House Divided (166 page)

Brett came to touch her shoulder, and Trav asked: “What did you do?”

“I? I could not even weep with her. It was Tilda who gave her something to do, sent her to have his body dug up again so she could take the poor legless thing home to her children. Just planning that seemed to comfort her—perhaps even saved her reason.”

“I haven't seen Tilda,” Trav said guiltily. “Not since I came back.” He dreaded facing her, for she might ask whether he had any word of Darrell. He was a poor liar, and he knew it. It was better not to see her at all than to risk telling her the truth about her son. “I suppose you've told Brett about Darrell?”

Cinda shook her head. “No, I hadn't thought to do so. I'd almost forgotten. It's not easy to remember one death among so many.” So Trav gave Brett the ugly story, and when he was done, Cinda said: “But, Travis, you needn't avoid Tilda. She never speaks of him. I think in her heart she knows he's dead.”

 

Before he returned to headquarters Trav did go to see Tilda; but they had no moment alone, for Redford Streean was at home and full of talk. He too had heard from Tony.

“Too bad for him to abandon Chimneys,” he commented. “But of course land has no value now. I don't suppose the place could be sold today for enough to buy a good horse. An acquaintance of mine, Mr. Thorofare, the acting adjutant general, paid twenty-seven thousand dollars for a horse last week. Probably he thought he might need it when Richmond is abandoned. Chimneys wouldn't bring a third of that, if it could be sold at all.”

Trav remarked that Tony seemed to have prospered, and Streean nodded. “Yes. We were associated in some blockade ventures which turned out well for both of us.” He added, as though to turn aside
possible criticism: “And for the Confederacy, too! If it hadn't been for the gunpowder we blockade-runners have brought in, and the blankets, and the material for uniforms, and the food, the South could never have fought so bravely and so long. The Confederacy owes a great debt to the men who risked their lives in that traffic.”

Trav was often surprised by the things people said and did, and he was surprised now to see Streean assume the defensive, and wondered why. Tilda was knitting and she did not raise her eyes, but she said in a dry voice: “Wilmington is full of men who've grown rich while they ‘risked their lives' so bravely. I went to visit Dolly last summer, Trav. It's a very gay town.”

“How is Dolly?” He asked, not with any real curiosity. He was still puzzled by Streean, and even more by Tilda's remark. That hint of sarcasm sounded like Cinda; but Tilda had never criticized her husband.

“Dolly's quite well. She has rooms in a very nice house on Front Street. Lieutenant Kenyon is often able to be with her; and Captain Pew knows everyone in Wilmington, and he's there between his voyages. I think she finds life pleasantly exciting.”

“I suppose Wilmington is pretty lively.”

“In a fashion,” Tilda assented. “Of course when the yellow fever was so bad two years ago, the gentlefolk went to their country places; and the town is so changed that many of them have not returned, and those who have returned live in retirement and see no one except their friends.”

Her quiet words were eloquent, and there was a moment's silence before Streean spoke. “Yes, Wilmington has prospered.” Trav was wondering why Tilda had referred to Dolly in a tone so completely without inflection or emphasis. “War disturbs the economic balance of society,” Streean went on. “Business is a weed that thrives on war.” He seemed to deplore this. “And of course that leads to corruption everywhere. Many bonded officers of the Government have grown rich through the sale of privilege. Even clerks are now paid four and five thousand dollars a year, and yet they take every opportunity for private profit.” Trav thought Streean had acquired virtue somewhat belatedly, till the other added: “But of course, when we're beaten, these poor fools won't have a dollar they can call their own. The wise rats
are already leaving the sinking ship. George Randolph has taken his family to Europe.” Trav remembered seeing Major Randolph fire the first shot at Bethel, long ago. “After he resigned as Secretary of War, he and Mr. Myers made a fortune by arranging exemptions from army service for their clients.”

Tilda, not lifting her head, said: “Mr. Randolph's health failed. It was for his health's sake he went abroad; but his funds were all put into Confederate bonds before he left.”

This again was astonishingly like a reproof, but Streean said generously: “I should be glad to believe so. But other government officials have gone of whom that was not true, who had fortunes waiting in Europe or elsewhere.” He added: “Like Tony, skedaddling off to New Orleans to live on his gains.”

“You seem to think we're beaten,” Trav hazarded.

“I think we must face it, yes. Our army might hold its own against theirs, but now instead of fighting our army they turn their strength against helpless women and children. Sheridan at this very moment is ravaging Loudoun Valley, putting all Northern Virginia to the torch; and Sherman is destroying every house in his path through Georgia.”

Tilda asked: “Trav, is Enid still in Augusta?

