Watchfires

by Louis Auchincloss

  Mr. Handy proceeded, with other prominent men of affairs, to organize the Union Defense Committee of the Citizens of New York, which met and worked, day and night, to provide uniforms and arms for the New York regiments. When Dexter told his father-in-law that he had joined a group of gentlemen who were drilling in the evening to qualify themselves for this new army, he was treated with a firmness and a severity that he had not encountered before.

  "Drill as much as you want, dear boy. It may be necessary for every able-bodied man in the North to be ready to fight before this trial is lifted from us. But there can be no idea of your joining up now. I'm going to need every minute you can spare from your law practice—and a good many you can't."

  "But that, sir, is work an older man can do. Or one who is not physically qualified to fight."

  "Don't fool yourself! You'll need every ounce of strength you have before I'm through with you! The great lack in this war is not going to be manpower. It's going to be brains and administrative ability!" Mr. Handy shook his head emphatically. "When I think of all those fine generals siding with the South, it makes me fairly ill. Lee! If we ever catch the scoundrel, we should string him up!"

  Dexter was disturbed. The emotion that had filled him to the brim, as from a gushing pipe, each morning that he had awakened since the firing on Sumter, seemed to necessitate some physical outlet. Could he survive his own inner tumults at a desk?

  "How will I look to my sons, sir? I, who urged everyone to vote for Lincoln and bring on the war?"

  "The times are too grave for that kind of petty consideration. We can't just think of ourselves and how we're going to look in what sort of silly hat. I need you, Dexter, in the most important work of this struggle. To raise an army! You say you're willing to give up your life? I take that for granted. I'm asking you to do something harder. To put your country before your vanity!"

  Dexter was astonished to find that the old man had just as much force and penetration as he had always pretended to credit him with.

  "I suppose we must agree to disagree in this matter, sir," he suggested desperately.

  "Not on your life! I think you owe me something, son." In the pause that followed Dexter dropped his eyes before Mr. Handy's long yellow stare. Noting his concession, the latter nodded. "Very well. Let there be no more talk of enlisting. You shall be my number-one man. And when we've got the army raised and equipped, then, my boy, and only then, you may go!"

  The only remedy that Dexter could find for his frustration was in hard work. When he was not in his office, he was calling on businessmen, raising money and soliciting supplies. It did not take him long to observe that the spirit of patriotism and sacrifice were close to the surface of national events and that after the first explosion of enthusiasm, the old goals of profit and pleasure as usual began to reassert themselves. He sometimes discussed this with Rosalie, whom he rarely saw now except at breakfast. But when they did talk, it was with a mutual interest in what each was doing that was novel in their relationship.

  "Do you suppose the Rebs find it as hard as we do to rouse their people to any action?" he asked.

  "Probably. Wars are started by very few people. They must be carried on by very few."

  "You mean most people don't care?"

  "Well, isn't that what you've just been telling me?"

  He looked at her with suspicion. "Do you imply that the few people who started this war were Northerners?"

  "Well, didn't you all really want it?"

  "Oh, Rosalie!"

  "You know I've always felt that. Why fuss about it now?"

  "Because I don't think you're honest when you imply that you don't believe in the war. You're as busy as a bee, and you love it!"

  "But my business will be casualties! One can't love that. And, besides, I'd be just as willing to look after enemy casualties as our own."

  "You mean you're neutral?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Dexter. What does it matter? Why can't you be like Father? He has no doubts. He's not always pummeling people with suspicious questions. He likes the glory, and he likes the gore!"

  Dexter thought of this interchange a week later when he stood with Mr. Handy and some dozen members of the Union Defense Committee in the White House, listening to his father-in-law expound the problems of raising regiments to the new president. It was his first glimpse of Lincoln, and he studied the chief executive with intense curiosity.

  The president was leaning forward over his desk, his chin resting on his fists. His long plain face was lined with seeming exhaustion; the half-closed eyes indicated only a forced attention. From time to time he nodded. Mr. Handy now paused, as if not sure that his message was being conveyed.

