House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “The Yankees will learn to fight, give them time.”

  “Oh, and the North has so many, and so much! When we left here, Anne and I saw wagons and guns with our own army; and we thought there were millions of them; but the North has a railroad train full of things for every wagon in our army.”

  Vesta urged: “Go on and tell us about finding Julian, Mama.” She laughed fondly. “He’s a lot more important than the war.”

  So Cinda described that Georgetown warehouse and it’s crawling infestations. “But I’ve seen worse, right here in Richmond, for our own men.” She spoke of Dr. Hammond, the Surgeon General. “I wish we had someone like him. He’s a great-hearted man, besides being a great doctor. He let us take Julian out of that horrible place to Mr. Gilby’s, even when Mr. Stanton’s orders were against it. Then when Julian was well enough to travel, Mr. Gilby and I went to see Mr. Stanton. He’s terrible and cruel. He’s a little man. I think little men are all natural bullies. They have to make up somehow for being small, so they love to be bossy. There were lots of people waiting to see him. I don’t know how many. Twenty or thirty. He came marching in and looked at us and said, ‘Two minutes each.’ Five of us were ladies, so we went first. Even the Yankees are courteous. The first poor woman whispered something, and Mr. Stanton fairly shouted at her: ‘Speak up, madam! No secrets here!’ By the time my turn came I was too mad to be frightened. He glared at Mr. Gilby and said: ‘Step aside! We have no use for advocates!’ So poor Mr. Gilby retreated and I said: ‘Mr. Secretary, I want a passport to take my wounded son to Richmond. A pass for myself, my son, and his betrothed.’ ” She smiled at Julian. “We always called Anne that. It saved explanations.”

  Julian’s color rose; he laughed happily. “I’ll try to prove you weren’t fibbing, Mama.”

  Brett said quickly: “Go on, Cinda.”

  She nodded. “So Mr. Stanton said: ‘To Richmond? Then you’re a rebel?’ I told him I was a Virginian. He said: ‘Your son’s a rebel!’ I said Julian had only one leg, and I said: ‘So you needn’t be afraid of him.’ He said: ‘Afraid? Madam, you’re wasting your time and mine. Good day.’ I was frightened enough by then to—beg. I said: ‘Mr. Stanton, my oldest son was killed a year ago. This one almost died—’ But he interrupted me.” She hesitated. “I think he’s a little crazy! He said: ‘Madam, my son, who was not a rebel, died three months ago, an infant. I have no tears to shed when a rebel dies. Good day!’ ” She laughed, a little breathlessly. “And the sentry came across from the door and took me by the arm. They threw me out, Brett Dewain!” Brett looked thoughtfully at his clenched fist; but she smiled and touched his hand. “There, my dear; I didn’t mind. From a man like him, insolence was really a compliment.”

  He nodded. “Yet—you did bring Julian home.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Julian answered quickly. “She went to Mr. Lincoln, Papa. He gave her a pass.”

  Brett looked at Cinda in tender understanding. He could guess what it must have meant to her to entreat the man she hated so. He asked in his thoughts a thousand questions; but Vesta put at least one of those questions into words, and Cinda answered her.

  “What’s he like?” she echoed thoughtfully. “Why, I suppose he’s even uglier than his pictures, Vesta; so tall, so awkward, long arms like an ape’s arms. His legs don’t seem to work right. He—sort of staggers. And—when he said good-by to me he hung to the door frame with one hand, exactly like a tremendous monkey, as though he could have curled up his legs and still hung there.” She laughed. “He’s perfectly ridiculous, Vesta, really!”

  “But Mama, how did you get to see him at all?”

  “Dr. Hammond took me. Dr. Hammond doesn’t like Mr. Stanton any better than I do. He was really wonderful. He took me to—the President—and said I had a disabled son who would never fight again——”

  Julian laughed. “A lot he knows!”

  Brett met the boy’s eyes and smiled; and Cinda went on: “So Mr. Lincoln asked who I was, and I told him, and he asked whether Julian and I would take the oath, and I said we were Virginians, and —Well, Mr. Lincoln said he guessed Julian would do the Union less harm in Richmond than in Washington, and he wrote a pass and told me not to show it to Mr. Stanton, and that night we took the steamer with prisoners coming back to be exchanged.” She met Brett’s eyes. “When we came up the river, I saw the black chimneys of Great Oak. The house is all gone. But—here we are. Oh it’s good to be home!”

