House Divided (177 page)

March, 1865

 

 

T
HE fire which destroyed Mrs. Albion's attractive little house out in the country west of town made no great stir in Richmond; but April, when she took breakfast to Enid's room, had heard, and spoke of it. “All burned up,” she said. “De lady lived dere, she daid. Name Mis' Albion.”

“Mrs. Albion?” Enid sat bolt upright, tipping the waiter so that dishes slid and makeshift coffee spilled.

“Yas'm. Dey say dere was a gemmun. He daid too.” April began hurriedly to clean the saucer, mop up the coffee. Enid understood that April knew, as no doubt every house servant in Richmond knew, that Mrs. Albion was her mother; but the old Negro woman would of course never avow this knowledge. A gentleman? That was certainly Faunt. Enid's pulse was racing, but not with grief nor with any sense of loss. She had not seen her mother or Faunt for months, and if she had thought of them at all it was resentfully.

But she must hurry to tell Cinda. “I'll dress, April. The waiter's all a mess. Give me breakfast downstairs.” The prospect of being the first to bring this news to Cinda and to Tilda, to tell them Faunt was dead, was so exciting that it made her for the moment forget her mother. She made haste, and neither Lucy nor Peter had wakened when she left the house.

Cinda and Vesta were just coming downstairs for the day when Caesar admitted her. Without waiting for any greeting, Enid cried: “Cinda, Cinda, the most terrible thing!” She looked at Vesta, hesitated, then said breathlessly: “Mama's house burned down last night, and she's dead!” Her eyes touched Vesta again, but she did not pause. “And Cousin Faunt too!”

For a moment Cinda did not speak. She looked at Vesta, and Enid guessed she was thinking to send Vesta away; but the girl said quietly: “I know all about them, Mama. Mrs. Albion came here while you were away.”

Enid asked: “Has Tilda gone?” Cinda nodded, moving into the drawing room, and Enid followed her, saying rapidly: “Isn't it terrible? April told me. Of course she knew who Mrs. Albion was, but she pretended not to. I wanted to go right out there; but probably I shouldn't!” To her own surprise she began to cry. “Oh what are we going to do?” Cinda shook her head, and Enid urged: “We've got to do something, Cousin Cinda!”

“There's nothing to do. Nothing we can do. If they're alive, they're all right; and there's certainly nothing we can do if they're dead.”

“We can go see! Can't we? Please?”

“Why?” Cinda sat down, and she spoke as one speaks to a bewildered child. “Very few people knew much about your mother, Enid; and those who knew her were mostly men who won't—talk about it. After all, with our whole world in flames, she will be forgotten. Why not let her be?”

“But she was my mother!”

“Oh don't be so self-righteous! You didn't care a fig for her!”

Enid, suddenly convinced of her own filial grief, sobbed: “You're just afraid to talk about her and Cousin Faunt!”

Cinda pressed her hands to her eyes. “Yes, I suppose I am. So should you be!”

“Well, I'm not! I declare, I believe Cousin Faunt killed her or something!” Her own words frightened her, but she defiantly insisted: “Well, I don't care! I do!” Cinda was looking toward the tall mirror between the two windows across the room. Enid glanced that way and saw herself, and she had that familiar feeling that she was looking at a stranger which is so often provoked by a recognition of one's own image. She was a sight, her eyes streaming, her nose red; and she mopped her eyes, and repeated: “I declare I do, Cousin Cinda! He must have! The house wouldn't just catch fire and burn her up and Mama not know it, unless she was dead!”

“He may have,” Cinda assented. “All of us Currains have high tempers, even Travis, We're quite capable of killing, if we're angry
enough.” She turned to meet Enid's eyes. “Yes, Faunt may have killed her. But if he did, she's dead, and talk will do no good. I'm sure I don't want it. And I'm sure Travis wouldn't want you to make a spectacle of yourself.”

