“I’m glad I don’t have to do anything,” Cinda confessed. “My bones have just turned to water.”
“I feel better keeping busy,” Tilda said. “I walked down Main Street to see what’s happening. They’re loading all the government papers into wagons, taking them to the depot, sending them away. Everybody who can is leaving, walking or riding or in carriages or wagons or on the canal boats, and carrying everything they own. The banks are open, and people who have any money are drawing it out. They’re burning all the paper money in Capitol Square.”
Vesta suddenly laughed. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about that. We haven’t any money in their old banks.”
After dinner Judge Tudor said he would go to the War Department to ask whether he could be of any use; and Tilda went with him. “I may see something that needs doing,” she explained. They watched from the windows the hurry and movement on Franklin Street, recognized passing friends, saw wagons driven by with the mules at a fast trot and sometimes at a gallop. Horsemen raced past, and even people afoot moved in desperate haste. Time lost any meaning, till Cinda realized that the light was failing, that day was nearly done, night near. Night? What would this night bring?
Toward sunset Trav rode up to the door and had their eager welcome and Cinda’s instant question. Where was Brett?
“His company will pass through Richmond some time tonight,” he said. “He can probably stop to see you.” He told Vesta: “Rollin too, I think.”
“You’re so tired, Uncle Trav.” Vesta touched his arm. “Rest a while.”
“I didn’t sleep last night,” he admitted. “But I must hurry to rejoin General Longstreet. He went to Petersburg last night.”
Cinda asked: “You’ve seen Enid?”
“Yes. Yes, I put her and the children and Mrs. Longstreet on the cars.” He said: “If you want to go, I can probably get you away.”
“No, we’ll stay here.”
“I thought you would.”
“What’s going to happen, Travis?”
“Why, the army is retreating,” he said. “But we’ll try to meet Johnston and make a fight somewhere. I suppose we’ll get into the mountains, perhaps split up into partisan bands. I don’t know. There’s some talk of scattering and uniting again in Texas, or even in Mexico. We can fight for years, they say. I don’t see how we can, but that’s what they say.”
Cinda folded her arms because her fingers would not be still. “Why don’t we surrender?”
“Oh, I don’t think Mr. Davis would ever surrender.” He said heavily: “I might lie down for a minute. I told Big Mill to come here. I’m going to let him stay with you. He’s a good man, Cinda. Wake me when he comes, won’t you?”
He had slept only a few minutes when Caesar came to say Big Mill “He’ll stay here,” he promised. “Now I’ll have to go.”
“I suppose there’s no telling when we’ll see you again, Travis.”
“No, no telling, I guess. Good-by.”
Dusk was falling as he rode away, and soon afterward Judge Tudor returned to tell them as much as he had learned. He had seen General Breckenridge, who had recently replaced Mr. Seddon as Secretary of War. “He’s managing what there is left to manage,” he said. “The bullion—what we had, half a million or so—has gone; and what government papers could be saved. Mayor Mayo and the City Council are planning to surrender the city when the time comes. They’ll have two regiments of militia to keep order till the Yankees come in. They plan to destroy all the liquor in the city to avoid trouble. There’s some scattered looting already, and a mob in the lower part of town.”
Cinda asked: “Where’s Mr. Davis?”
“I didn’t see him. No one’s seen him, as far as I know. They say he’s hiding in Manchester till time to get away.”
“I should think he’d be—managing things,” she protested. “Or showing himself to people, telling them what’s happening, doing something.”
He repeated that President Davis seemed to have vanished, and as he spoke Tilda returned with news worth hearing. “As soon as all the army wagons are loaded, and the soldiers have taken all they can carry, the government stores are going to be distributed to the people in the streets,” she said. “But that won’t be right away, and I thought if someone could come back with me now we might stock up.”
Vesta said quickly: “I’ll go. We’ve hardly anything in the house.”
“We’ll both go,” Jenny agreed.
Cinda was about to protest; but Vesta met her glance. “It’s all right, Mama. We’ll be all right! After all, it’s still my job to keep the kitchen supplied.”
“You two children can’t go alone!”
