House Divided (149 page)

Streean laughed. “He wishes by now he'd paid your price. He came back to Richmond and they went from here to Staunton and tried to go down the Valley and through the lines that way; but some bushwhackers stopped them and took everything he had, a lot of jewelry and gold, over two hundred thousand dollars altogether.”

“He'd have had a cheaper trip with me,” Captain Pew commented. He said that the cargo which the
Dragonfly
brought in for Colonel Northrop showed a profit beyond their best expectations. The two discussed new ventures. With gold at thirty for one, and prices rising every day, it was impossible to go far wrong. Anything you bought would presently show a profit. Streean said a ham had sold at auction that day for three hundred and fifty dollars, and sugar was ten dollars a pound.

“And if Sherman takes Mobile, the price will go up like a skyrocket,” he predicted.

Captain Pew said the trade with Nassau was at a peak. “The Governor has begun to enforce the Queen's proclamation, so blockading cruisers can't anchor in British waters unless they're in distress. They chased the
Hansa
from Stirrup's Cay till she jettisoned seventy bales of cotton and ran inside the reef at Six Shilling Channel. Three blockade-runners made Nassau the day they chased the
Hansa
, and twelve of us in January. The
Fannie
and the
Wild Dayrell
made two trips. And eight more came through in February. The
Pet
was captured off Wilmington, but the others all got through.” He added, smiling: “The big sensation in Nassau now is the Governor wants an investigation of the way Mr. Powell is running the hotel.” He hesitated, looking at Tilda, and Streean asked:

“What's wrong with it?”

“Oh, there've been complaints.” Captain Pew spoke evasively.
Clearly, her presence put a curb upon his tongue; and Tilda, hoping she could walk steadily, left them.

 

Next day, seeking any comforting, she went to tell Cinda Dolly's escapade; and as she repeated some of the things Captain Pew had said, she remembered his manner and spoke of it. “I never saw him like that before,” she said. “He's usually so—well, so sure of himself. I can't describe it, but it was as though he expected to be accused of something, and was ready to—well, to deny it, I suppose!” Cinda nodded, and Tilda added: “I suppose he knows he should have brought her right back, but probably he couldn't do it in broad daylight with the Yankee steamers there, and he thinks we're blaming him. But he acted —Cinda, if I didn't know nothing ever scared him, I'd think he was scared!”

“I can't think of anything, except perhaps his own conscience, which would frighten the bold Captain Pew.”

“I don't think he has much conscience,” Tilda confessed; and her own words frightened her. Dolly had been for days alone with him aboard the
Dragonfly.

Before February ended she had another letter from Dolly, and she opened it with eager fingers; but it was brief and hurtful as a blow.

That letter was like a thunderstroke crashing in Tilda's ears, mercifully rendering her for a while insensible to pain. From any thought of Dolly she took refuge in anxiety for her son. Tony did not know where Darrell was, nor did Captain Pew, nor Dolly. Dolly was lost; but where was Darrell? Where was Darrell now?

February-March, 1864

 

 

S
ADNESS had never left any visible mark on Vesta, and if sometimes she still wept for Tommy it was secretly. There were tears enough in the world; she would not add her own. Rich hours with her baby were a sweet delight; the household responsibilities that Cinda put in her hands gave her no leisure for wistful sighs; she was busy, and she was young, and healthy active youth laughs easily. Through this winter and early spring she began more and more to enter into the social gaiety, a little forced, with something desperate about it, which Richmond people would always remember as the last brightness of a dying flame. Gentlemen competed for first honors for hospitality. Mr. Trenholm, who was said to own more blockade-runners than any man in the Confederacy, and to be one of the wealthiest men in the South, kept open house every Saturday evening. His old Madeira was the best in Richmond, and no one ever declined an invitation to his dinners. Mr. Benjamin, the Secretary of State, was always a guest; and most people believed Mr. Trenholm would soon replace Mr. Memminger as Secretary of the Treasury. Mr. Macfarland, the president of the Farmers' Bank, was another who gave lavish entertainments. He had been politically ambitious till Mr. Tyler defeated him for Congress; but he could still plan delightful balls and socials.

And hostesses won an equal fame. Cinda seldom attended any elaborate entertainments, but she had planned to go to see the performance of
The Rivals
at the home of Mrs. Ives, early in February. When the time came, however, she had a wretched cold; and though Vesta urged her to ignore it, Cinda said:

“No, Honey. When I have a cold, people can't hear themselves
think in the same room with me. Sneezing and coughing, I'd be the real Mrs. Malaprop. You come home and tell me all about it.”

Vesta had contrived for the occasion a new dress, put together out of odds and ends of resurrected finery. The skirt was of white-barred organdy with a flounce of black lace around the bottom, and a wide black sash with a bow in the back; the waist was charmingly puffed, and trimmed with lace-edged ruching.

“And a flounced muslin petticoat, Mama! See!” She made Cinda admire her ingenuity. “And all out of scraps. I just threw all the old rags I own in a heap and took things at random and put them together any old way. Tell me how clever I am!”

