House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  The day after Stuart and his men returned from their ride around McClellan, Longstreet was summoned to council with General Lee. When he returned for supper with his staff, Trav guessed that some decision had been reached, some movement planned; but it was not till two days later that he and Longstreet had an hour alone. Then Longstreet said with a twinkle in his eyes: “Captain Currain—and by the way, I have recommended your promotion—” Trav looked at him in surprise and gratification. “I don’t believe you’re a man much inclined to fretful fears.”

  Trav hesitated. “Why—if it’s a question of something I should be doing, I worry about it, I suppose.”

  The other shook his head, brushing the remark aside, and Trav saw that he had not expected any answer. “If you have felt any doubts about General Lee’s capacities,” Longstreet said, “you can dismiss them.”

  “I’ve seen your respect for him growing every day, sir.”

  Longstreet nodded. “When he first called all his general officers into council I thought it a mistake,” he admitted. “It’s always a mistake to let too many men know your plans. But General Lee listened a great deal and said nothing at all. He has the gift of listening, and the gift of patience.”

  “Is patience a good thing?”

  “Certainly. The greatest general is the one who realizes at the right time that to do anything but wait is wrong. To act just for the sake of acting is the worst possible tactical mistake. General Lee will not act until his army is ready for work.” His eyes began to shine. “But he’s ready now. I suggested to him day before yesterday that Stuart’s ride showed McClellan’s right to be in the air. I proposed that Jackson come secretly from the Valley, pass around McClellan’s right, and hit him flank and rear. He said he had considered reinforcing Jackson to drive north and threaten Washington. You remember I once advocated that move. But now he has decided to deal with McClellan here. He told me he had written Jackson a week ago to be prepared to move to help us here, and had written him again the day I saw him, giving orders for the move to strike McClellan’s flank, the very move I proposed.”

  Trav smiled. “So you think he’s right.”

  Longstreet chuckled. “Of course. When a man agrees with you, you’re bound to praise his wisdom.” He added: “But General Lee is open to suggestions, too. He had planned for Jackson to strike McClellan’s lines of communication, with our forces ready to attack from this quarter; but I suggested that we leave our fortified line here to protect Richmond, cross the Chickahominy and hit McClellan’s flank along Beaver Dam Creek while Jackson cut his lines of supply. General Lee showed his greatness by accepting that amendment.” He lifted his left hand, the fingers extended, and made a sweeping motion which reminded Trav of the way a man cradling wheat swings his scythe. “With Jackson to cut his army off from its roots, we’ll sweep him back against the Chickahominy and destroy him!”

  Trav’s pulse quickened at the prospect, and he felt a quiet pride because Longstreet had confided in him; but when on Sunday he went again to Cinda’s he found that all Richmond knew the battle hour was near. Enid asked him at dinner if it were true. “Dolly says so,” she declared, and when he did not answer she said lightly: “Oh, it’s no secret! Dolly says Cousin Tilda and Mrs. Brownlaw are busy getting the hospitals ready to take care of the wounded.”

  Trav did not answer her, and Vesta as though she saw his embarrassment said reassuringly: “No one can keep secrets in Richmond, Uncle Trav. Not even General Lee.” And to her mother: “Mrs. Lee is here, Mama. Norvell Caskie told me. They’ve been at Marlbourne, Mr. Ruffin’s place, since the Yankees came to White House.” Trav had not thought of Mr. Ruffin for a long time; he wondered where the old man would go, since the nearness of the Yankees drove him away from his farm on the Pamunkey. “General Lee sent Major Mason with a flag to bring them to Richmond. Norvell says General McClellan treated them with perfect courtesy. Norvell and Agnes Lee are devoted, you know.” Vesta smiled at Trav. “And of course as soon as General Lee brought his family to Richmond, everyone knew there was going to be a battle out near Marlbourne somewhere.”

  Brett smiled and said no man could keep a secret from women. “He can burn his papers, but he can’t burn his thoughts—or his actions—and they read actions and thoughts at a glance.”

  “That reminds me,” Cinda remarked. “I had letters from Mama and Tony. I made spills out of them. Matches are so expensive I use every scrap of paper. But Mama says the trip was comfortable, and that Tony’s as jolly as can be.”