“Well, I don't care! I want to know what happened to my mother! I'm going to find out, too!”

“I won't try to stop you, Enid. Do whatever you choose.”

Enid turned to the door. “I'm going out there right now!” Cinda did not move, and Enid hesitated. “Won't you come, please?” Cinda shook her head. “Vesta, won't you?” And she began to weep again. “Oh, you've never cared anything about me, any of you! You're always so mean! But now my mama's dead, I should think—–”

Vesta interrupted. “I'll go with you, Aunt Enid, but I don't see the good of it.”

Enid drooped miserably. “I don't know what to do.”

“Let me walk home with you,” Vesta suggested. “We'll talk it over, and perhaps we can think of something.”

“No, you're just being sorry for me! I hate people being sorry for me! All right, Cousin Cinda, I'll go home!” Spite edged her tones. “I won't disgrace you wonderful Currains.”

But in the hall she lingered wretchedly, feeling helpless and alone, till Vesta came after her. “Don't go, Aunt Enid. Wait. We'll send someone. This—well, we feel badly too, you know.” Enid went gratefully back with her into the drawing room, and Vesta spoke to Cinda. “Mama, can't we find out a little more about it?”

“I'll speak to June,” Cinda decided. “She can send someone, or go. Mrs. Albion had a servant. Perhaps June can find her, if she's alive.”

Enid stayed with Vesta, trembling with an emotion so near grief that her eyes filled easily, wondering why she wept. “I declare I don't know why I'm such a ninny,” she. confessed. “Mama and I never had anything to do with each other. Why should I keep crying?”

Vesta said affectionately: “I don't think we ever get over loving our mothers, really. Mrs. Albion came here when Uncle Faunt was sick at her house, and I liked her. She wanted me to persuade him to come here; but he had gone before we reached her house.”

Cinda returned to say June would go find out what she could. Then Tilda came home, having heard of the fire and guessed it was
Mrs. Albion's house which had been burned. “I thought of going out there,” she admitted, “but I didn't know what to do.”

They waited till at last June returned. She had found Milly weeping in the curious throng around the still smouldering ashes of the house, and heard her story. Mister Faunt had come to the house Saturday night—this was Tuesday—badly hurt and sick and so nearly dead that Milly thought he was; but Mrs. Albion had nursed him ever since, and last night she told Milly he was better and sent her to the hospital with a letter to the doctor; and when Milly started back she saw the far glare of flames and hurried all the way. But when she got to the house the roof and walls had already fallen. Rufus, who slept in the stable, was gone. Milly knew no more than this.

“Probably Rufus was afraid he'd be blamed,” Tilda suggested, and the others nodded, agreeing.

“I suppose he died,” Cinda hazarded.

Enid's tears flowed again, but Vesta spoke in comfort. “Then he didn't—hurt her, Aunt Enid.”

“But—what happened?” Enid pleaded. “What happened to her?” No one spoke, and she sobbed: “I declare, I'll go crazy, not knowing!”

“He was dead, I'm sure.” Cinda nodded at her own certainty. “And —she loved him, you know! Let them rest, Enid. Let them be.”

“You mean Mama killed herself because she loved him?”

“I think so, yes.” And Cinda said in a low tone: “She was a fine woman. You can be proud of her.”

Enid felt a deep wonder, as though she looked on beauty never seen before. Obscurely, she wished for Trav. When that evening he came home, she clung to him, and told herself she loved him as greatly as her mother had loved Uncle Faunt; that if he died, then so would she!

“But Cinda thought we shouldn't do anything, Trav, or say anything,” she wailed, sobbing in his arms.

“Cinda's wrong.” He spoke firmly. “She was your mother. I'll take care of things, Honey.”

His plain common sense which had sometimes seemed to her so dull gave her comfort now. The charred bodies, one to be forever nameless, were buried side by side in Hollywood; and the brief sensation was forgotten. Richmond in that third week of March had larger matters on her mind.

