House Divided (65 page)

May, 1862

 

T
O TONY, the tale the letters told was a jest of which he was the butt; and when he laughed—his mother and Cinda and the others heard more than once that night his jeering mirth—it was at his own folly in allowing himself during these last two or three years to be proud. Trav and Faunt and Cinda, yes and his mother too, had often in the past reminded him that he was a Currain, as though this fact imposed upon him some obligation, as though when he acted in any way except decorously and uprightly he was betraying his heritage.

Ha! Heritage? A fine heritage to be sure, from a father who had gone prowling after every pretty wench he saw. His own thoughts amused Tony more and more. He wondered how many little bastards that father of his had sired, to grow up and to breed in their turn a second generation. Why, there might be dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of white trash, in the North and in the South, in whom ran the famous Currain blood! How many were there who, if they knew the truth, could call him Uncle; could say Uncle or Aunt to Faunt and Trav, to Cinda and Tilda?

And one of them was nephew Abraham! Abraham Currain Lincoln! He remembered all the names Lincoln had been called. Scoundrel, blackguard, gorilla, nigger-lover; yes, Lincoln was all those things. But also, nephew Abraham was clever, clever enough to get himself elected President of the United States. Why, the Currains ought to be proud of their kin! If a Currain were going to be a scoundrel, he should at least be a successful one! Scoundrel, blackguard, gorilla, nigger-lover! Tony laughed under his breath. He himself
had been thought a scoundrel and a blackguard in his day. And as for nigger-lovers—well, he would match his own get of little pickaninnies against all his father's bastards, in numbers if not in color. The quarter at Chimneys was full of them, born to wenches whom he had sent on from Great Oak in his unregenerate younger days. Some of them were grown now, and had children of their own, bright mulattoes, their blackness diluted with the famous Currain blood!

Yet Faunt and Trav and Cinda would not be amused, as he was, by this revelation. Tilda might be, but not the others. This would jolt Trav out of his smug complacency; no doubt of it. Faunt? Why, Faunt had already set the torch to Great Oak, as though to lay his father's house in ashes could somehow destroy his father's grandson up there in Washington.

Yes, Faunt would take this even harder than Trav. This would go a long way to destroy, in his own mind, that image of himself which Faunt had created; that gallant cavalier, that man of sorrows, that brave and noble gentleman whom Faunt imagined himself to be. Faunt would never be the same man again, not now.

Cinda? Of Cinda Tony was not so sure. Somewhere in this sister of his there was a rocklike foundation of character which Tony secretly respected. A good sister, blaming him when he deserved it, praising him when praise was his due; a good daughter, affectionate and patient no matter how unreasonable Mama might be; a good wife to Brett Dewain; a good mother. Yes, Cinda was a fine woman! She, and perhaps Trav, were strong. You could not be sure what changes might be made in them by this discovery.

As the journey to Richmond dragged on, Tony forgot his amusement and began to be sorry for himself. He had learned in these two or three years to think of himself as a good man, capable of doing his just part in the world; and he had relished that feeling. But now he knew this belief had been an illusion. He was actually what till so short a time ago he had seemed to be: the depraved and rascally product of his father's depraved and rascally Currain blood. To imagine that he was anything else had been just the weakness of his middle years, marking the onset of senility.

Yet he could grieve for that lost illusion and for that lost, admirable
self. In this grief, wishing to be comforted, his thoughts turned to Nell Albion, who for so many years had found ways to content and reassure him. When the carriage with his mother and his sisters and the little train of Negroes with led horses and riding laden mules came to the house on Fifth Street, he was hungry for Nell, eager to go to her. Cinda bade them in; but Tilda hurried away, and there were the people and the animals to be lodged somewhere, so he and Faunt did not accept Cinda's invitation. They turned the people over to Caesar for disposal; and then the two brothers faced each other, a question in their eyes.

“I don't want to hear a lot of empty talk,” Tony said. “I'll not go in. There's a lady upon whom I propose to call.”

Faunt nodded harshly. “Talk? No, no talk,” he said, and licked fevered lips.

“Come along with me,” Tony suggested. He was suddenly amused at the notion of introducing Faunt to Nell. Faunt must have known, for years, the truth about Tony's relations with her. In derisive challenge, he added: “I'm going to call on Mrs. Albion.”