  “Jolly? I can’t imagine Tony jolly,” Enid protested.

  Cinda caught Trav’s eye. “Travis, Tony said some of the Martinston men have deserted. They hide out in the hills near their farms whenever anyone comes to look for them.”

  “Did he speak of Ed Blandy?”

  “No. Or if he did I don’t remember.”

  Trav said thoughtfully: “Most of those men have wives and children and no way to get enough to eat except to make a crop on their little farms. I can understand that some of them might think they ought to go home and take care of their families.” He saw Enid watching him with narrowed eyes. “I had a lot of friends among those farmers.”

  Enid laughed. “So I suppose you think it’s all right for them to desert?”

  “Well, even some of the officers who were defeated for reelection last April left the army and haven’t come back. So I don’t much blame the men.” His tone was even, but he was thinking that he must get Enid away to a home of her own as soon as possible. There was mischief in that tongue of hers.

  After dinner he made an opportunity to ask Cinda about the Pierce house, and Cinda promised to discuss the question with Barbara. “And Brett will write to Mr. Pierce, I’m sure.”

  Brett nodded. “I’ll write today,” he promised; and then as though amused at his own precipitancy: “Not that there’s any hurry. By this time next week, Richmond may be in Yankee hands.”

  Trav shook his head. “No,” he said strongly. “No. We’ll beat them.” He felt even as he spoke a resurgence of the tremendous lust for violence which had driven him on that day at Seven Pines.

  Perhaps Cinda saw this, for before he left the house that day she brought him his father’s sword, that long blade, double-edged toward the tip, straight and heavy in his hand, which had hung above the mantel at Great Oak and which he had given her to keep dry that night when the carriage took the road to Richmond. She gave it to him now with no ceremony; she even smiled.

  “If you’re going to go galloping into battle all the time, Travis, you ought at least to be armed.”

  He took it awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know what to do with this, I’m afraid. I’ve got a revolver, too. But even General Longstreet doesn’t wear a revolver or a sword, not very often, Cinda.”

  “Take it,” she insisted; and her eyes met his in grave affection. “Wear it, Travis. You never know.”

  12

  June—July, 1862

  ENID had never been long afraid of Trav; for no matter how she might provoke him, he could always be melted into good humor again. It amused her to know that a touch of her hand, a sudden ardent kiss, a provocation ever so lightly given could awaken in him a lumbering and awkward passion to which she need only lend herself, no matter how remotely, in order to leave him perfectly appeased. Even that night at Cinda’s, though she was frightened for a while, terror gave way to yearning surrender, till his quick slumbers made her hate him. She lay dreaming of a thousand ways to do him injury, and in the weeks that followed she watched for opportunities. To tell them all that he, in Lincoln’s place, would have sought to crush the South, and to see Burr’s young anger gave her a delicious pleasure; and when Trav made excuses for those worthless friends of his who had deserted from the army, she reported what he said to Dolly and to Tilda. Tilda would tell Mrs. Brownlaw, and Mrs. Brownlaw’s tongue was never still.

  She sought ways to make those who loved Trav doubt him, and at the same time she tried to waken in him resentment a
gainst them. Whenever he came to the house she reported to him, in tones of exaggerated patience, little imagined slights. Cinda had said so and so. “Of course I know she didn’t mean it the way it sounded; but Cinda has never liked me.” Barbara, Jenny, Vesta: of each in turn she made complaint. “I know they mean to be kind, but . . .” She recited little differences among the children, in which Peter and Lucy were always the sufferers. “Cinda is so fond of Kyle. She just thinks he’s perfect. But if Peter does the least little thing she’s forever nagging at him.” Or, knowing his love for his daughter: “Lucy just worships Vesta. She’s so cute about it. But Vesta treats her like a baby, till sometimes Lucy slips away by herself and just cries and cries.”

  When she saw that if she laughed at Trav or mocked him these others took his side, she changed her tactics and began to defend him when he needed no defender. If he came to the house begrimed from a day in the mud during that rainy month of June she would apologize to Cinda. “You mustn’t scold him, Cinda. He’s working so hard he just doesn’t think of anything else, poor dear.” And if Cinda retorted that she had no thought of blaming Trav: “Oh I know how you love to keep things neat and spotless. Please forgive him, do.”