Jenny said gently: “I’ve been alone at the Plains for a long time, Mama.”
Vesta added: “And we’ll take Big Mill.”
“And I’ll escort them,” Judge Tudor said reassuringly; and Tilda would return with them and stay to help in distributing the stores to the people when the time came. So Cinda yielded.
She had at first no real misgivings. After all, ladies were safe from molestation anywhere. But when they were gone it seemed to her that the stir and murmur in the city increased. She and Anne and Julian stood in the open windows with the room dark behind them; and she heard down toward Main Street and Cary a louder hum of voices and an occasional hoarse shout and sometimes an angry cry. It was hard to wait passive here.
But Vesta and Jenny returned triumphant. “We got two whole hams, Mama,” Vesta told her. “And a bag of dried apples, and a side of bacon, and a bag of coffee. Real coffee! June’s making some now. And a barrel of flour and some meal and a jug of sorghum.” She laughed in a nervous excitement. “It’s lucky we had Big Mill. We couldn’t possibly have carried everything!”
“Didn’t you get more than our share?”
“If we did, we can divide with our friends.”
Coffee heartened them, and Vesta insisted on a lavish supper. Judge Tudor and Tilda had not returned. “The wagons are still loading,” Vesta explained. “Aunt Tilda has some ladies helping her, and they’re getting ready so they can pass out things quickly when the time comes. There was already a perfect mob in the streets, men and women, cursing and yelling while they waited. We went in through an alley and the back door.” And she said: “Mama, the warehouse we were in was just full of things. I don’t see why they didn’t give them to the soldiers to eat up long ago.”
Cinda smiled faintly. “Men are stupid, darling. They’ll always save and save for fear they won’t have enough, instead of using what they have while they still can.”
A little after midnight the door bell rang and it was Brett, Brett Dewain whom Cinda had thought she might never see again. Vesta scurried to bid June be sure he was well fed, and he told them while he waited and while he ate what he had done in the hours since he followed President Davis out of church that morning.
“I made sure what was happening first, and then jog trotted back to camp,” he said. “They hadn’t heard anything, and the men all thought it was just another Sunday rumor, till some more of us got back from Richmond. There weren’t any orders, but we began to get ready to move. We were short of horses. Our Napoleons each need six-horse teams, but we could only put four horses to a gun, and we could only move two caissons. The orders came about ten o’clock; and we started. Then most of the men hurried ahead to say good-by to their families, so I decided to come on myself.” He laughed suddenly. “What do you think? I met Colonel Taylor of General Lee’s staff outside. He’d just been getting married; had ridden up from Petersburg on purpose. But he said General Lee has ordered a rendezvous at Amelia Court-House; so he had to bid a quick good-by to his bride—and so must I.”
“Will you be back soon?”
“Well, we’ve got to join forces with General Johnston and give those bluebellies a licking first.”
His tone was confident, but Cinda said: “You don’t expect us to believe you, do you?”
He met her eyes, spoke s
lowly. “I expect to go on fighting as long as the South fights, Cinda. I’m sorry to leave you, but you’ll be all right if you just stay indoors. The Yankees will be here tomorrow to keep order.”
A moment’s silence lay upon them all. Then Cinda said: “They didn’t keep very good order in Columbia.”
“You’ll be all right,” he insisted. “I’m sure you will. You’ve got to be. Only for Heaven’s sake stay in the house. I came in past Rockett’s, and the streets were jammed; men and women loaded down with things from the commissary stores. Stolen, I suppose.”
“No,” Cinda explained. “Whatever the army can’t use is being given away. Vesta and Jenny got all we’ll need.” At his sharp ejaculation she added quickly: “Oh, Big Mill was with them. Trav left him here to take care of us. Tilda’s down there now, helping distribute the food.”
He was eating hurriedly. “Well, stay in the house from now on,” he insisted. “Someone’s dumping all the liquor, pouring it out of the warehouse windows. I saw people scooping it up in their hands and drinking it. Every blackguard in town will be drunk before morning.” He finished and rose. “I’ll have to go. I want to meet our guns at Mayo’s Bridge.”
