House Divided (47 page)

October—December, 1861

 

O
NE day in October an incident occurred which Cinda at the time and afterward found completely puzzling. Mrs. Albion came to see her. Cinda was with Vesta and Jenny in the sewing room on the second floor, and they had been trying to guess how soon Faunt and his company would return to Richmond. General Wise had been recalled in September. His Legion was in large part his own creation, composed of volunteers he had raised in Western Virginia and stiffened by the Blues, of which Faunt was a member, and by Captain Cary's company. But now General Wise was back in Richmond, and General Floyd, to whose command the Blues had been attached, said they were ill-disciplined and weakened by desertion. That word was an affront not only to them but to their mothers and wives and sweethearts here in Richmond; so everyone hoped they would come home to be welcomed by those who loved and appreciated them.

Cinda was saying she had always despised General Floyd anyway when the bell rang and Caesar came up the stairs to announce in tones eloquent of his opinion of this caller that Mrs. Albion was in the drawing room. Cinda did not hesitate. “Please tell her I will be down at once,” she directed.

He stalked away, profound disapproval in his bearing, and Vesta asked: “Who's Mrs. Albion?”

“Enid's mother.”

“Why, Mama!” Vesta's surprise was manifest. “I didn't know—” She laughed at herself. “Oh, of course I knew Aunt Enid must have a mother somewhere; but I never knew she was in Richmond. Why don't we ever see her?”

Cinda hesitated, uncertain what to say. There were some things you did not tell children, and she still thought of Vesta as a child. “I believe she lived in Washington till recently,” she said evasively, and met Jenny's amused eye and felt herself red with confusion. “I must go right down.”

Remembering Mrs. Albion's perfection of toilet, she went to her room, touched her hair, decided she was at least halfway presentable, and descended. She was uneasy, wondering what Mrs. Albion's errand could be. If the woman sought to establish any sort of social intimacy, what would she do? What could she do?

But once more Mrs. Albion proved herself completely understanding. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said after the first polite exchanges; and then, as though she read Cinda's thoughts: “I'm sure you understand that this is not a—” she smiled. “A polite call. I come to ask your advice.” Cinda was more puzzled than ever, but Mrs. Albion added: “Perhaps I should have gone to your brother-in-law, Mr. Streean; but it seemed to me possible that you might be able to suggest some more suitable person for me to see.” Cinda admired her dexterity. It was as though she had said: “I am of course an outsider; but Mr. Streean is, I suspect, quite as much so. You are not, so you can help me.”

Yet—what was her errand? Cinda put the question into words. “How can I help you?”

“I have a guest,” Mrs. Albion explained. “A woman newly come from Washington. She has some military information which should be brought to the attention of the Secretary of War. Can you suggest how to do this?”

Cinda hesitated. “I'm afraid I know nothing of such matters.”

“I thought you might be willing—without committing yourself in any way—to introduce her to the Secretary or to some gentleman who has his ear.”

“Why, I'm acquainted with Mr. Benjamin,” Cinda admitted. “But not—intimately.” Was it possible that Mrs. Albion expected her to sponsor this unknown woman, or to sponsor Mrs. Albion herself, for that matter?

Mrs. Albion said earnestly: “I believe this is really important. My guest dined with General Dix in Washington, and he spoke of a plan
to cross an army of two hundred thousand men at Leesburg and move against our flank.”

“That sounds important, certainly,” Cinda agreed. “But—if she just went to one of Mr. Benjamin's secretaries—” She left the suggestion unfinished, and the other, after a moment's consideration rose.

“Of course! I should have thought of that myself. Thank you for helping me.”

Helping? That was absurd, and it was not in character for Mrs. Albion to say absurd things; but what possible reason lay behind her call today? “May I offer you some refreshment?”

The other smiled. “You're most kind, but this was not a social call. Thank you very much indeed.”

When Mrs. Albion was gone, Vesta had many questions; but Cinda put her off in abstracted bewilderment. What in the world had Mrs. Albion sought to accomplish by this empty errand? Cinda was even more mystified when after church the following Sunday Mrs. Davis whispered to her:

“The President is grateful to you for sending that woman to tell her story. He telegraphed General Johnston at once.”