  She went almost every day to be with Dolly. Captain Pew was gone to Wilmington to rejoin his ship and set off for another adventure through the blockading squadrons; and under General Lee’s more exacting discipline every soldier was with his regiment awaiting orders, so Dolly had not so many beaux in attendance and she welcomed Enid’s company. They could go together where Dolly, who like many gay and charming belles had few girl friends, could not discreetly go alone.

  Early in the morning of the last Thursday in June, Dolly came to the house in feverish excitement. Cinda and Vesta had breakfasted and were already gone when she arrived, but she found Enid and Jenny together, and she cried: “Enid, Jenny, get your bonnets on. Hurry! Hurry!” And before they could speak: “They’re going to fight today. The soldiers have been marching through town and out the Mechanicsville Turnpike since daylight, and General Jackson’s coming——”

  Jenny asked, smiling at her eagerness: “How ever do you always know everything that’s going to happen, Dolly?”

  “Oh everybody knows it,” Dolly assured her. “Mrs. Brownlaw told Mama. General Lee has just been waiting for the rain to be over; and when he saw the rainbow yesterday he decided to fight them today. If we go to the Capitol and get up on top of it we can see it all. So do hurry and come on, before the best places are all taken.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Jenny decided. “I’ve so much to do. But Enid, there’s no reason you shouldn’t go.”

  “I should say not!” Enid retorted. “I’d just like to see anyone keep me from going.” She hushed with a caught breath, for as she spoke they heard a distant cannon. They all listened for an instant; and then Dolly caught Enid’s arm.

  “Come on, come on!” she urged. “Hurry, or we’ll miss everything.”

  So Enid made haste and in a moment she was ready. At the corner of Grace Street they paused in some uncertainty, for the gunfire was off to the eastward. “But the soldiers all went out the Mechanicsville pike,” Dolly protested, as though this confusion were a personal slight. “They haven’t had time to go back in that direction! Never mind! Come on! We’ll go to the Capitol anyway.”

  “We’ll never be able to get up on top,” Enid objected. “Everybody in Richmond will be there.”

  “Oh they’ll make room for us!” Dolly was supremely confident of her beauty’s power, and they hurried on. Grace Street was already full of people. At the Capitol, as Dolly had predicted, her smiles opened a path for them. They panted up the steep stairs, gasping for breath in the hushed airless heat, to elbow their way out on the small platform set atop the ridgepole. The place was already crowded, and everyone was looking off across the valley of Shockoe Creek toward the slowly rising ground that rose to the ridge beyond which lay the valley of the Chickahominy. Dolly’s eager thrusting brought them to the rail. Two or three miles away in the cultivated fields along the roads that led northeasterly Enid saw dark masses and some movement of mounted men, no larger than insects at this distance; and she knew those masses were soldiers waiting to advance. Dolly, full of questions, asked why they didn’t go on and start fighting, and a gentleman from the Quartermaster’s department who knew Dolly’s father explained that they were waiting for Jackson.

  “He was at Ashland last night. They won’t move till he gets behind the Yankee flank.”

  Someone else reported that Powell Hill had marched to the Meadow Bridges to cross and join Jackson and roll up the Yankee flank. All the gentlemen here appeared to be informed as to Lee’s every plan, and each knew exactly what should be done. Little gusts of argument arose and blew themselves out and rose again as the sun climbed higher, and the hot forenoon drew tediously on.

  But Dolly tired of this long waiting, and before the morning was half gone she was ready to abandon their fruitless vigil here. “We’ll go where we can really see something,” she declared; and Enid was equally weary of baking in the sun high above the city.

  “Yes, let’s,” she agreed. “Can’t we find a shady place somewhere, Dolly? I’m panting like a hen on a hot day.”

  So they descended to the Square again and Dolly said they must go out to the hills north of town. “I’ve been on picnics out at Mitchell’s Spring,” she remembered. “And I know we can see from up on Academy Hill above the spring.”