Cinda in that last moment was weak as any woman. Clinging to him she pleaded: “Don’t go! Oh, Brett Dewain, don’t go!”
He kissed her, but he put her arms aside. “I started the race, Cinda. I’ll finish it. But I’ll send you word, first chance I can.” He kissed Vesta and Jenny and Anne, and Julian too. “Take care of Mama, young’uns,” he said cheerfully. “And here’s another kiss for my Cinda.”
“I’m sorry, Brett Dewain,” she whispered, lips on his. “I just had to let go for a minute. Good-by, my dear.”
Brett had been gone only a moment when Tilda appeared. She was half-weeping with fatigue. “Oh it’s awful, Cinda,” she said, dropping helplessly into the nearest chair. “Everyone’s insane! We tried to parcel out the stores, but we were just overwhelmed by women and children and horrible men like things out of the sewers. They swarmed everywhere and helped themselves, swearing and fighting and wasting more than they took. And coming home—oh, it seems as though I’d been hours on the way—I saw women and even children, and men of course, drinking liquor out of the gutters and dipping it up in cups and pails.”
“I’m glad you’re home,” Cinda assured her. “It will be worse before daylight. You must be starved, but we’ll take care of that.” She sent Vesta to bring hot coffee and biscuits and molasses, and she bade Julian take Anne upstairs and put her to bed. “Stay with her, Son,” she said. “I expect we’ll all go to bed pretty soon.”
“I wish Papa were here,” Anne confessed.
“He’ll be here when you wake in the morning, darling.”
So Anne let herself be led away, and Tilda too, but Vesta would not go. “Rollin may come,” she reminded Cinda. “I want to be awake so I won’t miss a minute.” Cinda had no sleep in her, and Jenny stayed with them. They drew the curtains and sat in candlelight, talking in snatches; but a little after two o’clock Tilda called from the upper hall:
“Cinda! Cinda, there’s a building on fire down near the river. I think it’s Shockoe’s Warehouse.”
They parted the draperies and saw that dawning redness above the lower city; and then Cinda heard Julian’s crutch and he came down to them. He could see three fires from his window, he said; and when he showed them where to look, they saw the mounting glare. But Cinda sent him back to Anne. “She might wake and be frightened, Son,” she reminded him. As he went upstairs, Tilda in a wrapper descended; and they stood in the windows, too numb to be afraid, watching as below them the several fires merged into one, and the conflagration spread.
The door bell rang, and Vesta thought this might be Rollin and ran to open to him; but it was Judge Tudor, as haggard and tired as Tilda had been. He told them the fires had been set by General Ewell’s men. “The gunboats on the river are to be burned, and the Armory and the machine shops and the tobacco warehouses,” he explained. “Army orders. Mayor Mayo tried to persuade them not to do it, but they did. He’s going out to the Yankee lines to surrender the city. The last of our soldiers will be gone by daylight.” He asked: “Is Anne all right?”
“Fine,” Cinda told him. “Julian’s with her. I sent her to bed, and she’s asleep. She was the bravest of us all.”
“General Breckenridge has gone,” he said. “President Davis, all the Government.” He added: “General Hill was killed yesterday. They say he seemed to invite death, showed himself to the Yankees when he needn’t.”
“What will happen now, Judge Tudor? After the city is surrendered? ”
He shook his head. “God knows.”
Jenny said sensibly: “If I rest tonight, I can be more useful tomorrow, Mama.” At Cinda’s advice Judge Tudor also consented to go to bed; but though Vesta dozed in a chair, she would not go upstairs lest Rollin come. Tilda stayed too; and neither she nor Cinda slept that night at all. Toward the river the whole city seemed to be afire. The burning buildings threw up agonized arms of flame, and bright embers sailed like shooting stars across the sky. Canal Street, and Clay and Main must be all ablaze, and there were buildings burning as close at hand as Eighth Street. The wind bore embers this way. Cinda heard some sound overhead, and called Caesar to question him; and he said Big Mill was on the roof with pails of water to watch for burning brands. What went on in the hearts behind these black faces? Why were they loyal without bidding, even now, to those who had fought for four years to keep them enslaved? Did they welcome their coming freedom? Were their dark passions merely held in check, awaiting the hour of release? What horrors would Richmond see tomorrow when the Yankees came?
