House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  So Peter, still angry, stalked out of the room, and Lucy came to perch upon the bed again, turning page by page; and Cinda pretended to look and to listen and she spoke approving words.

  But she was thinking of little Peter, and of his rage at the sight of that sketch of Abraham Lincoln; and Peter’s wrath made her remember how angry Faunt had been that night at Great Oak. She had never before realized how like each other in temper were these two, Peter and Faunt. The same blood ran in them—as it did in Lincoln. Had President Lincoln too his moments of unbridled rage?

  She turned back the pages of Lucy’s scrapbook to look at that rough-drawn face again, trying to appraise and to understand the man himself, the person whose likeness was there portrayed; and she re-remembered her remark long ago to Brett that Tony looked a little like Lincoln. Make Tony’s hair black, instead of dark brown now heavily touched with gray, give him a beard like Lincoln’s instead of that little spike of whisker which he wore; change his mouth a little—yes, it would be easy to point up the resemblance. Of course there was no hint of strength in Tony’s countenance; Abraham Lincoln, whatever his vices, looked like a man.

  She sent Lucy away at last, wishing to sleep; and her eyes were closed when something made her open them and she saw Brett standing in the door. At first it was hard to believe that this was he, till he smiled and came toward her and sat down on the bed beside her and touched her hand.

  “Well, Mrs. Dewain,” he said in a low tone.

  “Well, Mr. Dewain.”

  He kissed her; her limp arms rose to draw him for a moment close. “Too bad I woke you,” he said.

  “I wasn’t asleep. Just—resting.”

  He said: “Burr is fine, and Faunt. I haven’t seen them, but Burr sent word. They’re watching the enemy at Harrison’s Landing. Our company is back in camp.” And he said: “How does Trav seem?”

  “He hasn’t taken any food, but Dr. Little thinks he will—recover. And so does June.”

  “I brought Cousin Jeems to dinner.”

  “Oh I must come down.” But she did not move.

  “I’ll bring him up. You’re old enough friends to receive him in undress. He’ll tell you about Trav.”

  She nodded in submission, but she did not wish to hear how Trav got his wound. Why must men always relive these terrors in talk, talk, talk! Why must she be forced to listen to them? But when Brett returned with Longstreet, it was good to see Cousin Jeems. He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips, not gallantly but with a gentleness that was somehow comforting. She had never thought of him as a gentle, tender man; yet there was a woman’s tenderness in him now. He seemed to her now more like an abashed small boy than like the god of battles. She suspected in faint amusement that he was embarrassed at being in her bedroom. Men were so easily embarrassed, so amazingly modest in these little ways.

  She asked for Cousin Louisa. He said Mrs. Longstreet was with her family, on Garland Hill in Lynchburg. She inquired for little Garland. Oh he was fine, and no longer so little. He was fourteen, and beginning to distress his mother with talk about being old enough to become a soldier.

  “Oh no,” said Cinda quickly. “Not the children, Cousin Jeems.” Yet Julian was—had been—no more than a child. She asked: “Will Louisa come back to Richmond to be near you, now that the Yankees are gone?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Not Richmond.” Cinda understood him. Cousin Louisa would not wish to return here where her children died. Cinda found it hard to realize that it was so short a time, only four or five months, since that dreadful tragedy. She saw the shadow in his eyes, and said, to distract him:

  “You’ve won a splendid victory, Cousin Jeems.”

  “It should have been more complete,” he said, his brow clouding. “McClellan’s army might have been destroyed; but Huger, Magruder, yes and even Jackson, each did less than they might have done.” He added: “Richmond is made safe, it’s true; but—our loss was heavy. I fear our loss was heavier even than McClellan’s.”

  “I know. I’ve seen them, hundreds of them, in the hospitals.”

  “McClellan escaped us,” he repeated. “We were too slow. We might have cut his army in half even as late as Monday afternoon; but Jackson and Huger left me to make the battle alone.” Cinda closed her eyes, tried to close her ears to his words; she wished to hear no more of battles—she had seen their fruit. “It was that day Captain Currain took his hurt,” he said. “General Lee and President Davis and I were together, and a few shells came near us. I sent Captain Currain to ask Colonel Jenkins to push his sharpshooters forward and silence that battery. He rode that fine black stallion of his.” He added: “By the way, tell him I have his horse safe, and that big revolver Von Borcke gave him, still in his saddle holster, and the scabbard of his sword.”