“Yes. General Bragg's headquarters are there, and he reports that Sherman is passing south of him. She and the children are safe enough, I'm sure.”

Streean shook his head. “Don't be too sure, Trav. There's no safety anywhere. Gold is forty or fifty for one. That's proof enough of what's coming. The army's leaking away. Conscription can't find men fast enough to make up the desertions.”

Trav knew this was true. “General Pickett has a hundred deserters under arrest right now,” he admitted. “General Longstreet thinks the only way to stop desertion is by severe penalties; but if deserters are sentenced, President Davis remits the sentences. So any man who thinks of deserting knows he has everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

Streean said scornfully: “President Davis is losing what wit and sense he had. He even talks now of making an army of negroes! No, Trav, we're lost. Hood's army has been destroyed in Tennessee, and
Early's is gone. There's nothing but defeat ahead, nothing we can do but face it like men.”

Trav rode back to Longstreet's headquarters troubled not so much by what Streean had said as by the way he said it. Streean talked almost like a devoted and honorable man, which he was not; and this, because he could not understand it, made Trav obscurely uneasy.

But Monday night he forgot Streean, for Big Mill, whom he had left in Augusta with April to watch over Enid and the children, came to tell him they were at home. As he and Mill rode toward the city, the giant Negro said the journey, in spite of all he and April could do, had been a hard one. They were more than a week upon the way, cold most of the time, and always hungry.

Mill added another bit of news. Faunt too was in Richmond; and he was sick, or hurt. Old Caesar had recognized him as he was lifted off the train and into an ambulance. Caesar followed the ambulance and saw Faunt carried to the home of Mrs. Albion.

December, 1864

 

 

T
ILDA could have told Trav the reason for the change in her could have told Trav the reason for the change in her husband. He had played his game to the utmost; now to continue was to risk losing all his gains. He was planning to collect his winnings and depart before the final catastrophe.

Tilda knew Streean's decision almost before he did. She had been married to this man for twenty-seven years and she had long since learned to recognize his humors and his purposes. When he began to frequent the auctions and to buy table silver and jewelry, she guessed the direction his thoughts had taken. The day he sold the flour he had bought during the summer, he came home to boast to her.

“Six hundred dollars the barrel, Tilda; and some of it I bought as low as a hundred and fifty. It will go higher. Like as not I could get seven hundred, before the year's end; but it doesn't pay to be too greedy.”

“I suppose not, Redford.”

“And I got payment in gold, at forty-five for one.” He stood on the hearth, his hands clasped behind him, facing her proudly. “By the way, my dear,” he remarked. “A friend of mine, an auctioneer, says your mother's old silver has been coming on the market in steady driblets. Brett must be bankrupt, or Cinda would never let it go.”

She thought she had never seen him so jubilant. Teetering on his toes, his back to the fire, he made her think of a rooster beating its breast and about to crow, or of a hen that has laid an egg and must express to the world its delight in its own achievement. He seemed to expect an answer, so she said something meaningless. “I suppose that's so.”

“Yes, all the old high-and-mightys are crawling mighty low.” His eyes became thoughtful, and he sat down and fell into a long abstraction. She guessed what he was thinking, and when a few days later wagons came to haul away those kegs of nails in the cellar, she knew her guess was a true one. The nails had been so long a symbol of his success, they had come to hold for him an almost mystical significance. He had liked to talk about them, to tell Captain Pew—or anyone whom he trusted—the date of their purchase, the price paid, the price at which he could if he chose sell them now. They were tangible evidence of his foresight and his wisdom. When he spoke of them, no matter how modestly, it was as if he said: “I am a clever man; and if you don't believe me, consider these nails.”

But now he had not mentioned them for weeks, and she knew the meaning of that silence. As long as a husband speaks in open admiration of a pretty woman, there is no need for his wife to worry. It is when he seems to ignore the charmer, or even to affect indifference, that she should feel concern. When Streean no longer bragged about his nails, Tilda guessed he was on the point of selling them. When he sold them, she knew he had decided on departure.

 

She had long ago accepted the fact that she held no place in his life, so she expected him to go alone and without warning, but he surprised her. One day in mid-December she returned from her day's activity to find him already at home; and he called her in from the hall.

“We must make some plans, Tilda,” he said. “It's time for you and me to remove ourselves from the Richmond scene.” She looked at him in blank surprise. It had never occurred to her that he would wish to take her with him in his flight. “Captain Pew and the
Dragon
-
fly
will be in Wilmington for Christmas,” he continued. “When he sails for Nassau again, we'll be aboard.” He chuckled, patted his stomach comfortably. “I saw a letter in the paper somewhere, two or three days ago. The writer said it was time the South repealed the Declaration of Independence and went back to our old sovereigns, to England, or even France, or Spain. I like the notion. We'll go to London, Tilda; kiss the Queen's hand and declare ourselves her loyal subjects.”