March-April, 1865

 

 

C
INDA found that she too could forget Faunt in these speeding days when fine spring weather held, and flowering fruit trees made the city bright with beauty as it waited for the end. She wished for Brett, for Burr, for Rollin; and she and Vesta went often to be with Julian and Anne. Along the way, they saw here and there the red flag of the auctioneer, as house owners preparing to take flight put up their property for sale at any price at all; and once they watched some of the hurriedly recruited Negro troops parade on Main Street. The Negroes had no uniforms, but they were as delighted as children with this new game; and in the faces of the onlookers, Cinda saw a desperate hope appear. To such frail straws the hopeless now would cling.

Famine was at their elbow, and even Vesta half despaired. “I don't mind so much for us grownups, Mama; but Tommy's such a glutton, and Kyle and Janet and Clayton. I hate not having enough for them. Caesar caught some eels and catfish this morning or I don't know what we'd do.”

“Well, there's nothing better than a fish fry,” Cinda reminded her. “Tell him to go catch some more for Sunday dinner.”

“I've enough meal to last us maybe two weeks,” Vesta said. “And a little pork. Lucky it's well salted.”

“Lots of people haven't that.”

“Other people being hungry doesn't make us—or the children—any less so. Mama, if we do give up Richmond, do you suppose the Yankees will feed us?”

“They'd better!” Cinda declared. “Or I'll give them a piece of my
mind!” They laughed together at that familiar phrase that was an echo out of the past; but laughter was so near to tears. “Oh, Vesta,” she said wearily, “I wouldn't mind so much if I could just see Brett Dewain!”

 

Saturday they heard Lee had attacked the enemy lines at Petersburg and had taken prisoners by the hundreds; but next day at church the word went around that the attack was a costly failure, wasting many lives. The starved soldiers had fought like raging tigers, driving home their charge with as much vigor as in the first years of the war; but Grant easily restored his lines. Monday the
Dispatch
said France and the United States were about to go to war, and that the Confederacy need only hold out a little longer; but next day Tilda brought news that Mrs. Davis and her children had left for Charlotte.

“But we needn't tell Vesta and Jenny,” she suggested, and Cinda indifferently agreed. They would know soon enough whatever there was to know.

Tuesday Vesta paid fifty dollars for a pair of roe shad and they had a feast. The children had the roe, and for the grownups the shad were planked, and every bone was picked clean. “I never tasted nicer shad,” Vesta declared. “And they were dirt-cheap, too; but of course this is the real beginning of the run.”

They were still at table when Julian came in. A dispatch from General Lee reported that Grant had thrown a heavy force toward Dinwiddie Court House, beyond Lee's left flank. “Infantry and cavalry,” Julian said. “Fitz Lee has gone to stop them, or they'll cut the Danville road.”

Fitz Lee meant Burr. Cinda closed her eyes. Burr four years ago had been such a handsome, slender boy. Now he was rail-thin, with yellow unhealthy skin and red-lidded eyes, and poor fumbling things for hands. But he would have to help meet that new move by the enemy. Fitz Lee had not many men left; less than fifteen hundred, or so Burr said when she and Vesta had that brief word with him two weeks ago. Yet even a few brave men might yet do some great deed.

“Have you thought of leaving, Mama?” Julian asked. “Mrs. Davis has gone.”

She smiled lightly, spoke lightly. “Leave Richmond? Leave you and Anne? Leave Vesta and Jenny and the children? Don't be silly, Son.”

“You could all go.”

“No, thank you. I've had my fill of travelling.” No, she would stay; here in her own home she would face whatever was to come.

Thursday, rain fell. Let it rain hard enough and Grant might be bogged down. It rained all day and all that night, and Cinda welcomed every drop, happy to hear it beat against the windows. Yet all day Thursday and again on Friday the guns were rumbling far away, audible even through the slashing rain.

“So March is going out like a lion, instead of a lamb,” Cinda told Vesta when they said good night.