  “His sword was in his hands when they brought him home.”

  General Longstreet nodded, and at his own thoughts his eyes began to burn. “Colonel Jenkins obeyed orders,” he said. “But Captain Currain saw some trouble where the Alabama regiments, next to Colonel Jenkins’s men, had found a battery in an open field. They charged the battery and brought the issue to hand-to-hand fighting; and Captain Currain went to help them. He blooded that long sword of his more than once, and even after a musket ball struck him he still held his seat. When the Alabamans were driven back they brought him off with them. In the edge of the wood he did finally slip off his horse. He was senseless, but even then he would not loose his sword.”

  Cinda said with reluctant understanding: “You men love war, don’t you. I can hear that in your voice.” She half smiled. “You’d rather be on the battlefield than with Cousin Louisa.”

  “A soldier’s wife learns to understand and forgive this other passion.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she declared. “These wives so ready to forgive their husbands’ other loves don’t care a fig for their husbands, really.” Somehow she must turn the talk along a more pleasant path. “And Cousin Louisa worships you.”

  “Exactly! So she forgives me.”

  “I suppose she’s had to learn to forgive a lot of things. She says you’ve always had a sharp eye for a lovely face.”

  “Certainly! Every wife is flattered when her husband admires beauty. It’s a compliment to her—since she is still his first choice.”

  She was grateful for his willingness to meet her in light laughter. “I’m not sure you’re wrong. Of course we relish any flattery. One day in the hospital I was giving a great bearded man a drink of water, and when I took the cup away and thought him helpless, he drew me down and kissed me roundly. I liked it, I declare—the scamp!”

  “You Richmond ladies have been like goddesses to the men. In the hospitals this morning I heard your praises everywhere.” Weariness swept over her again. “I’m worn out. Some of them can go on and on, but I must rest sometimes. I’m so tired I just fall across my bed and sleep till someone wakes me. I suppose that’s how it feels to die.” She closed her eyes, her senses for a moment swimming; and Brett stirred, as though to take Longstreet away, but without opening her eyes she said: “No, don’t go. Sit a while. I’ll go to sleep while you talk.”

  So they stayed, and she heard their talk turn again to the battlefield; and Longstreet spoke of Hood’s Texans and their charge at Gaines’ Mill and how fine a feat of arms it was. “No soldiers in the world could equal it,” he declared; and Brett agreed, and Longstreet said gravely: “If the war could be won quickly, by courage and dash, we would be easy victors.”

  Brett assented. “But we can’t stand up to the waiting and the waiting,” he suggested. “Show us the enemy and we’re ready to spring at his throat; but unless there is a battle in prospect, our men grumble and loaf and fall sick and drift away to their homes. If we must wait too often, with the North growing stronger all the time . . .”

  General Longstreet interrupted. “We will wait no longer now. We’ve a leader, sir! I’ll give you a prediction. General Lee, between now and frost, w
ill drive every Yankee out of Virginia. Wait and see.”

  While they talked, the windows shadowed with coming dusk, and Cinda drifted into treacherous sleep and did not wake till June came with her breakfast in the morning. Cinda’s first question was for Brett; but June said he had ridden away last night, refusing to let June rouse her. “But he say he be back any day,” June promised, and before Cinda could grieve that he was gone June added that Trav was better. His fever had broken in the night. “He be all right f’om now on, ef’n he don’t sweat his peth away,” she predicted. When Cinda went to him Trav knew her and his surroundings and himself again.

  Vesta joined them. Cinda, clear-eyed and rested after her day in bed, saw that Vesta was drawn and tired, and she remembered that the girl was entering the third month of her pregnancy. She must not again face the ordeal of the hospital; but Cinda knew that if she herself went back to that duty, so would Vesta, too. So she stayed that day at home, making Trav’s need of her a pretext; and before the day ended she had what seemed an inspiration. Vesta had once spoken of her wish to go to visit Tommy’s mother, and Cinda reminded her of this.