Tilda sat down, her eyes meeting his. “I suppose you're a rich man, Redford.”

He laughed. “Rich enough. Yes, my dear. Yes, you'll be rich, Mrs. Streean!”

She shook her head. “No, not I.”

“What? What's that?”

Tilda crossed her hands in her lap, looking down at them. “I'm not going with you.”

“Eh?” A sharp astonishment edged his exclamation. “Not going? For God's sake, why not? What's got into you?”

Tilda folded her thin arms across her flat bosom. She echoed his words. “What's got into me? Why, Redford, I don't know. Some sort of happiness, something I've never had in my life before. I'm a little surprised, myself. But I'm not going. I'll stay here.”

“You're out of your mind!”

“I think perhaps I'm—in my mind,” she corrected. “Perhaps I've come to myself.” She half smiled at her own words. “It's curious the way people use that phrase. When a person turns over a new leaf, reforms, we say he's come to himself! But if he turns from good to bad we say he's gone to the dogs, something like that. As though it were natural for men to be good; and when they aren't, they're not themselves.”

“What are you trying to do? Preach a sermon?”

She met his startled eyes. “Oh, no. I was just thinking aloud. I've always kept my thoughts to myself. You see, Mr. Streean, I've always despised you. You were the only man who ever paid me any attention, so I married you; but I've been sorry I did, through all these years.”

He laughed at her in a scornful mirth. “Why, you poor faded old—I don't know what!” Laughter turned to anger. “Shut your silly mouth!”

“You're a bad man, you know,” Tilda told him, ignoring his command. “Oh, you're not bad in any big, bold, dashing way; just in small, sneaking, sly, cowardly ways. Your blood is bad, Mr. Streean.”

He came to stand over her. “I ought to smash you in the face!” He was hoarse with rage.

“It would be like you,” she agreed. “Yes, you've bad blood in you, certainly. I know that even a thin strain of good blood may work miracles in a man, or in a woman. But you're bad, and you've fathered
bad children, Mr. Streean.” In humble confession she added: “Probably, if I were fine enough they'd have been better than they are, in spite of you; but I don't amount to much. I'm—well, nothing to brag about, myself.”

He laughed, in angry scorn. “That's true, anyway!”

“Your son's a scoundrel,” she reminded him. “He's a better man than you, perhaps, but he's a scoundrel all the same. I hope he's dead. I hope he never passes on to some little baby the heritage of your blood which I gave him. I hope no man with any of you in him is ever born into the world again.”

“Listen,” he challenged. “Do you think for a minute that I want you to go with me?”

“No, I know you don't.”

“I suppose you think I'm going to buy you off?”

She smiled. “Heavens, no, Mr. Streean. I know you'd never oart with a dollar.”

“Not to you, by God! If you want to stay here, you can stay and welcome. I meant to take you along just out of politeness; but any yellow wench is more to a man than you ever knew how to be. Stay here and be damned to you, for all I care! I promise you I won't have to travel alone.”

“Your bad blood went into poor Dolly, too,” she said quietly. “If I could help Darrell, or Dolly, by going with you, I'd go.”

“The devil you would! I wouldn't have you.”

“Oh yes you would, if I wished to go.” Her tones were mild, but they silenced him. “You're a coward, Mr. Streean. In a pinch you're even afraid of me.” She shook her head. “But for me to go with you wouldn't help the children. I sometimes think Darrell is dead, and of course Dolly is lost.”

“Lost! She's a married woman!”

“She made a fool of herself with Captain Pew, thinking he'd marry her; but he wouldn't, and she was afraid she'd have a baby. That's the only reason she married poor Lieutenant Kenyon. She would have married anyone.”

“You're crazy!”

“Ask her.”

“I will, by God! I'll see her in Wilmington!”

“You won't dare ask her,” she predicted. “If you did, she might tell Captain Pew; and you'd never risk offending him. I know you, Mr. Streean. You're a bad, mean, greedy, scheming, pompous little coward. Don't ever forget I told you so; and remember, no one else in the world knows you as well as I.” She rose firmly. “Goodby, Mr. Streean. Please go soon.”