“Yes, and tomorrow's April Fool's Day, Mama. Watch out the children don't fool you. I heard Kyle and Janet whispering about something, and giggling together before they went to bed.”

Next morning the rain was gone, the skies clear. The boiled egg on Cinda's waiter at breakfast proved when she cracked it to be an empty shell; and at her exclamation of astonishment Kyle and Janet, listening at the door, came charging in with shouts of glee at her befoolment, and she called them a pair of scamps, and thus delighted them the more. Tilda came home with bits of news. Mr. Daniel, the editor of the
Examiner
; was dead. General Preston said that when the Conscript Bureau was abolished, sixty thousand Virginians were listed as deserters or absent without leave. At dusk soldiers marched past the house, stumbling like leg-weary ghosts; and a few minutes later Julian and Anne appeared, and Julian said the soldiers were some of Longstreet's men of Field's division, marching to the station to take the cars for Petersburg. “So I guess we must have been beaten somewhere down there today.”

“I've heard guns all afternoon,” Cinda assented. She felt in him a boy's prayer for comfort, and she thought: Why, he's still my little baby wanting his mama to tell him what to do. She looked at Anne and smiled reassuringly, and at something in the girl's eyes she thought: I believe she's going to have another, she has that look; they haven't told me, but I suppose the darlings didn't want to worry me.
Aloud she said with hardly a pause: “I suppose so; but I for one shall get a good night's sleep if I can. No matter what happened, there's nothing we can do.”

She kept them for supper, and they found pretexts for laughter. That happy hour together would be a source of strength in the days to come.

 

At daybreak Sunday morning Cinda was waked by alarm bells calling the militia to man the defenses. She supposed they would take the place of Field's division, gone off to Petersburg. June brought her breakfast and news of defeat suffered the day before by Pickett's men somewhere near Dinwiddie Court House; and the old woman's eyes rolled as she told the tale.

But the day was so fair and fine, with fruit trees in bloom and spring flowers in every garden, that fears vanished in the smiling sun; and a few minutes before they were to start for church, the morning suddenly was glorious, for Brett appeared. The Howitzers had been drawn back a mile or so from the front, he said, and smiled. “So I took my foot in my hand and walked in to go to church with you. It's communion Sunday. And besides, I'm hungry for one of Vesta's dinners.” The lines were quiet, he said; no sign of action near.

Walking leisurely along Grace Street toward St. Paul's, Cinda on Brett's arm, Vesta and Jenny and Tilda at their heels, they met many friends; but except for churchgoers the streets were almost deserted as on a Sunday morning they were apt to be. It was so quiet they could hear the soft murmur of the rapids in the river below the city. In the church they saw Mrs. Longstreet already seated, and it was reassuring to discover President Davis in his pew, even though since Mrs. Davis and the children were gone away to Charlotte he sat alone.

Cinda heard Vesta's lovely voice join in the opening hymn. She herself, though she followed the words with her lips, made no sound. She was always a little surprised to find that the music in her heart came so discordantly from her throat; but it was happiness enough to hear Vesta, and to hear Jenny's softer tones, and to feel Brett close beside her. When the hymn was done Doctor Minnigerode read:

“‘The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.'” And after an instant: “Let us pray.” Cinda was more than
usually conscious of his heavy accent. “Let us bray” was what he said, actually; and as she murmured the Lord's Prayer she thought “bray” was an ugly word. It meant to crush and grind as in a mortar. It had a frightening sound.

Footsteps whispered in the aisle beside her. Who would come in during the prayer? She opened her eyes and raised her head a little and saw a messenger stop by Mr. Davis and hand him something, a folded paper or an envelope. There was a rustle across the kneeling congregation. Between two heads, Cinda could see the President's cheek, the side of his face. She saw, as he read the message, his color drain away and leave only grayness behind; and he rose and walked quietly toward the door.