  “You didn’t want to go as long as leaving Richmond would seem like running away,” she remembered. “But Richmond’s in no danger now, and if you don’t go now, you can’t go later.”

  Vesta seemed to welcome the suggestion; and Jenny when she heard said that she too was anxious to go back to the Plains. Big Mame, who had been Vesta’s handmaiden since her babyhood, could go with them. “She’s as strong as any two men,” Cinda pointed out. “You couldn’t have a better escort.”

  “I hate to go,” Vesta protested. “Poor people can’t get away from Richmond even if they want to. They just have to stay here and suffer, while people like us go away where it’s cool, and where there’s plenty to eat, and everything.”

  Cinda laughed lightly. “You won’t be cool at the Plains, darling. It’s hot as Tophet there in July. And even if it were cool—your being hot in Richmond won’t make those who have to stay here any cooler.”

  Jenny would take the children; and Barbara, when she heard their plan, announced her intent to travel with them as far as Weldon, and thence to Raleigh to join her father and mother. Cinda guiltily realized that she would be glad to have Barbara go. It would be hard on Burr, for he could seldom take time to make the journey to Raleigh; but if Barbara were gone, when he came to Richmond they would have him to themselves. She made only polite protests, and Vesta laughed at her afterward.

  “You know perfectly well you’re glad she’s going, Mama.”

  “Why, Vesta, I’m very fond of Barbara.”

  “All the same, darling, I hear that mother-in-law tone in your voice whenever you’re being specially careful to be nice to her.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Cinda insisted, and hoped her cheeks were not so red as they felt. “Of course, she’s the cleverest little Miss Somebody I ever saw. The way she gets around Enid is a caution. Enid’s completely outdone every day of her life, and she doesn’t even know it. I love Barbara for that if for nothing else.”

  Vesta laughed affectionately. “Poor Mama! And with Jenny and me gone you’ll be left with no one but Aunt Enid. When’s Granny coming back from Chimneys?” Cinda did not know. “Well, if you get too desperate you can send for me.” Vesta added mischievously: “Besides, maybe Burr won’t let Barbara go.”

  “He won’t have any say about it.”

  “Why, she certainly wouldn’t go without telling him.”

  Cinda laughed at herself. “I can’t decide whether I’m more anxious to see him put his foot down for once or to have her go!” She shook her head. “But Barbara’ll manage it. Wait and see.”

  That same day, Caesar came to Cinda with word that Dr. McCaw was calling. Cinda went down in a puzzled wonder. Dr. McCaw was of a distinguished family. His father had been one of many who behaved with conspicuous heroism at the dreadful theatre fire fifty years before, which was still vivid in the memory of older people in Richmond. Dr. McCaw himself had selected the site of Chimborazo Hospital, on the heights above the river toward Rockett’s, and it was he who devised the flexible arrangement of small buildings, easily and quickly constructed, which had proved so admirable. Cinda knew him by reputation and through occasional social contacts, but she could not guess why he had come today.

  He said, when she greeted him, that Dr. Little had asked him to stop in and see Major Currain.

  “Why, you’re very kind, Doctor,” Cinda told him gratefully. “We’re sure he’s taken a turn for the better. He knew me this morning. Won’t you come upstairs?”

  But Dr. McCaw’s glance at Trav was so completely perfunctory that she suspected this was not his only errand; and when they came down he confessed it. “I’m sure he will recover,” he said. “Since he’s lived this long. But Mrs. Dewain, there’s something else.” He waited for no question. “I spoke to Dr. Little yesterday about our need for matrons in the wards at Chimborazo Hospital. He says you have the capacity to do that work.”

  “Heavens!” Cinda protested. “I’m not good for anything but scrubbing floors and washing bandages, and not much good at that.” She added honestly: “I just haven’t the courage for it, Dr. McCaw, nor the strength. It wears me out.”

  “Have you ever seen the hospital? It’s the largest in Richmond.”

  “No. I’ve only worked in places nearer my home.”

  He persuaded her to go with him to inspect the institution of which he was the head. It had been begun the year before: a sprawling establishment consisting of many separate buildings, almost exactly alike. Each was a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, one story high, built of rough boards and painted white. They were regularly spaced, with streets and alleys between them. Each ward held two or three score beds; but the beds were no more than wooden boxes set on legs to lift them a little above the floor, with sacks stuffed with sawdust or with straw or shucks to serve as mattresses.