This was an invitation which Faunt in the past would never have accepted; but now he hesitated only for an instant, then turned his horse. “Very well,” he said.

 

When they reached Mrs. Albion's discreetly retired little house, once to Tony so familiar, she was not alone. They left their horses at the rail, and a Negro maid whom Tony did not know admitted them. Mrs. Albion showed no surprise at their coming. She greeted Faunt easily, and she introduced them to the two gentlemen already here. “Mr. Berry; Mr. Mosby.” Mosby was in uniform, a small man with sandy hair and a level eye which Tony thought somehow disquieting. Mr. Berry was even smaller than Mosby, aggressively erect. Mrs. Albion said agreeably: “We were about to have a small supper. I hope you will join us.”

“By all means!” Tony agreed. “We're just from the road, and hungry.” He looked at Faunt. “And I, at least, would be heartened by a tot of brandy.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Albion brought decanter and glasses from the side table. They drank, and the Negress served them; and when they
began to eat, Mrs. Albion, like a good hostess leading the conversation, broke the momentary silence.

“Mr. Berry has a newspaper in Western Virginia,” she explained, and Mr. Berry took his cue.

“I came to watch the flight from Richmond,” the editor said with pompous scorn. “Our so-called statesmen, with New Orleans lost and McClellan rampaging up the Peninsula, find discretion the better part of valor.”

“Oh yes, of course, New Orleans.” Tony had forgotten that disaster; he felt no interest in it now.

“Yes sir, lost,” Mr. Berry repeated. “Surrendered by a traitor. General Lovell, gentlemen, would be the better for a little hanging.”

Tony smiled at the small man's vehemence. “You take a low view of the situation, sir.”

“I do,” Mr. Berry agreed. “The loss of New Orleans cuts the Confederacy in half. Sooner or later, Yankee gunboats will patrol the whole Mississippi. This has been the winter of our discontent, gentlemen. The enemy is in Florida and on the Carolina coast; he has broken into Tennessee; yes and into Mississippi. Much of Virginia is in his hands. Since the glorious beginning which we made at Manassas last July, our fortunes have steadily declined.” He hesitated; and his words left them all for a moment soberly silent. The little editor, as though his own words frightened him, paused and then went on: “And now our statesmen play the poltroon, dodging out of Richmond, sending away the archives, shivering in dread of new disasters. It is time, gentlemen, that the public took a hand. Let us demand that courage and wisdom and steadfastness be elevated to our high places to guide and direct us.”

Mosby said quietly: “To be at the bottom of the ladder means that our next step can only be upward.”

Tony saw Faunt's eyes turn toward the soldier, and he himself was struck by something in the man's tone. Mosby seemed no more than a boy, yet there was force in him.

“Not if Richmond falls,” Mr. Berry insisted. “Not if Richmond falls, John.”

Faunt remarked: “My brother and I have just come from Williamsburg,
Mr. Mosby. The army was in full retreat, the roads for miles jammed with their wagons.”

“Ah?” The other's brows knitted. “I have been these five days with Mrs. Mosby and my children; so I had not known the situation there. But I expect to take the road that way at midnight.” He smiled. “I had counted on an hour or two of sleep before pushing on; but my old friend Mr. Berry assured me I would find more refreshment in calling upon the most brilliant woman in Richmond.” He bowed to Mrs. Albion. “I find he spoke the truth.”

“What is your service?” Faunt inquired.

“First Virginia Cavalry.”

“Ah? My nephew, Burr Dewain, is in the First Virginia.”

“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

Faunt was not in uniform, and Tony saw the unspoken question in Mosby's eyes. So did Faunt, for he said: “I was with General Wise at Roanoke. I managed to get dear of the surrender of his forces; but I took some hurts there. I am only just now ready for duty again.”

Mrs. Albion said, in a tone which caught Tony's ear: “I believe you would all be the better for a glass of wine.” She brought it, and Tony observed that she served Faunt first, and that as she served the others she turned to look back at Faunt. Tony watched her with a slow stir of anger. She was like every other woman, instantly attracted to this brother of his. Her liking was plain in her smile, in her voice, in her eyes. He damned his own folly in bringing Faunt here. This was a thing he should have expected, this tenderness in her. Luckily Faunt never seemed to suspect that women yearned over him.

“General Wise?” Mosby repeated. “Did he not propose, when he was in Western Virginia, to add a company of partisan rangers to his brigade? I think I heard something of the sort, last summer.”