Cinda stammered some polite disclaimer. “Mrs. Albion asked me what to do, and I simply suggested—” But then other ladies joined them, and she stopped in midsentence, regretting that she had used Mrs. Albion's name. Mrs. Davis would imagine they were friends.

She might in time have forgotten the incident, but Tuesday the town rang with news of a fine Confederate victory at Leesburg. A Federal force had crossed the river, had been thrown back in confusion. So Mrs. Albion's information had been true, and useful; but why in the world had the woman come to her? Would her name and Mrs. Albion's name be coupled? She was presently sure of it, for Brett, in Richmond for a day later in the week, had hardly entered the house before he asked laughingly:

“Well, Mrs. Dewain, what's this I hear about your winning a battle almost single-handed? I met Mr. Benjamin in Capitol Square, and he sent you his compliments and felicitations.”

“That oily, squint-eyed man!”

He laughed. “You don't like him?”

“No! He has too much brains and not enough heart. And I don't like anyone who smiles as much as he does.”

“He's an able man,” Brett assured her. “But what about this exploit of yours? He says you sent him advance information of the Federal. move.” She told him the story, and he listened attentively. “Do you know who Mrs. Albion's woman was?” he asked, when she was done.

“No. And I didn't do anything anyway. Was the battle really as important as the papers say?”

“It was a bloody business,” he assured her. “General Evans, commanding our men there, was directed to fall back if the Yankees landed in force, and when they pushed seven or eight thousand men across the river, he gave the orders to withdraw. But his men took things into their own hands, drove the Yankees head over heels down Ball's Bluff, smashed their boats, shot the swimmers in the water. I hear we took more prisoners than we had men in action. There were about fifteen hundred of us to eight thousand of them.” He smiled in proud amusement: “General Evans was reprimanded for not withdrawing as ordered; but he said his orders were to withdraw before a landing in force, and that his men didn't consider five to one odds against them big enough to fit the definition.”

She was more concerned with her own problem. “Brett Dewain, what do you suppose Mrs. Albion is up to?”

“I don't suppose she ever does anything without a reason.”

“She puzzles me; and yet—I like her.”

He said with a twinkle in his eyes: “You must take me to call on her some day.”

“Not as long as I keep my wits! The lady's much too clever to be trusted with anyone's husband. Do you suppose she just wanted her name to be coupled with mine?”

“Mr. Benjamin didn't mention her. But she's done you no harm, at least. Perhaps we'll know the answer some day.” He added thoughtfully: “I'm rather sorry we won that fight so easily. We've been dangerously overconfident ever since Manassas, and this will make us more so. But sooner or later the Yankees will learn how to fight, and our army is weaker every day—lots of men sick, lots of desertions, lots of enlistments running out.”

“Is their army getting stronger?”

“Yes. Oh, we can still beat them, any time they risk a battle. But by next spring they'll have an army big enough to march into Richmond.” He added thoughtfully: “I've been wishing our family securities were safe in Northern vaults. How'd you like to go North and deliver them to some of my friends there?”

She thought he must be joking, laughed easily. “Thank you, no! I hear terrible stories of the way ladies going through the lines are searched by the roughest sort of women, their clothes picked to pieces, bayonets run through their stays—with the ladies in them, for all I know. I wouldn't submit to that for all the gold of Ophir—wherever that is.” But he did not smile, and she said: “You're really worried, aren't you? I'll go if you ask me to, but I don't want to.” She hesitated. “But wouldn't it be—well, like rats leaving a sinking ship, for us to do that, Brett Dewain?”

“I don't feel so. We have to protect ourselves if we can. I'm afraid next spring may see things in bad shape here.”

“They're bad already,” she assured him. “Prices are scandalously high, and Tilda says they'll go higher.” She added: “Tilda's enjoying herself, these days. She has a sort of ‘How are the mighty fallen' look in her eye!”