  "I hope you don't mind, sir, if I put what I have to say in plain English?"

  "Oh, no. That's what I like."

  "The fewer intermediaries between us and your administration, the better."

  "Yes, Mr. Handy. We must avoid seesawing."

  Mr. Handy resumed his eloquent flow. What he had to say about the necessity of raising further regiments and the obligation of Congress to pay, no matter what revenues might be lacking, was cogently, even dramatically put. There was something rather splendid in the sight of this large, vigorous old man devoting his energies to his nation's cause. And yet Dexter could not quite dispel the suspicion that there was something faintly out of key, something almost stagy in the presentation. Mr. Handy and the other gentlemen from New York might have represented justice and the necessity of force. The president somehow represented the cost. Cost in what? Well, perhaps, simply the cost in blood.

  "He's a well-meaning man," Mr. Handy said afterwards in the bar of Willard's Hotel. "And I think, on the whole, an honest one. But it's a tragedy that he doesn't know more of military affairs. And that General Scott is so ancient. We have a president who tells yarns and a chief of staff who's older than the capital he defends!" He raised his glass to the others. "Well, God help us, gentlemen! We'll have to do the job ourselves!"

  Back in New York the following night, at another family party at Number 417, Dexter was able to measure the full extent of his reinstatement in the clan by the fact that he was allowed to sit by Annie.

  "I am sorry for what Charley told me before dinner," he said to her.

  "That I've seceded at last? Yes, I've walked out on him. Rebellion seems to be in the air. You can't have been much surprised."

  "I hate to think what'll happen to Charley."

  "Oh, he'll probably drink himself into a cocked hat. But he'd do that if I stayed."

  "And what will you do now? Will you live here with your father and Joanna?"

  "You've always been determined that I must bore myself to death, Dexter! Even during our ... how shall I call it ... our interlude? You always insisted that I should be as dull as possible when I was not in South Vesey Street. The great lover was to be my sole diversion! Like an odalisque in a harem, I had to wait patiently for my brief moment of bliss."

  "Please, Annie!" he cautioned her, glancing over at her father.

  "Oh, silly, do you think I don't know how to moderate my voice in this house? The only reason Daddy has any idea of what we're talking about is that nervous look you just gave him. He could hardly miss that."

  "Well, then, where will you live? All alone, in Union Square?"

  "I'm going to Paris with my daughter. I'm going to rent the flat over Lizzie Osborne's in the Rue du Bac. I shall try it for a season, anyway. And don't tell me that nobody there will receive a 'separated' wife. Lizzie writes that I may even be presented at the Tuileries!"

  Dexter, looking into those animated eyes, had a vision of Napoleon III, with lascivious lips and a shiny goatee, leaning over to kiss Annie's little hand. He coughed to dispel the vision.

  "I don't see how you can leave at a time like this."

  "What can I do about the war? Can I fight? I've never been able to do anything with my hands, so pity the poor soldier who has to wear my bandage." She laughed her old high l
augh, but now he did not join her. "Oh, you're all so serious! Frankly, it bores me. You're so holy and grave. At least the Southern cavaliers have a dash to them. But I don't care to be hanged as a Confederate sympathizer, so I'd better clear out."

  "I wonder if you'll ever come back."

  "If you lose your war, maybe. Then you might all be fun again. But if you win it, you'll be impossible! And you will win it, I suppose. Dull, pompous people always do. No, I'm not coming back!"

  "Has your trip been arranged?" he asked, with a more formal politeness. "Can I help you with tickets and passports?"

  "Oh, Daddy's arranged the whole thing at the bank," she replied easily, and he realized that he was still under the Handy surveillance. Normally, such a chore would have been sent to his office. No, he was not quite trusted yet.