The fire crawled nearer, a sluggish patient beast that made no haste, devouring and digesting as it came. Before dawn Cinda heard a tremendous explosion, and then another and another, each seeming worse than the last; and the concussions shattered several panes of glass in the windows on the Franklin Street side. Cinda even in that moment noticed with a dull surprise that the broken glass had fallen out, not in. She called Caesar to bring something to stop the windows, to replace the broken panes. “We can’t have all outdoors blowing in. Suppose it rained all over my beautiful carpet!” Vesta and Tilda laughed with her, and they all admired the ingenuity with which Caesar mended the damage. The explosions had waked Judge Tudor and he came down to join them; and Caesar finished, and silence was suddenly as awkward as an unwanted hush at a dinner table. Cinda made polite conversation.
“What do you suppose those explosions were?” She dropped the question at random, for anyone to pick up who chose.
Judge Tudor hazarded an answer. “I expect it was the ironclads in the river. I know they were to be set on fire. Probably the fire reached the magazines. And one of the blasts may have been the Armory. That’s just down at the foot of Fifth Street.”
Cinda nodded absently. How difficult it was to sit here and make conversation, with the end of the world going on outside! With Vesta and Tilda she could have been silent, but Judge Tudor had to be kept in play.
“I suppose no one was really surprised when the news came.”
“The Government perhaps.” He spoke resentfully. “You’d have thought evacuation was entirely unforeseen. No preparations had been made, no plans drawn. I believe a few boxes of records had been sent away, but that was all. Everything had to be improvised helter-skelter, confusion thrice confounded. And of course after dark there was not even a pretense of keeping order. The mob took charge. The prisoners from the penitentiary got loose to lead them, and they broke into the stores, took everything they could carry away.”
Tilda came into the conversation, reciting her experiences; she and the old man talked on and on. Vesta stayed near the front windows, watching always for Rollin to appear. Cinda sat limply, her head resting against the back of her tall chair, her eyes turning sometimes to Vesta, or to Tilda and Judge Tudor, but always swinging back to the windows against which the red smok
y glare seemed to press close. At first dawn they heard another explosion at some distance, off toward the upper ravine of Shockoe Creek. That was probably the arsenal, the Judge suggested.
Day paled the fire’s brightness, but a vast column of black smoke rising into the sky and mushrooming there spread a continuing canopy of darkness, spilling a rain of soot and sparks and burning embers, drifting on the light dawn wind. When the sun rose, Cinda saw it as a red disk through the curtain of smoke and flame that boiled upward from the conflagration only a few blocks away. Big Mill was still on the roof and she could sometimes hear him moving there; but if this southerly wind held, or freshened at all, the fire would inevitably come at full race toward them. They must be ready to escape if it were necessary, and standing at the window she began to think of waking the children, of giving them their breakfast, of preparing to hurry them away. Franklin Street was sprinkled with people, little knots of Negroes and of ragged whites scudding to and fro. People came up Fifth Street laden with loot. Now and then a horseman passed, or a wagon or a carriage, the vehicles always loaded. A rider came at a gallop up the steep ascent of Franklin Street, and as he passed her window Cinda recognized him.
“Here’s Rollin, Vesta!” she called. Vesta raced to the door and they pressed after her. Rollin swung off his sweating horse to catch Vesta in the tight circle of his arm; and Cinda went out to where they stood in close embracing.
“Come in,” she urged. “Long enough for coffee and a piece.”
Rollin shook his head, never releasing his clasp on Vesta. “Can’t,” he said, panting with haste and with the heat of the fire so near. “I just came to see if you’re all right. Yankees right behind us. We’re about the last ones through town.” He kissed Vesta, lifting her clear off the ground in that swift hard clipping. Then he leaped into the saddle; but Vesta still clung to his leg.
House Divided Page 164