  Vesta had questions still, and Cinda answered her; but Brett felt evasion in her answers. Lincoln? Why, he was thus and he was so—and always her word suggested a grotesque man, almost inhuman. Yet, knowing her better than these others knew her, he understood that she held something hidden, something of which she was perhaps not herself aware. He knew too that when the time came she would tell him more than she told them; so he asked no questions at all. It was enough that she was here, that Julian was alive, at home.

  Brett wished no outsider to intrude upon this hour; but before supper Redford Streean and Tilda and Dolly appeared. Dolly had heard that Julian was here; they came to welcome him home, and Dolly was never more lovely than when she kissed him, gently as an angel. “Oh Honey, it’s wonderful to see you!” Tilda struck a mistaken note. “You poor dear darling!” Julian looked at her in flashing anger; and Streean must have seen this, for his greeting was bluff and hearty. Brett thought Streean had the politician’s quick adaptability when he wished to please.

  Dolly said Rollin Lyle would be mighty glad to hear Julian was home. “He asked about you every time he came to the house.” So Julian pinned her with questions about his old regiment. “Why, just about all of them got killed at Williamsburg,” Dolly told him, and Brett thought pain must crush Vesta at that word, and looked at her and saw a fine light in her eyes and knew she was unshaken. “And then a lot more of them got shot or something in the fighting around Richmond.” Julian asked for names, and Dolly remembered a Lieutenant Jones. “But then they stayed near here till—oh I guess it was the end of August, or maybe September. Anyway, I haven’t seen Rollin since.”

  Cinda asked how he was. “He came to the house once or twice, during the summer, Julian,” she explained. “But I was working in the hospital and was never here; and Vesta and Jenny had gone. Enid saw him. She said he looked sick, Dolly.”

  Dolly said lightly: “Oh I guess he had malaria or something for a while, but I don’t really know how he looked. I never can bear to look at him. He’s a sight.”

  There was a moment’s silence; and Brett said thoughtfully: “I think he’s in Hill’s division, Cinda. They say Hill’s fight at South Mountain saved our army. By the way, General Garland was killed there. He’s Mrs. Longstreet’s cousin, remember.”

  Dolly wanted to hear the tale of Julian’s adventures; and Cinda and Tilda went up to see Mrs. Currain, and Streean suggested that he and Brett withdraw to the study. “You’re a business man,” he explained. “I’d like to hear your views on the state of things.”

  Brett, leading the way into the other room, confessed that he had given little thought to business for a long time now; that the war was the only business of the day. Streean said war was largely a matter of business, and Brett agreed. Streean thought it a pity there were not more business men in the Government, and he added: “I think the best contribution any of us can make to a sound management of public affairs is to keep our own business in order. A nation of levelheaded men whose own lives are well managed would be a sound nation.” Brett guessed what was coming. “I took the liberty, for instance,” Streean went on, “of advising Tony to sell the surplus slaves at Chimneys.” He added hurriedly: “Too large a proportion of Currain money is tied up in slaves. Of course since President Lincoln said he proposes to free them, the going price has risen; but that’s largely a defiant gesture, the sort of thing Southerners like to do.” Brett knew this was true. “I hope you’ll pardon my advising Tony to sell.”

  “Tony had the
disposal of the people. He was in charge at Chimneys.”

  Streean cleared his throat, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The slaves he sold were from Great Oak and from Belle Vue. And of course all Currain funds are handled by you.”

  “The people were in Tony’s hands.”

  The other smiled. “But the proceeds are in mine, and I have Tony’s authority to reinvest it. I assume he agrees with me that it should be invested for the common interest of all of you.” Brett did not speak, and Streean went on: “So I’d welcome your opinion, Brett. For my part, I abhor idle money. To put this sum to work involves choosing among many alternatives, ranging from conservative and only mildly profitable to bold and immensely lucrative. I’ve seized some opportunities myself. For instance, a small speculation in salt . . .” Brett thought Streean almost smirked with satisfaction. “Well, it turned out well. I sold out before we recaptured the salt works in Kanawha. Just now I’m taking some shares in a blockade-runner. The profit there is so great that after two or three voyages each dollar is clear gain.”