  They hurried back to Second Street, and before they passed Shockoe Cemetery they were part of a flowing stream of men and women all bent the same way, trooping down to cross the creek and climb the winding road beyond. Because everyone else seemed to be doing so, they climbed Mansfield Hill, and found a throng there before them. Trees along the crest gave a grateful shade; and since Dolly always attracted many polite attentions a gentleman asked the privilege of spreading his coat for them to sit upon. They heard sudden guns off beyond the Meadow Bridges, and Dolly cried triumphantly:

  “There! Hear that! There’s Jackson now!”

  “Jackson?” A dozen faces turned toward them, a dozen voices repeated the name; and someone said politely:

  “Why, Miss Dolly, General Jackson’s a hundred miles away.” Enid thought enviously that everyone knew Dolly.

  “That’s what the poor Yankees think,” the girl retorted. “But they’re going to be surprised. General Jackson’s going around the head of Beaver Dam Creek and get in behind them.” A group of listeners gathered, as much to see Dolly’s flashing smile and the charming color in her cheeks as to hear what she said.

  Then nearer cannon sounded, two shots, and half a dozen; and then there began the steady roar and beat and pound of many guns. They watched with straining eyes; but the fighting was in the valley beyond the ridge, and from where they were they could see nothing: Dolly was exasperated. “Why don’t they come over and fight where we can watch them!” she protested; but no one even smiled, forgetting her while they listened to the steady clamor of the cannon and the sharper sound of distant musketry.

  They could hear the firing and see the smoke, but that was all; and Enid was hot and bored. After all, there was nothing to see; and the guns could be heard just as well from Cinda’s house, or from anywhere in the city. She said as much to Dolly, but Dolly declared she just couldn’t bear to go away and leave those poor dear boys yonder to fight the Yankees all alone. Enid told her she was an idiot; and Dolly retorted that Enid might go whenever she chose.

  But more and more spectators kept arriving, and there began to be a dreadful fascination in that monotonous and unending chorus of conflict; so Enid stayed, and the sun slipped quietly down the western sky, and evening shadows extended themselves from the foot of every tree far down the hillsides. Each patch of woodland became a dark and darker blot against the lighter hue of the cultivated ground, and windows in distant houses caught the last flame of the sun and flashed it back at them. Then dusk and dark began to come; and a
s the darkness thickened an occasional shell, bursting high above the ridge which lay between them and the battle, gleamed for an instant against the shadowed sky northeasterly whence night came racing toward them.

  The spectacle acquired, even for Enid, an awful beauty. Around her she heard the stir of many feet as newcomers who till now had been content to perch on the Capitol or on the roofs of buildings in the city came to the hills for a better view. “Why, it’s just like fireworks, isn’t it!” Dolly cried in a bright delight. Against the curtain of the night there was the steady burst of shells; burning fuses traced fine lines of fire in interlacing arcs across the sky; the steady flashes from cannons and muskets, not actually seen, nevertheless kept up a flickering dance of light above the valley yonder, as though a thunderstorm played there beyond the ridge.

  The spectacle continued till long after dark. Enid was ravenously hungry before the firing dwindled and died away and Dolly was at last ready to turn homeward. The watchers from the hilltops went stumbling through the dark back toward the city, and on the road up over Shockoe Hill many others joined them; for all along these crests beyond the creek there had been hundreds of spectators. Enid was too hungry to talk, but Dolly chattered steadily, and all around them in the night there were the sober tones of men, women’s voices edged and shrill with excitement, the exclamations and ejaculations of children. Once or twice Enid heard women sobbing quietly; and she supposed they were fearful for the fate of husbands or lovers or sons who had a part in the battle. But she herself was much more anxious for supper than for news of Trav, or for that matter of anyone.

  Unless it were Faunt. Her thoughts for a while dwelt with him. She wondered why he so seldom came to Cinda’s, why she had not been able to renew that pleasant and comradely relationship which had made his convalescence at Great Oak such happiness for her. Of course there could never be any substance to those dreams she once had treasured; but her thoughts were her own, so she let them run till even in the darkness she felt her cheeks burn hot, and rubbed them fiercely, and came back to the present again.