“Prices are certainly high,” he assented. “Mr. Fleming writes from the Plains that Osnaburg is thirty-five or forty cents a yard, wants to know what he's to do about clothes for the people. Prices are up, and scarcities are developing. That was one reason for the campaign in Western Virginia, to save the salt works at Charleston Kanawha. They produce enough salt to supply the whole South. And as time goes on, we'll be short of many things. Ice, for instance. You can't make a julep without ice—and most of our ice comes from New England.”

She touched her brow in a weary way. “Brett Dewain, this war will ruin us and our children; and men like Redford Streean will be riding around in carriages!”

He shook his head. “No, I'll manage somehow, and after the war we can pick up where we left off.”

“We can never be the same.”

She was thinking of Clayton, and she knew he understood, for he
said at once, in an unnecessarily cheerful tone: “I've seen Mama two or three times. Oh, and you should have been there for Enid's birthday party.” He described that occasion, Lucy's pride and joy, and Enid's pleasure. “She was so happy it was almost pathetic,” he declared. “I'm afraid she has a lonely time there with Mama. I never saw her look prettier.”

“She's an exasperating hussy,” Cinda retorted. “When I'm with her I get so mad I could shake her. In fact I did, last time I was there. I enjoyed it, too.” He asked in some amusement what Enid had done to provoke her to such lengths. “Oh the same old thing. Mooning about Faunt. It didn't cure her, though. She took care not to be alone with me after that, but when we were with Mama it was Faunt, Faunt, Faunt till I wanted to scream!”

Brett threw back his head with a great shout of mirth. “She probably does it just to make you boil over.”

“Nonsense. She's not smart enough for that!”

“Don't be too sure! Mrs. Albion's got a level head, and I suspect her daughter has too. And you're rather transparent, you know; never trouble to hide your feelings.” He came toward her, siniling; and she tried to push him away.

“Stop it! I won't have you making fun of me and trying to——”

But he laughed and crushed her close and whispered: “You'll have whatever I choose!”

She was in his arms when the door bell rang; and a moment later Burr and Barbara—Burr tall and bronzed and bearded now—swept into the room; and Cinda went from Brett's arms to Burr's in a tearful happiness, kissing him, pressing close to him, eager to feel the solid flesh and bone of him. When he was away from her, she could never be sure he would return. She had learned that bitter lesson. From Clayton while he lived she had often been long separated; but because she always knew he would come back to her, he was even during their separations a real and living presence in her heart. That last time he went away, his going had seemed no different from many another .time; nothing marked it, set it apart, warned her to take heed. He went as he had gone in the past; and presently he would return.

But he did not return.

So this was the lesson Cinda learned; that now, when her menfolk
left her, they might not return. Thus she lost that sustaining sense that even apart from her, they were still reality. They disappeared, upon each new departure, into a smothering blur of fog and movement that clouded every outline; they became shadow figures seen dimly through a gossamer curtain. Only when they came back to her did they come back to reality as did Burr now. Here he was, flesh and blood and bone.

She looked up from his arms, looked into his face, searching for new things there; for she had learned too that none of these men came back to her unchanged. She saw change in Burr as in the others. Before he and Barbara were married, while he was still training at Ashland, he used to come home in a boy's high excitement, intensely alive, intensely vocal, hilariously amused by his belated discovery that soldiers were paid actual wages—not only for yourself, but forty cents a day for your horse! When she hoped he would soon be an officer he explained that he preferred to be a private. “I don't want to have to give orders to gentlemen, Mama.”

“How about taking orders?” she asked, and he laughed and assured her no one minded taking orders as long as he knew he didn't have to.

Oh, those days had been fine and merry. Then he and Barbara were married and went away to the Valley; and after Manassas, Barbara came back to Richmond, starry-eyed with happiness and pride. Cinda, as now she welcomed Burr so fondly, realized with an abrupt sense of guilt that though Barbara had been in Richmond since late July she herself had hardly seen the girl. That was too bad ! Of course Mr. Pierce was ponderous and Mrs. Pierce was even more tiresome than he, and Cinda had never been able to understand what Burr saw in Barbara; but she might at least have been nice to Barbara, if only out of politeness.