  Brett held his tone mild. “I’d be inclined to leave the question in Tony’s hands—and the money too. After all, selling the people was his venture, not ours. I shouldn’t care to profit by it.”

  Streean cleared his throat again, and his eyes flickered uneasily. “I see. Well, very well. But by the way, there’s something in the wind which might affect your plans at the Plains. I know you agree that cotton is our great asset.”

  “It might have been.”

  “It will be,” Streean assured him. “I can tell you, for instance, that a European loan will be floated by Mr. Slidell, using our cotton as security, the cotton to be delivered after the war. That will go far to finance our foreign purchases.” Brett thought no wise European investor would rely too much upon a promise to deliver after Confederate victory; but he did not say so, and Streean went on: “However, something more immediate, and nearer home, is being arranged which will provide a market for our cotton. Some of us have been buying cotton in anticipation. The price in the North and in Europe is soaring, you know.”

  “You say something is being arranged?”

  “Exactly. Do you know Mr. Foulkes?” Brett shook his head. “Mr. Dunnock?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the proposal is to trade, or to sanction trade, in cotton with the Yankees. We have it and they want it; and they have many things that we want, so the trade will be to our advantage and to theirs. Mr. Foulkes proposes to trade cotton for bread and meat. Mr. Northrop, the Commissary General, favors that. Mr. Randolph would add blankets and shoes to the list.” Streean smiled. “Everyone is proceeding very cautiously, sticking one toe into the water to see if it is too hot a venture. So far, not much has been done, though Mr. Benjamin has given some permissions to sell cotton at our ports, and to send it into Mexico; and some Mobile business men have been granted licenses to trade with the Yankees in New Orleans.”

  “For private profit?”

  “For the public good—and for private profit too, of course. Muzzle not the ox, you know. The men who conduct the transactions are entitled to be rewarded for their services.” Streean leaned forward, pressing home his point. “Brett, in another year our cotton will be going into Northern markets in great quantities.” He leaned back. “So here’s the point. The Plains should raise all the cotton it can.”

  Brett said slowly: “I’m afraid the whole idea sticks in my craw, Mister Streean.”

  “If the Government approves, doesn’t that overrule private scruples?”

  “Well, governments, in what they consider the defense of their own interests, can do many things which in a private citizen, for his own interest, would be reprehensible.”

  “Do you conceive it your duty to surrender all your capital to the Confederacy?” Streean’s tone was a challenge.

  “Certainly not! I conserve our capital in every possible way.”

  “Exactly. But—remember the parable of the talents, Brett? To bury a talent, to refrain from putting your capital to work to the best advantage, is a business crime. I’d rather lose it in a wise risk.”

  “There’s a distinction,” Brett said; he rose to end this conversation. “I prefer not to profit from the extremity of my neighbors, of Virginia, of the Confederacy.”

  Streean shrugged. “Then why not be consistent? If you won’t use your possessions, give them away; give them to the Confederacy.”

  “I see no need for that,” Brett assured him; and rose, and they went back to the others again.

  Brett was glad when that day was done, when he and Cinda were at last alone. She said she had delivered to Mr. Gilby those securities which Brett had wished her to take North. “I was terrified that I’d be searched,” she confessed. “We hear so many stories, and my petticoats were stiff with crackly papers. But the night we got there I put everything in Mr. Gilby’s hands. They’re in Riggs’ Bank. Mr. Gilby will take care of them for you; he promised, if there was another such scare as Washington had in September, to send them to New York.”

  She talked on and on, as though afraid of even a moment’s silence. “Mr. Gilby thinks Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation about freeing the slaves was timed to keep England and France from recognizing the Confederacy. He says for a while England shipped surplus cotton to New England, but now she’s running short, and mills are shutting down in England, and idle men are rioting; but not even men out of work and with their families hungry want to support slavery. The whole world hates us for having slaves, Brett Dewain.”

