Mosby said quietly: “To be at the bottom of the ladder means that our next step can only be upward.”
Tony saw Faunt’s eyes turn toward the soldier, and he himself was struck by something in the man’s tone. Mosby seemed no more than a boy, yet there was force in him.
“Not if Richmond falls,” Mr. Berry insisted. “Not if Richmond falls, John.”
Faunt remarked: “My brother and I have just come from Williamsburg, Mr. Mosby. The army was in full retreat, the roads for miles jammed with their wagons.”
“Ah?” The other’s brows knitted. “I have been these five days with Mrs. Mosby and my children; so I had not known the situation there. But I expect to take the road that way at midnight.” He smiled. “I had counted on an hour or two of sleep before pushing on; but my old friend Mr. Berry assured me I would find more refreshment in calling upon the most brilliant woman in Richmond.” He bowed to Mrs. Albion. “I find he spoke the truth.”
“What is your service?” Faunt inquired.
“First Virginia Cavalry.”
“Ah? My nephew, Burr Dewain, is in the First Virginia.”
“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
Faunt was not in uniform, and Tony saw the unspoken question in Mosby’s eyes. So did Faunt, for he said: “I was with General Wise at Roanoke. I managed to get dear of the surrender of his forces; but I took some hurts there. I am only just now ready for duty again.”
Mrs. Albion said, in a tone which caught Tony’s ear: “I believe you would all be the better for a glass of wine.” She brought it, and Tony observed that she served Faunt first, and that as she served the others she turned to look back at Faunt. Tony watched her with a slow stir of anger. She was like every other woman, instantly attracted to this brother of his. Her liking was plain in her smile, in her voice, in her eyes. He damned his own folly in bringing Faunt here. This was a thing he should have expected, this tenderness in her. Luckily Faunt never seemed to suspect that women yearned over him.
“General Wise?” Mosby repeated. “Did he not propose, when he was in Western Virginia, to add a company of partisan rangers to his brigade? I think I heard something of the sort, last summer.”
“I don’t know.” Faunt had drained his wine glass, and Mrs. Albion refilled it. Faunt and this sandy-haired young cavalryman were too absorbed in each other to notice her; but Tony saw that little Mr. Berry watched her shrewdly. “I was in Jennings Wise’s company,” Faunt said.
Mosby smiled. “You should ride with Stuart. He likes men of your pattern.” He sang under his breath: “‘If you want to catch the Devil—jine the cavalry.’”
“To catch the Devil?” Faunt echoed in a thoughtful tone, and Tony saw a leaping flame in his eyes; but then Faunt commented: “Every Southerner likes the cavalry, Mr. Mosby; but it’s infantry that wins the battles.”
Mosby’s tone hardened. “Battles are won not on the battlefield, but far behind the armies,” he corrected. “Just now, for example, the place to save Richmond is not on the Peninsula; it is in the Valley.” He added reflectively: “To beat the Yankees it might even be well to let them have Richmond. The farther they advance, the more vulnerable they become. Fifty good men behind their lines, well led, could cut the hamstrings of their army.”
“I suppose your fifty men would be cavalry.”
“Not as you use the word, no,” Mosby replied. “I’d have no heavy columns of troopers with sabres flashing, banners flying. Oh no! No! That is a stirring spectacle, but it’s ineffective. The cavalry’s proper arm is the revolving pistol, or the carbine, or both! The sabre is for reviews, for parades, but not for work!” The little man stood up; he began to pace to and fro, his words rang. Faunt’s eyes followed him, his head turning from side to side as the other moved back and forth across the room. “No, not your sort of cavalry, sir,” Mosby insisted. “Just fifty brave men, good horsemen, armed with carbines and pistols. Such a force could raise havoc behind the enemy lines. Tell me, sir—” Mosby’s voice sharpened with his own enthusiasm. “How will McClellan protect fifty miles of railroad against such a force? He must be in superior strength at every point, for he can never know where the blow will fall. And by superior strength, I mean he must be two, three, four to one; for if he uses infantry, a surprise attack by fifty men will scatter five times their number of foot soldiers, and if they are mounted, so much the better! You know horses, sir. Horses at a stand will not wait to receive a charge, no matter how brave their riders. Remember, there are no good horsemen in the North. You charge a troop of a hundred mounted men with your fifty, and their horses will turn and run, stampede! Then you overtake them, one by one, their riders helpless; you raise your pistol!” He snapped his fingers sharply six times. “Six shots, six Yankees down! As simple as that, sir!”
