. Berry took his cue.
“I came to watch the flight from Richmond,” the editor said with pompous scorn. “Our so-called statesmen, with New Orleans lost and McClellan rampaging up the Peninsula, find discretion the better part of valor.”
“Oh yes, of course, New Orleans.” Tony had forgotten that disaster; he felt no interest in it now.
“Yes sir, lost,” Mr. Berry repeated. “Surrendered by a traitor. General Lovell, gentlemen, would be the better for a little hanging.”
Tony smiled at the small man’s vehemence. “You take a low view of the situation, sir.”
“I do,” Mr. Berry agreed. “The loss of New Orleans cuts the Confederacy in half. Sooner or later, Yankee gunboats will patrol the whole Mississippi. This has been the winter of our discontent, gentlemen. The enemy is in Florida and on the Carolina coast; he has broken into Tennessee; yes and into Mississippi. Much of Virginia is in his hands. Since the glorious beginning which we made at Manassas last July, our fortunes have steadily declined.” He hesitated; and his words left them all for a moment soberly silent. The little editor, as though his own words frightened him, paused and then went on: “And now our statesmen play the poltroon, dodging out of Richmond, sending away the archives, shivering in dread of new disasters. It is time, gentlemen, that the public took a hand. Let us demand that courage and wisdom and steadfastness be elevated to our high places to guide and direct us.”
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