She departed in a happy excitement, and after the performance she went with the others to Mrs. Ould's to a midnight supper, so it was late when she came home. Old Caesar, bearing a candle, since gas was short and people used no more than they must, sleepily admitted her. When the door opened Vesta saw a scrap of paper on the floor and picked it up. It was a note from Rollin.

Vesta was sorry too. She and Rollin had been friends so long. He must be just returning from his furlough. She tiptoed upstairs, but Cinda was awake and heard her and called her in. Vesta protested: “Heavens, Mama, you ought to have been asleep hours ago. How do you feel?”

“Oh, I'm lots better,” Cinda assured her. “June rubbed my chest with hot mutton tallow mixed with sassafras and turpentine till I thought I was afire, and then made me drink a glass of hot lemonade and brandy, and pinned a cold compress around my neck and tucked me in. I got rid of the clammy thing as soon as she was out of the room, but I wasn't sleepy. I've been watching the moonlight.” The night was bright outside her windows. “Was it fun, darling?”

“Wonderful!” Vesta lighted Cinda's candle, using three matches before one burned long enough to touch the wick. “We still haven't learned how to make matches,” she said laughingly. “I'd almost forgive the Yankees everything else if they'd send us some good matches
again. Mama, Rollin was here tonight.” She showed Cinda his note. “This was tucked under the front door. I wish I'd been here.”

“He didn't ring or I'd have heard him and kept him till you came. I like Rollin.”

“So do I.” Thinking of Rollin made her remember Dolly. “I wonder if Dolly's back from Nassau.”

“Oh, bother Dolly! Tell me about tonight,” Cinda urged. “Unless you're sleepy.”

“Heavens, I'm too excited to be sleepy. It was such fun, Mama.” The embers on the hearth were still warm. “Here, help me out of this dress; I mustn't muss it, even if it is a hodgepodge.” In her petticoat, a quilt around her shoulders, she sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, her tongue rattling. “Mrs. Clay kept us all just screaming, and Connie Cary was the loveliest thing you ever saw. Mr. Harrison just simply gawped at her!”

“Was he in it?”

“No. Connie was Lydia, and Mrs. Clay was Mrs. Malaprop, of course; and Lee Tucker was Captain Absolute, and Mr. John Randolph was Sir Anthony. Oh and Major Brown was Sir Lucius. He had the most marvellous brogue! Connie's brother was Fag.”

“I suppose everyone was there.”

“Oh yes, from President Davis down. The house was jammed. The stage was at the end of the parlors. Secretary Mallory says they did it as well as Drury Lane or any real theatre, and he's seen it dozens of times. Mrs. Drew said Mrs. Clay was as good as any Mrs. Malaprop she'd ever seen. Mrs. Ives filled in, in the afterpiece, and she borrowed Ruby Mallory's new hat that came through the blockade from Paris only last week, a huge black leghorn with black plumes. That hat just made everybody gasp. Connie had the most perfect dresses you can imagine. Mrs. Clay had on a brocade, and she was just simply festooned with lace, and jewels and plumes in her hair.” Vesta doubled over with laughter at the memory. “Her hair was piled mountain-high, and she told us between the acts that to get it high enough she'd rolled up a pair of her black satin boots and then pinned her own hair on top of them. Oh, and the funniest thing was when Bob Acres—Major Ward was wonderful—was getting ready for the duel, and General Hood said, loud enough for everyone near him to
hear: ‘I believe that fellow's a coward.' I guess he'd never seen
The Rivals
before.”

“Sam Hood's a nice boy,” Cinda declared. “I hope nobody laughed.”

“Oh no, but it was really the hit of the evening.” Vesta smiled. “General Hood attracted attention again, later on, after the performance. Mr. Blanding from Lynchburg said General Pendleton had told him that the Yankees lost forty-eight thousand men at Chancellorsville, and fifty thousand at Gettysburg. General Hood said it wasn't true; Mr. Blanding said General Pendleton had it from General Lee, and that General Lee knew it from secret official Yankee reports; and General Hood said the statement was as unreliable as General Pendleton's reconnaissance at Gettysburg. He was angry, but I suppose you can't blame the poor man. After all, he was wounded there.”

“They shouldn't talk war at a party.”

“They didn't mean to be heard, I'm sure,” Vesta explained. “But their voices rose.”

Cinda said: “I was sure Mrs. Clay would be good in her part. I've heard she went to a costume party in Washington before the war as Mrs. Partington, and made a sensation; and of course Mrs. Malaprop's the same sort of thing.”

“It was loads of fun,” Vesta said happily. “But I do wish I'd seen Rollin. It would almost have been worth missing it.”

“What did Connie wear?”