“I don't know.” Faunt had drained his wine glass, and Mrs. Albion refilled it. Faunt and this sandy-haired young cavalryman were too absorbed in each other to notice her; but Tony saw that little Mr. Berry watched her shrewdly. “I was in Jennings Wise's company,” Faunt said.

Mosby smiled. “You should ride with Stuart. He likes men of your pattern.” He sang under his breath: “‘If you want to catch the Devil—jine the cavalry.'”

“To catch the Devil?” Faunt echoed in a thoughtful tone, and Tony saw a leaping flame in his eyes; but then Faunt commented: “Every Southerner likes the cavalry, Mr. Mosby; but it's infantry that wins the battles.”

Mosby's tone hardened. “Battles are won not on the battlefield, but far behind the armies,” he corrected. “Just now, for example, the place to save Richmond is not on the Peninsula; it is in the Valley.” He added reflectively: “To beat the Yankees it might even be well to let them have Richmond. The farther they advance, the more vulnerable they become. Fifty good men behind their lines, well led, could cut the hamstrings of their army.”

“I suppose your fifty men would be cavalry.”

“Not as you use the word, no,” Mosby replied. “I'd have no heavy columns of troopers with sabres flashing, banners flying. Oh no! No! That is a stirring spectacle, but it's ineffective. The cavalry's proper arm is the revolving pistol, or the carbine, or both! The sabre is for reviews, for parades, but not for work!” The little man stood up; he began to pace to and fro, his words rang. Faunt's eyes followed him, his head turning from side to side as the other moved back and forth across the room. “No, not your sort of cavalry, sir,” Mosby insisted. “Just fifty brave men, good horsemen, armed with carbines and pistols. Such a force could raise havoc behind the enemy lines. Tell me, sir—” Mosby's voice sharpened with his own enthusiasm. “How will McClellan protect fifty miles of railroad against such a force? He must be in superior strength at every point, for he can never know where the blow will fall. And by superior strength, I mean he must be two, three, four to one; for if he uses infantry, a surprise attack by fifty men will scatter five times their number of foot soldiers, and if they are mounted, so much the better! You know horses, sir. Horses at a stand will not wait to receive a charge, no matter how brave their riders. Remember, there are no good horsemen in the North. You charge a troop of a hundred mounted men with your fifty, and their horses will turn and run, stampede! Then you overtake them, one by one, their riders helpless; you raise your pistol!” He snapped his fingers sharply six times. “Six shots, six Yankees down! As simple as that, sir!”

He laughed, and there was a lift to his laughter; Tony felt his own
heart stir at the sound. Faunt gulped his wine; his cheek was flushed, his voice thick. “ ‘If you want to kill the Devil—jine the cavalry!' ”

Mosby's eyes shone. “Yes sir! There's the fun!”

Faunt nodded. “Kill the Devil, yes!” Tony grinned. Faunt, Faunt of all men, was drunk! The others saw it, too, for Mrs. Albion crossed to stand by Faunt's chair.

“You're very tired,” she said in a low tone. “You must rest.” Under her caressing hand Faunt's head bowed like that of a contented dog. It was as though these two were alone.

After an uncomfortable moment, Mosby abruptly rose. “I must be gone,” he said. “Mr. Berry, we must make our duties.”

He bowed to Mrs. Albion; and she left Faunt and went with her departing guests into the hall. Tony stayed watching his brother. Yes, by God, Faunt was drunk! Faunt the cavalier, the very perfect gentle knight, was drunk, slouching in drunken slumber.

In the hall Mosby was saying: “Mrs. Albion, I like that man! He'll make a deadly fighter. If he asks for me, tell him I'll be with Stuart before noon tomorrow.” He chuckled. “I'll be pistolling the Yankees! Tell him that!”

Tony heard Mosby's fingers snap again, and Mr. Berry's laughing voice. “Hear him talk of butchering the Yankees! Yes, and he's done it, too. But a year ago you couldn't have found in all Virginia a stouter Union man than John Mosby.”

“That, I'll hazard, was before Virginia seceded,” Mrs. Albion suggested; and their voices faded toward the door. Tony rose to wake Faunt, to take him to Cinda's or to some discreet lodging for the night. Then he could return to Nell. His hand was on Faunt's shoulder when Mrs. Albion spoke from the doorway.