 

She turned to the door, and he let her go, and she went blindly up the stairs. Facing him, she had been strong and sure; but once she was out of his sight her knees began to tremble, and she held to the banister for fear of falling. She heard him, in the drawing room, begin to laugh; and that laughter frightened her more than any anger to which he might have given rein. It pursued her, a maniacal din of mirth, eloquent of all the fury and the emptiness, all the rage and the terror, all the incredulity mixed with inescapable humiliation which she had waked in him. In the room they for so many years had shared, staring at the wardrobe, the chairs, the bed, panic caught hold on her; and she wished to secure the door against him, but there was no way to do so. Through the closed door she could hear him still laughing; and she slipped out and up to the attic, crouching there in darkness, shaken by waves of trembling.

But after a time she heard the crash of the front door closing and knew he had gone out. He must not return and find her here. She raced down the stairs and caught up cloak and bonnet and bolted into the early December dusk; but she was uncertain where to turn. He would look for her at Cinda's, or at Trav's. She moved aimlessly away, the strength all gone out of her; and it was more chance than plan that guided her till she saw the dim-lit windows of the scores of rough white buildings that were the hospital on Chimborazo Hill.

There was safety, there she was known, there she could find endless tasks to do. She stayed at the hospital all that night, sitting by the bedside of a man in delirium whose gangrenous leg emitted a horrible odor, whose fevered and profane mutterings never ceased. Obviously he was a countryman, rude and ribald, ridden all his days by hopeless poverty. He was dying now, in torment unspeakable, far from the rough acres that had been his home; dying for a cause that for such as he had never held any selfish appeal, dying because no matter how
many of his comrades deserted, some deep loyalty made him stay and meet his duty and his death. Tilda was proud to share with such a man this that was his highest hour.

In the dull dawn he died, and she called someone and saw him borne away. Redford Streean had grown rich through the war such men had fought. Her head rose, and strength came into her again; she knew no more fear.

She walked the long way home, expecting to find Streean waiting, and ready to confront him. Yesterday had been warm for December, with a promise, not yet fulfilled, of rain. In this early morning not many people were as yet abroad, but on Bank Street below the Capitol there were scattering groups, and she heard someone say that General Sherman was at Savannah; that if he had not yet taken the city he was about to. She came to her own door, but Streean was not at home. Fat old Emma answered her ring; and she said he had come home late, in a hackney cab, and stayed an hour or two and then gone out again. In their room Tilda found disorder, his wardrobe emptied.

So he was gone. Perhaps she need not see him again. Relief and sleeplessness overcame her. She kept her bed that day, and Sunday too, drained and empty, all emotion gone out of her, her strength gone with it. She scarce knew when over that Sunday of steady rain night drew a curtain.

Monday, dawn was not dawn. Night ended, but day did not come. Black fog rose from the river, and earth and sky were lost in it till rain thinned the mists away. Toward noon Tilda was still abed when Emma announced a caller. “Kunnel suthin'r udder,” Emma reported. “A right nice gemmun. He say if it don' suit tuh see him now he come again.”

Tilda sent word to him to wait, and she dressed and descended, wondering what his errand might be. He told her he was Colonel Gruber, of Kershaw's division, back from the Valley where he had served under Early, and about to rejoin the First Corps. “Your husband told you to expect me?” he suggested.

Tilda hesitated, unwilling to betray herself. “Yes?” The word was half assent, half question.

“I was fortunate to meet him at the moment you and he had decided to leave Richmond,” Colonel Gruber explained. “Mrs. Gruber
and our children will arrive this evening. Your husband said we could take possession of the house at once.” He said gratefully: “Mrs. Gruber will be delighted. We'd heard so much about the difficulty of finding even rooms in Richmond. I telegraphed her Saturday, as soon as Mr. Streean and I struck a bargain.”

Tilda held herself under firm control. She must know a little more. “We had a hard time deciding whether to rent or to sell,” she said tentatively.

He smiled. “Rents are almost as high as selling prices,” he commented. “I was glad to be able to buy.” He looked around, in some uncertainty. “If you wish to stay a few days longer, and will permit us to come in with you—–”

So this was Redford Streean's revenge, to sell the house over her head and leave her homeless. It was like him, she thought; but she felt more relief than pain. Her mother had given her this house when she was married, but it was always his. It stank of him now; of the perfume of his hair, of his cigars, of his mean craven soul.

“Not at all,” she said calmly. “I am going to my sister's for a few days. I may want to come in for some of my personal things; but most of my packing is already done.”

She saw him to the door, and closed it behind him and stood a moment in the empty hall of this house that had so long been her home. She would be glad to leave it, glad never to enter its door again. She had a vague impression that Streean lacked the legal right to sell it without her assent; but no matter. Let it go. She would never seek to keep it. She had told Colonel Gruber that her personal things were already packed. This was of course not true, but there was so little here that she had any reason to treasure and to cherish. Yet garments of any kind were in these times hard to come by. She must at least have her clothes.