At once, others here and there about the church moved to follow him; but Cinda bowed her head, pressing back the tears. When the prayer was done her eyes were clear again; but her hand clasped Brett's by her side.

He leaned to whisper to her. “That must be important, Cinda. I'll have to go.” There were men rising all around, quietly departing. She nodded her assent. Yes, he must go.

Doctor Minnigerode came to the altar rail to bid those whose duties did not call them away stay and finish the service. Brett was gone; and Cinda dared not trust herself to look after him, dared not see him go. She could hold herself outwardly passive, but her body seemed to be a boiling vessel in which her heart pounded hard and her lungs strained and her bowels writhed like snakes caught in a grass fire and helpless to escape. Doctor Minnigerode's voice seemed far away; she only half heard what he said, till presently responses all around drew her to join in their murmuring. “Have mercy upon us.” “Spare us, good Lord.” “Good Lord, deliver us.” “We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.” “Son of God, we beseech thee to hear us.” “Grant us thy peace.” Peace. Peace. Peace. “Lord have mercy upon us.” Were ever responses drawn up from so deep a well of grief and longing and humble supplication? The whispered words went on. “Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law.”

From turbulence of mind and heart came quiet and serenity. When the service ended Doctor Minnigerode made an announcement. The local militia were summoned for three o'clock that afternoon. Cinda
knew the meaning of that: Longstreet's men must be withdrawing from the defenses east of the city. Richmond would be abandoned; the army was in flight; Lee's thin lines at last had given way.

 

When they walked down the aisle it was as parts of a sluggish stream; but outside the church the stream became an eddying throng, and sharp questions flew. “What is it?” “What's happened?” As if they did not know! As if pretending ignorance would somehow thrust aside the bitter truth! Cinda did not pause; the others came with her. Grace Street was crowded. The congregations from St. James's and St. Peter's and the United Presbyterian Church, all dismissed together, met there in a medley of many voices. Cinda nodded to friends, and they spoke to these friends, but not to each other; not till they were at home and the door had closed behind them.

Then Cinda turned to Tilda. “I don't suppose we can be of any use at the hospitals?” Her voice, even to her own ears, was that of a stranger.

“I'll go see.” Tilda was in some ways the strongest of them all. She went out at once. None of them pretended not to understand what had happened.

“We must bring Anne here,” Cinda decided. “We had better be all together. Vesta, shall we go fetch her?”

“Of course, Mama.”

“Enid and her children too. There may be a tumult in the city tonight.”

They went at first to Enid's, but she would not come to be with them. “Indeed I won't,” she cried. “Trav's got to take care of us! He promised he would. He was home for a minute night before last, but he refused to stay. I could have killed him! I'm perfectly sure he knew what was going to happen!”

“We'd like to have you with us,” Cinda assured her. “We could all be together.”

“I sha'n't budge an inch! You're just wasting your breath!”

Cinda was really relieved at this refusal. “She'd be a nuisance,” she told Vesta, as they walked along Clay toward Twelfth. President Davis's mansion, at the corner where they turned, showed no outward
sign that this day differed from any other. Judge Tudor was at home when they arrived. He had attended Dr. Hoge's church on Fifth Street, in the block below Cinda's home, and he said:

“Dr. Hoge made the announcement, told us General Lee had been forced to retreat and that Richmond was to be evacuated.”

“Vesta and I thought you'd better all come to our house,” Cinda suggested.

The Judge agreed, and they walked back to Fifth Street together. Julian, having seen Anne safely there, proposed to go for news, but Cinda dissuaded him; and before dinner Tilda returned. To their questioning eyes she said at once:

“Yes, our lines were broken this morning; the army will retreat. Everyone in the hospitals is going, Cinda; everyone who can walk. Mrs. Pember says she never saw sick men get well so fast. All the hospital rats who've been insisting they were helpless, making any excuse not to go back into the army, are as spry as crickets now.”

“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.”