  When Dr. McCaw and Cinda came into one of these wards, a Negro man, by courtesy called a nurse, was attempting to straighten the legs and arms of a dead soldier, giggling with nervous amusement at the refusal of stiffening limbs to do what he wished. At the doctor’s sharp word he called another Negro and they carried the dead man away. The coarse sacking that had served as a sheet was stained, and the mattress below it was discolored with old traces left by other men now dead; but the soiled bed was hardly empty before from an ambulance at the door two men carried in a wounded man and laid him there.

  Cinda had seen too many such incidents to be surprised; but she was half-stifled by the sour heat in this rude hut, and by the stench of the place. The small windows let in not enough light or air. “That sort of thing doesn’t have to happen,” she protested. “Not now, when there aren’t so many wounded coming in.”

  “This is one of the wards with no matron,” he said quietly, and he added: “Dr. Little told me how you organized the public warehouse, when wounded men had to be put there.” She did not speak; and he said: “Come, I want you to see the rest.”

  Beyond the wards there were tents for convalescents, and Cinda said approvingly: “They can be comfortable here, and even cool.”

  “It’s the best hospital location in Richmond,” Dr. McCaw declared, and he smiled faintly. “I helped select it, so I’m bound to think so; but it’s on high ground, well drained, as cool as any place can be, and as healthy. We have good water, and ice houses, and a bakery.” He introduced her to Mrs. Minge, the chief matron. “But we need a matron for every ward,” he repeated. “And Dr. Little believes you would be a good one.”

  Cinda still shrank from the challenge. “Oh Doctor, I can’t even manage my own household as I’d like to.”

  “None of us do as well as we’d like to,” he said gently. “We don’t know how. We know it’s wrong to frighten men when they’re sick or hurt.” He smiled in a sad way. “Although too many doctors put on pompous airs and ominous expressions to conceal their own ignorance
, and scare patients to death who would have recovered if they hadn’t been frightened. We know it’s wrong to frighten people, and we know that if we don’t do a man harm he may get well by himself, no matter how badly he’s hurt. But beyond that we’re pretty ignorant. We don’t even know how best to treat our sick, and we butcher the wounded!” In a sort of indignation, more as if he were thinking aloud than as though he were speaking to her: “We put on hot poultices to make wounds suppurate, but I’ve seen wounds that didn’t show pus heal mighty handsomely. We think quick amputation is the only chance for a man with a shattered joint; but every time I see an orderly carry away an arm or a leg I’ve cut off, I wonder whether the man who owned it wouldn’t be justified in shooting me for a hopeless fool. We deplete for pneumonia, but the men die. I’ve been trying a sustaining treatment, brandy, opium; and sometimes men get better. None of us know much about medicine beyond blue mass and opium. We cut and we bandage and we drip water on the bandages and men get gangrene and erysipelas and die.” He said harshly: “Why, we’re blind fools groping in the dark. We can’t even cure diarrhea—and whatever else is the matter with a man when he’s brought here, he always has diarrhea. So Mrs. Dewain, you know as much as anyone.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” Cinda insisted. “Except that I hate blood and smells and dirt and flies. I couldn’t do it, Doctor.”

  “If you could keep men clean and keep the flies from tormenting them, they could at least die in decency!”

  Cinda, with no confidence that she could be of use, nevertheless in the end consented to try; and next day, since it was at least two miles from Fifth Street to the hospital, Diamond brought the carriage around an hour after sun and drove her out to begin her duties. She dreaded this beginning, but she found so much to be done that within an hour she forgot herself completely. It would have been easy to waste her strength on sweeping, scrubbing, washing; but it was her head Dr. McCaw wanted, not her hands. The nurses assigned to her ward were Negroes, and till she came they had been left to do as they chose. She drove them to a frantic industry, and before the day was done the floors were clean, and fresh straw had been spread in every box bed, and some of the bedding that was most in need of it had been washed and hung to dry. She saw not only the ward scrubbed but the kitchen; and between the steady drive of routine she had time to talk with some of the wounded men and learn their needs and their wants and try to meet them. She came home that night exhausted, yet content too.