“Why, one dress was a white muslin, with a lace cap and blue ribbons, just as sweet as could be. But the prettiest was a pale blue brocade petticoat and bodice with a train of pink moire and a fichu of Mechlin lace and a wreath of pink roses. She looked good enough to eat—and Mr. Harrison looked as though he'd like to eat her.” She laughed again. “She told me her shoulder will be black and blue for days where Mrs. Malaprop pinched her! And ‘Lissa Temple had her hair done a new way—three rolls on each side of her head running from the front to the back, big ones on top, and then smaller ones, and then little ones over her ears. ‘Cats, rats, and mice' we called it, teasing her; but it looked ever so stylish. But of course Hetty Cary carried off all the honors, even without being in the performance. The gentlemen were just standing on their heads! Honestly, Mama, she's so lovely it's sinful, and so nice you can't possibly envy her. She wore a dotted
Swiss blouse with perfectly enormous puff sleeves, all caught in by a black velvet bodice laced across here—” Her rapid gesture with her fingertips made her meaning plain. “And a thin black ribbon like the lacing, tied in long bows at her throat, and tiny black lace across the top of the bodice. And her skirt was dark brown, with a brocaded panel in front, and she wore a perfectly lovely black lace shawl. Really, she was a picture!” She sighed and said again: “But I'm sorry I missed Rollin. Do you suppose he saw Jenny?”

“You like Rollin pretty well, don't you, Vesta?”

“Of course!” Vesta lay down, her head pillowed beside her mother's. “He and Tommy were such good friends, Mama.” Her voice was soft.

“I know.”

“I think Tommy'd be glad I like Rollin.”

“I know he would.”

Vesta turned to meet Cinda's eyes in a long questioning. “Is it all right, Mama?”

“It's all right, my dear,” Cinda assured her. “Anything that makes you happy is all right.” And she added: “Tommy'd say so too, darling.”

Vesta smiled and stirred and sat up. “If I don't go to bed, I'll be asleep right here. Good night, Mama.” She kissed Cinda, and went to her own room.

 

The day Tilda came to tell them Dolly was married, Vesta was not at home. When she returned and heard the news, her first thought was of Rollin, and her first word too. “Mama, do you suppose Rollin knew, that night he was here?”

“How could he, darling?”

“Well, he may have come through Wilmington, so he might have seen her. Do you suppose he's perfectly miserable?”

“If he is, he'll get over it.”

“What did Aunt Tilda think about it?”

“She was wretched, though of course she tried not to show it.” Cinda added in a thoughtful tone: “I never used to like Tilda, but I'm beginning to. I was so sorry for her.”

Vesta murmured: “I wonder if Dolly's—in a scrape.” But Cinda would not conjecture.

In spite of dancing and charades and theatricals and many valorous gaieties, that was a sober month in Richmond. With the passage of the new currency bill, prices soared. Sugar rose to twenty dollars a pound. One morning somebody had written on the walls of houses along Main Street threats of riot and violence unless the famine was relieved, and someone set fire to the government bakery on Clay Street, and there were other suspicious conflagrations. They were blamed on Yankee agents, but Vesta thought they might have been started by poor desperate folk who thus sought revenge for their helpless suffering. Only the wealthy and those whose influence allowed them to buy from the government commissary had enough to eat.

There were other complaints. The new conscription law had provoked an epidemic of evasion, and lawyers and unscrupulous physicians reaped a harvest. Judge Tudor told them of a lawyer in Lexington who handled sixty-odd cases in a month, at fat fees. “And every second-rate doctor is selling certificates of ill health. Rheumatism used to be a curse, but now men pay big fees to be told they have it. Gout too, but poor people can't afford gout! Men who used to shave their gray beards so they'd look young are letting them grow now to prove how old they are; and men as spry as boys a year ago are hobbling around on canes.”

Julian, fretting at his own helplessness to serve, damned these malingerers; and when General Bragg, as though to reward him for his disgraceful failures in Tennessee, was assigned to serve under President Davis as directing head of all the armies of the Confederacy, Julian was white with indignation. “It's typical of President Davis to do a thing like that. From now on every soldier in the army knows that if the Yankees lick him he'll be promoted! You can imagine how General Lee feels, and General Longstreet, and Johnston, and Beauregard. They win battles, so President Davis hates them; but General Bragg loses battles, so President Davis promotes him! It makes me sick!”

Cinda laughed at his rage and accused him of reading the editorials in the
Examiner;
but Vesta saw Anne's distress and advised Julian to be careful. “It bothers her to see you angry, you know; and you don't want anything to bother her now.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But I get so mad! I suppose the reason I get so worked up is because I can't do anything.”

“You've plenty to do, keeping Anne happy.” She kissed him. “And I'm very glad you can't go off and fight any more. It's nice for Anne and for Mama and me to have one of our men at home.”

 

On the last day of February a cold rain came to end the long spell of bright weather, and Vesta welcomed relief from the dust that for weeks had been stirred up by every passing horse or cart or carriage, sifting into the house through every crevice. Next morning was dark with low clouds emptying themselves of rain; but before noon there was a sudden rumble of guns north of the city. Julian brought Anne in the carriage to leave her with Vesta and his mother; and he said enemy cavalry, a force of several thousand sabres, was reported approaching Richmond, and the local militia had been called out.

“And even on crutches I can help man the fortifications,” he told them. “So I'm going. You keep Anne here.”

Vesta would have protested; but since Anne did not, she and Cinda held their tongues. Julian returned before dinner time to say the enemy had fled, but that night they heard again the guns and musketry at some distance. The
Dispatch
reported that the raiders had come within three miles of the city, but the danger was now past.