He laughed, and there was a lift to his laughter; Tony felt his own heart stir at the sound. Faunt gulped his wine; his cheek was flushed, his voice thick. “ ‘If you want to kill the Devil—jine the cavalry!’ ”
Mosby’s eyes shone. “Yes sir! There’s the fun!”
Faunt nodded. “Kill the Devil, yes!” Tony grinned. Faunt, Faunt of all men, was drunk! The others saw it, too, for Mrs. Albion crossed to stand by Faunt’s chair.
“You’re very tired,” she said in a low tone. “You must rest.” Under her caressing hand Faunt’s head bowed like that of a contented dog. It was as though these two were alone.
After an uncomfortable moment, Mosby abruptly rose. “I must be gone,” he said. “Mr. Berry, we must make our duties.”
He bowed to Mrs. Albion; and she left Faunt and went with her departing guests into the hall. Tony stayed watching his brother. Yes, by God, Faunt was drunk! Faunt the cavalier, the very perfect gentle knight, was drunk, slouching in drunken slumber.
In the hall Mosby was saying: “Mrs. Albion, I like that man! He’ll make a deadly fighter. If he asks for me, tell him I’ll be with Stuart before noon tomorrow.” He chuckled. “I’ll be pistolling the Yankees! Tell him that!”
Tony heard Mosby’s fingers snap again, and Mr. Berry’s laughing voice. “Hear him talk of butchering the Yankees! Yes, and he’s done it, too. But a year ago you couldn’t have found in all Virginia a stouter Union man than John Mosby.”
“That, I’ll hazard, was before Virginia seceded,” Mrs. Albion suggested; and their voices faded toward the door. Tony rose to wake Faunt, to take him to Cinda’s or to some discreet lodging for the night. Then he could return to Nell. His hand was on Faunt’s shoulder when Mrs. Albion spoke from the doorway.
“Let him sleep, let him rest. Your brother is deadly tired, he’s sick, he’s had some shocking blow. Let him rest, Tony.”
Tony nodded. “I will, yes. I’ll see him home to bed, then come back to you.”
Her eyes flashed to him in quick inquiry; she gave him a long appraisal, looked from him to Faunt. “You are changed—again, Tony. Like your old self. What has happened?”
“My old self, yes,” he assented. “I’ll come back to you, when I have taken him home.”
She looked down at Faunt for a long silent moment. “Poor—gentleman,” she whispered.
“I’ll see him safe, come back. I need you, Nell.”
Mrs. Albion faced him quietly. “No, Tony. No. We can’t retrace old paths.” Then, dismissing Tony from her thoughts as she had dismissed him from her life, she touched Faunt’s drooping shoulders, his bent head. “I will keep him here, to sleep, to rest, till he is healed again.”
“Him?” Her word struck Tony like a blow. He had been so sure that he could turn to her.
“Why not?” she challenged gently.
He hesitated. “Why, I need you! My world’s upside down tonight.” Half-minded to tell her the truth, he nevertheless held back the word. If he did, she might laugh, make sport of him; and he would not face her laughter. “I’ve always turned to you, Nell. We were close so long.”
“He needs me more than you do now.”
Her tenderness t
o Faunt was a lash that stung and cut. Tony struck with words meant to hurt her. “No, Nell! I’ll not let you get your damned hands on him!”
She smiled, wise and serene. “Poor Tony!”
He was slow to accept defeat; he pleaded, he threatened, he tried every means—and could not move her. When at last he accepted dismissal, leaving Faunt still stupidly asleep there in her chair, he bolted from the house, mounted his horse at the rail and put the beast to a gallop through the silent and deserted streets. There was a desolation and a fury in him. He felt himself lost and alone; and self-pity alternated with hard unheeding rage. Nell had cast him out! Melted by tenderness for Faunt, turned by that tenderness to wax that flowed through Tony’s fingers, she had escaped him at the moment when he thought to seize her.