  This was even more deeply emphasized when he discovered, a mouth later, that Jules Bleeker had been sent to Paris to write for the Richmond Inquirer. The Handys all knew, but nobody had spoken of it. They had given Annie up, but they were hanging on to him.

  20

  IT WAS EARLY on a July morning, outside Willard's Hotel, and Joanna Handy was supervising the loading of the picnic hamper into the double-seated open carriage with two horses that Dexter had engaged for the day to drive his father-in-law out from the capital to Centreville to watch McDowell trounce the rebels. He and Rosalie stood on the curb and watched.

  "You won't change your mind and come with us?" he asked.

  "I've got to be at the Sanitary Commission, thank you very much. Some of us have to work to win this war."

  "I suppose it does look rather awful," Dexter admitted as a boy came up with the champagne bucket. "But your father has set his heart on it."

  The sight of the wine turned Rosalie's sarcasm to sharp disgust. "Awful? It's absolutely bloodthirsty! All these carriages and ladies with parasols." She turned scornfully away from the line of vehicles where similar preparations were being made. "Do you really want to see our boys killed?"

  "I doubt there'll be much killing today. It should be a rout. McDowell outnumbers the enemy three to one."

  "Well, I don't think one should even go to routs. Here's Father now. Goodbye. Happy hunting!"

  Mr. Handy, in a light brown suit with a tall silk brown hat and a pearl-handled cane, appeared in the hotel doorway and bowed to them solemnly. Rosalie, raising her hand, hurried off. The damp air, the whitening sky, the mild mist, foretold a scorching day.

  "We'd better get started," Mr. Handy announced.

  They slowly followed the long line of traffic, carriages, cabs, army wagons and equestrians. Washington seemed to Dexter a study in white and brown. White was in the government buildings, some still unfinished, stark Greek temples, and brown in the military personnel and equipment that everywhere abounded. It was as if the capital, a pale virgin, had fallen into the hands of dun-colored, hirsute barbarians. As they crossed the Long Bridge into Virginia, Mr. Handy and Dexter compared bits of information about the relative deployments of McDowell's and Beauregard's troops. They agreed it should be only a brief encounter. Joanna was silent and moody.

  "Rosalie's right," she said once. "We shouldn't have come."

  After an hour of jolting Mr. Handy fell asleep. His head was tilted back, his mouth open, and he snored loudly. Joanna watched him until she was sure that he could hear nothing.

  "Dexter, I want to ask you something. Don't you think I should be doing my part in the war, too?"

  "But you're doing it. You're looking after a great public servant."

  "Any maid could do what I do. Or maybe a paid companion. I want to be a nurse."

  "You're too old."

  "I'm not! I've asked Rosalie. They're supposed to be old. She says she can arrange it easily. But she told me I'd have to tell Father. Dexter, please! I want you to do that for me."

  "Jo, you can't leave him now. A man of his age who's taking on the load of work he's taking on? Where's your sense of perspective?"

  "Where's yours? Must I always be the one who's sacrificed? Oh, don't you see? It's my one chance to live!"

  "Think of all the young men who are being given their one chance to die."

  "I know I sound selfish. But I'm not, really. I only want to help. To do my part!"

  "Well, look at me. I gave up the army to work for your father."

  "But that's different. He needs you."

  "He needs you, too."

  "You just say that because you don't want to cause him the slightest annoyance. You all defer to him so! And nobody ever thinks of me!"

  Dexter frowned. "These are not times for thinking of ourselves."

  "There are never any times for thinking of Jo Handy! That's for sure!"

  She flung herself back in her seat to pout, and the journey, which had started so gaily, proceeded in a rather sullen silence. Far to the west they heard the rumble of gunfire.

  Dexter was to remember afterwards that the first ominous note was the approach of a group of soldiers, ambling along in no kind of order, followed by a cart pulled by one old horse and containing a pile of packsacks. Mr. Handy, waking with a start, ordered the coachman to stop.

  "Aren't you fellows going in the wrong direction?" he called out benevolently.