  He nodded sorrowfully. “And Lincoln is shrewd enough to know that, so he turns this into a war against slavery and thus puts us in the wrong.” He thought to speak of Lincoln might lead her to say more about that man; but she continued to cling to generalities, describing things seen in Washington. Mrs. Gilby had told her this, had told her that. Many Washington women worked in the hospitals just as Richmond ladies did.

  “But they’re better planners than we are,” she said. “A Miss Dix, a spinster lady older than I, bosses all the women who do the work. They have men nurses, mostly. The women just help. Mr. Olmsted —the same man who wrote that lying book about his trip through the South a few years ago—runs the Sanitary Commission; and Mrs. Gilby says he’s wonderful! He’s almost an invalid himself, but he manages things marvelously. And Mrs. Gilby says a Miss Barton went right on the battlefield at Manassas to give the wounded men things to eat, and she went to the battle on the Antietam, too.” “People won’t know what you mean if you call it that here, Cinda,” he suggested. “The North likes to name battles after streams; Bull Run and Antietam Creek. But we usually name them after the nearest town. Their Bull Run is our Manassas, and their Antietam is our Sharpsburg.”

  But he seldom interrupted, let her talk. When she began to repeat some of the things Mrs. Gilby had said about Mrs. Lincoln’s extravagances, her ugliness, her ridiculous costumes, her pretentious airs, her moods and tempers, her almost insane grief when Willie Lincoln died last spring, he expected her to go on to speak of her meeting with the President. But it was not till they were at last abed, in darkness, that she came to that which was foremost in both their minds. She had been silent for a moment, and he was about to speak when she said:

  “Brett Dewain, I saw President Lincoln.”

  He kept his tone casual. “I’ve often thought I’d like to see that man again. I saw him once, years ago, out in Illinois.”

  “Dr. Hammond took me to him.” Her voice was low. “The President sees people at noon, but there is always a crowd then; and Doctor Hammond wanted me to see him alone. Doctor Hammond hates Mr. Stanton. That was one reason he helped me, I’m sure; just because Mr. Stanton would not.”

  She paused, and Brett waited. “We went early,” she said. “Dr. Hammond had made an appointment. There were people waiting, all sorts of people, men and women, poor people and rich people, just waiting. When we went in, Mr. Lincoln was saying good-by to an old gentleman and a pretty girl, and the
girl was laughing up at him and he was smiling. Then he turned to us, and he was still smiling; but then the smile just seemed to drain out of his face and leave gray sadness and sorrow.” Her hand found Brett’s. “Brett Dewain, I never saw such sadness in a man’s eyes.”

  Brett, lest he break the spell, neither moved nor spoke.

  “Oh, he’s ugly,” she said, more to herself than to him. “He’s ugly, yes. His mouth is ugly, and his cheeks are ugly, and his beard and his hair; and sometimes his left eyebrow cocks up and he looks like an ugly old owl, as though he wanted to smile and wouldn’t. His mouth, when he isn’t smiling, looks as though he never smiled. It’s heavy as lead. There’s a wart or something on his cheek. He has the biggest ears I ever saw. Tony really does look like him, a little.”

  He felt perplexity in her. “What puzzles you, Cinda?”

  “Well, I know he’s ugly. But I never looked at a man who made me —well, who filled me with such calm happiness. Except you, of course.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Happiness isn’t the word,” she admitted. “I don’t know the word. I felt warm. I felt safe. Brett Dewain, I felt safe. I trusted him.”

  “What happened, Cinda? Tell me all about it.”

  She filled her lungs, lying here beside him. “Well, Dr. Hammond introduced me. He said I had come from Richmond to get Julian. He said Julian had been nearer dying than any man he ever saw who lived. He said Julian’s leg was gone at the thigh. He said Mr. Stanton would not let me take Julian home. Mr. Lincoln’s eyebrow cocked a little at that. He was almost sitting on the table or the desk or whatever it was, leaning back on it, bracing his hands on it, with his shoulders hunched up. He said Mr. Stanton was a strict man. Then Dr. Hammond left me alone with him. He looked at me. I didn’t say anything.”