So he was alone.
He let his horse go without direction, lifting it to utmost speed, racing headlong out of the city along random ways, till after miles the beast slowed at last to an exhausted walk. He tried to urge it into a run again, wrenching at the reins, kicking its ribs, wishing for spurs. He dismounted to find a stick and beat the horse with a brutal violence, venting on the dumb animal all the passion in him. He mounted and brought it to a stumbling run again. When at last it collapsed, its legs giving way, its great heart broken, Tony fell with it; but beyond some slight bruises he escaped hurt. He freed himself, and tried to jerk the horse to its feet; but it could not rise.
There was night and silence all around him, and Tony had not heeded the course they took, did not know where he was. He sat down under a tree beside the road to wait for dawn.
4
May, 1862
CINDA, when she came home that night, racked and weary as much from her own thoughts as from the discomfort of the long journey, was conscious of no wish but one: that Brett Dewain were here. As the carriage made its way through the familiar streets she hoped he would be at the house, hoped he would open the door and come to take her into the secure haven of his arms; but she knew this was unlikely. He had had leave for Vesta’s wedding, could hardly have come home again so soon.
But at least Vesta would be here; and Cinda was reassured by this certainty, for Vesta was strong and steady and fine. She thought wearily that she would have a houseful, with Jenny and Barbara and Enid, and the children, and now her mother too. Tonight would be a problem. Where would Faunt and Tony sleep, for instance? Which room should be her mother’s? Which had Enid pre-empted? She was too tired to decide, but Vesta’s level head would come to her rescue.
They reached the house and Tilda scurried away while Cinda and Mrs. Currain went indoors. In the hall, under the bright gaslight, Cinda thought Enid had a sullen look; and Barbara, with her baby coming so soon, was naturally pale; but Jenny was serene and comforting. It was good to come home again to familiar surroundings, to the cheerful drawing room with its beautiful gilt cornices and its bright colors. The tall mirror between the windows told her how bedraggled she was and she turned away, sat down on the low carved seat. “Where’s Vesta?” she asked.
“I thought she would come with you.”
“With us?” Cinda was surprised, and alarmed too. “No, of course not. Where is she?”
Jenny said reassuringly. “Now Mama, don’t worry about Vesta! You never saw anyone so happy! When they found you weren’t here, she decided to ride down to Williamsburg with Tommy and come home with you.”
“We didn’t see her.” Cinda remembered the long weary miles, the crowded roads; and she pressed her hands against her eyes, wishing her thoughts would clear.
“There, I’m sure she’s all right,” Jenny insisted, and she added: “We didn’t know when you would get here, but Granny’s room is all ready.” She explained each arrangement she had made, and her quiet words helped Cinda lay hold on comforting routine. To think of these familiar details was to shut out, at least for tonight, the troubling world. Vesta was all right, of course. If she did not meet Travis, she had friends in Williamsburg to whom she could turn.
Where to put Faunt and Tony was a problem; but Faunt was always considerate and thoughtful, and he would foresee this, and take Tony elsewhere, and thus give her time to settle the household into an orderly groove again. So she was not surprised that her brothers did not come for supper, did not reappear at all; and somehow presently the rest of them were all abed.
Cinda was so tired she slept as her head touched the pillow, and she did not wake till June came smilingly with morning coffee. June was full of talk, needing no prompting questions; and Cinda, sipping her coffee while the old woman brushed and brushed her hair, relaxed contentedly. June had a wonderful gift for telling her just the things she wished to know. Miss Vesta when she came back from Goochland was the happiest-looking bride anybody ever saw; Mister Cloyd, you couldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, he was stepping so high and proud. Miss Barbara was poorly, for her baby was going to be a buster. It would be a boy for sure, she carried it so high! Miss Enid had been mighty nice, not making no trouble at all for nobody. The children got along together just like so many kittens in a basket. The gentlemen never did come back last night. There was a mighty lot of scared white folks in Richmond, and a pile of them were going away to some place or other for fear the Yankees were coming. So-and-so had gone, and So-and-so, and So-and-so. An expressive sniff made clear June’s opinion of these craven departures. Mrs. Currain was just fine this morning, chipper as a jay bird. June had fixed her breakfast the way she liked it, taken the waiter up to her. Yes indeed, everything was fine!