  One of them, who had been drinking, put his hand familiarly on the side of the carriage. "Not us, pops. We signed up for three months, and three months is up."

  "But there's a battle going on! Don't you hear it?"

  "All the more reason to get the hell out of here, don't you agree?"

  Mr. Handy became magisterial. "What is your regiment?"

  "The Sixteenth New York."

  "Good God! One that I helped organize! Young man, you're a disgrace to the cause! And so are all the rest of you!"

  Dexter, fearing violence, called to the coachman to drive on. As they trotted ahead a loud burst of jeering came from the men, and Dexter had trouble restraining his father-in-law from standing up in the carriage to shout back at them.

  "After all, sir, it's their right to leave."

  "You talk about rights? In these times? There are no rights. We must have a draft! Of course, we must have a draft."

  As they approached Centreville, the sound of gunfire was now constant, and Dexter climbed up to the driver's seat to help him to decide which of the hills looking down on the little stream of Bull Run would provide the best observation post.

  "Look there, sir! It looks as if those people were coming over to us!"

  And, indeed, across a field an open carriage was approaching them rapidly. Dexter had just made out a lady in white in the back holding tightly to a wide-brimmed hat when the man beside her half rose from his seat and hollered:

  "Our boys are licked. It's going to be a stampede!"

  But it was by no means clear from what direction the stampede would be coming. Every horse or vehicle in sight seemed to be headed in a different direction. Two army officers cantered towards them down the road, and Dexter cried out:

  "Is the battle really lost?"

  "Thanks to you blasted tourists!" one of them shouted back as they sped past.

  Dexter was to recall afterwards what the next sight had reminded him of. As a boy he had once gone camping with his father in the Adirondacks, and they had stumbled upon and startled a huge herd of deer. Traversing a long valley of high grass between two hill ranges, they had happened upon a splendid grazing stag surrounded by his bodyguard of lesser males. The big buck had reared up his head and departed at a gallop, while his guard had scattered to give the alarm. Dexter had never forgotten his amazement at seeing the whole valley suddenly turn brown as hundreds of deer had leaped into sight and poured away from him in opposite directions in two tumultuous streams. So now did the few carriages and carts that had been visible seem suddenly to be converted into wild caravans as from every point, on the road and across the fields, hustling carriages and creaking carts and running figures appeared.

  "Get going!" a gentleman on horseback
shouted at them. "Johnny Reb is only a mile back!"

  The driver did not wait to be told twice. Lashing his horses he turned the carriage around so abruptly that Mr. Handy roared at him to mind what he was doing. Dexter shouted questions to any who came near, but nobody heeded him. At the first turn on the way back they encountered soldiers, mud-covered, shuffling, running, in total disorder.

  "Oh, look!" Joanna cried. "There are two who are hobbling. We must take them in! Driver! Stop!"

  The driver did not do so until Mr. Handy had stuck his cane hard into the middle of his back.

  "Did you hear my daughter, rascal? Pull up!"

  Joanna was out of the carriage in a second, and she and Dexter helped two dazed youths in ragged blue into the back seat on either side of the compliant Mr. Handy. Joanna wanted to take more, but at this the driver protested vociferously that it would be too much for the horses, and Dexter persuaded her to give in. He resumed his former seat beside her, and the long ride back to the capital began.

  Nothing on the road could move at more than a walk, and the slowest pedestrian could keep abreast of the horses. Dexter, after the first hour, considered getting out and walking to make room for another exhausted soldier, but he decided, on due consideration, that it was his duty to stay close to the old man and his daughter. The traffic ahead seemed more orderly now, as the carriages and vehicles that had led the retreat were those in better condition.

  Silence had fallen over their little group. Mr. Handy stared disconsolately at the countryside, and Joanna watched the two soldiers, one of whom was asleep. The distant rattle of gunfire continued. From time to time an officer would gallop past them along the side of the road. People would shriek questions at him, but they could never hear the answer.