Under June’s soothing tongue and the smooth strokes of the brush Cinda’s troubles paled and faded. When Brett came home, she would tell him the tale of the letters, then dismiss it from her mind. If a thing could not be helped, it was necessary to forget it. She thought of Clayton, dead now almost a year, dead because of this war which Abraham Lincoln, fruit of her father’s stale and ancient sin, had forced upon the South. The sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, yes; but why could they not have been visited upon the children alone, instead of upon the children’s children? Upon her child; her Clayton?
She shook her head, shut her eyes. There was no profit in thought upon this matter. She must armor herself against such reflections. So must they all.
She need have, she reflected, no concern for her mother. Mrs. Currain had walled herself against the impact of these troubled days. But Tony? Faunt? Tilda? Trav? What would this knowledge do to them? Tony was a weakling; or at least he had been, all his life till within a year or two. There was no knowing what he would do now. Faunt was a brave and gentle man; yet at the first impact of this revelation he had gone for a while a little mad, gulping brandy, setting fire to the dear old house that had meant so much to all of them. Yet surely he would rally his courage and his steadfastness to withstand this cruel hurt. Tilda? Tilda did not matter. As for Travis, he was a rock, a great rock in a weary land. Cinda had no fear for him.
June was still prattling, her voice a gentling monotone; but Cinda stirred. “June, ask Miss Jenny to come have breakfast with me.” So her day began, but for a while there was no strength in her. “I wish it were Sunday,” she told Jenny. “I feel more like going to church than like managing and planning.”
But an hour with Jenny made her strong again. They spoke of Vesta, but Tommy would of course have seen her safe with friends in Williamsburg. Faunt and Tony would be coming presently. She dressed at last and she and Jenny came downstairs together. Cinda expected Mrs. Currain would ask where her sons were; but the old woman betrayed no curiosity. She seemed to accept her establishment here in Cinda’s home as perfectly normal. She enjoyed the children, she smiled at Enid’s pretty attentions, she patted Jenny’s hand in gentle affection. There was a great chair in her room and she held court there, mistress of the moment, of herself, and of them all. Barbara was with them for a while; and Mrs. Currain told Cinda afterward with a brisk, approving nod: “I like Burr’s little wife. She’s a sweet child.” Cinda did not argue the point
. If Mrs. Currain liked Barbara, probably she herself was wrong.
Toward dusk Big Mill brought Vesta home, and they heard the tale of her adventures, and smiled as they listened. She described Julian’s brotherly wrath at her for being in the way when men had work to do, and Elegant’s consternation when they found Great Oak all ablaze, and Mrs. Taylor’s protests at her departure, and the ludicrous figure she cut in Mr. Taylor’s cape, and how a stream of water ran off the brim of her hat when she leaned down to kiss Tommy good-by and splashed in his face, and Uncle Trav’s solicitude as they rode through the night, and the humble people who gave them shelter, and Big Mill’s obvious impatience to get her home so that he could go back to Trav.
“I expect he’s started already,” she guessed. “Just as soon as he could get a fresh mule.”
Cinda, listening to Vesta’s happy tones, thought youth was so brave, so confident, so sure, flinging a gay challenge in the face of destiny. Human beings were like small dogs barking their defiance at a huge mastiff that paid them no slightest heed, that brushed them aside—yes, and sometimes stamped out their small lives—in a remote and complete indifference. Oh, youth was frighteningly brave, knowing so little of the dangers in the way.
She thought Vesta knew no fear. Tilda brought next day news of the fight at Williamsburg, and of the repulse of the Yankees. “There, that’s my Tommy!” Vesta cried proudly, when she heard; and Cinda looked at her in wonder. Was it possible that the girl did not know the fruits of battle? But Vesta caught that glance, came swiftly to her mother’s side, kissed her and whispered: “Darling, don’t look at me like that! Of course I’m worried, but I won’t cry before I’m hurt!”
House Divided Page 62
