House Divided (79 page)

“Dr. Little says two months.” Trav's jaw set stubbornly. “But I don't think it will be that long.” Yet for the present he was satisfied to rest, to let his strength return.

 

Early in August a letter came from Vesta.

This was startling, and Cinda forgot the letter for a moment. To think of Jenny and the children so far away, alone on the great plantation with Negroes for her only protection, alarmed her. No one could know how soon the people would rise against their masters, like this Samson of whom Vesta had written. Yet Jenny had known how to handle him; and Cinda had a high respect for Jenny. All the same, she must not stay at the Plains alone. Brett would insist that she rejoin them here. Having thus shifted the burden from her shoulders to Brett's she read on.

Cinda as she read found her own eyes streaming. She wiped away tears and read on, but when she had finished she let the tears flow as they would. She had thought of Julian almost every waking moment of these weeks since his vanishing; but she had thought of him in mangled misery and in death and in shameful corruption. Now for
the first time, under the spell of Vesta's faith, she thought of him as alive and beautiful and strong.

 

Cinda was to remember that first moment of hope and faith. Tuesday morning Mrs. Randolph came to appeal to her. There were in Richmond thousands of Yankee prisoners not yet paroled or exchanged, and many Yankee wounded. “And not all our ladies are willing to help them,” Mrs. Randolph explained. “They say we shouldn't bother with the Yankees! Could you possibly come and do a little to make them more comfortable? They're so wretched and so far from home.”

Cinda agreed, but she wondered what her own reaction would be to this contact with even suffering enemies. To her surprise she found they drew from her as keen a sympathy as her own kind. They too were men—or boys—in pain and loneliness and need. Cinda worked under the direction of a Massachusetts surgeon, a Dr. Murfin who had come through the lines to tend the Northern wounded here. While she was adjusting a tin cup with a string hanging over the edge so that it would drip cool water on the bandages of a hurt man, Dr. Murfin came to her side.

“I want to change his bandages, Mrs. Dewain,” he said.

So she coiled up the wet string and hung it over the handle of the cup; but the wounded man asked curiously: “Dewain? Is that your name, ma'am?”

“Yes,” she told him. “Why?”

“Well, it's an unusual name,” he said. “But I've heard it before.” She felt a quick thrust under her heart, as though a baby had turned in her womb. “One night at Williamsburg,” he added.

“Tell me.” She spoke quickly, her voice hoarse.

“It was one of your men,” he explained. Dr. Murfin twitched the bandage off the wound, and the man winced and pressed his lips tight. Then he went on, carefully, as though steadying himself against new hurt. “This boy had tried to carry a wounded negro away from the fence in front of our lines, and a bullet hit him, and he crawled to the edge of the woods, dragging the darky after him. When the fight was over, we started gathering up the wounded, yours and ours; and
when we came to him he was out of his head. He kept saying: ‘Mama, it's Julian! Mama, here I am!' ”

Cinda felt herself falling. She caught at Dr. Murfin's arm, dropped to her knees; but on her knees she crawled along the side of the cot, clinging to it, clinging to this hurt stranger's hand.

“Go on,” she whispered. “Go on.”

“I helped carry him back to where they were fixing up the wounded,” he told her. “He kept saying ‘Mama' and then he'd say over and over, ‘Julian Dewain,' ‘Julian Dewain.' ”

She gripped him hard and shook him so fiercely that he gasped with pain; and at his whistling cry she came a little to her senses. “Oh I'm sorry, sorry! I wouldn't hurt you. But where is he? Where is he?”

“I don't know. I helped carry him to where the surgeons were working, but I never saw him again.” He asked in a hushed tone: “Do you know him?”

“He was my baby, my youngest son. Was he—Oh was he badly hurt?”

“I don't know, ma'am. His leg was all covered with blood.

Dr. Murfin helped her to her feet, and she turned beseechingly to him. “Where is he?” she begged. “Doesn't anyone know?”

He said reluctantly: “Why, Mrs. Dewain, some of your wounded were taken to Williamsburg, and some were put aboard our vessels in the river, sent back to Washington.” His voice became very gentle. “But—that was weeks ago.”

She understood him. “You think he's dead?”

He said honestly: “If he recovered, there's been time for him to let you know.”

For a moment she was silent; but then those sure words in Vesta's letter flooded into her mind. She shook her head. “No, no, he's alive,” she said confidently. “He may have been sick, may still be too sick to know anything. But he's alive! I'm sure of it!” She turned away, abandoning this task here, forgetting it; she hurried homeward, strong and certain in this hour.

August, 1862

 

 

T
RAV took his wound on the thirteenth of June, but it was not till mid-August that he was strong enough to venture out of doors; and for a long time after his eventual recovery was assured he could not even attempt the stairs. But this confinement had its rewards, and among them were long contenting hours with the children. He delighted in Lucy's grave questions, her youthful reflections upon the manners and customs of the world as she observed them, her frank affection for him; and he was sometimes astonished by what seemed to him her unusual maturity of mind and her shrewd estimates of others. She despised Dolly and hated Darrell, and she was sorry for Aunt Tilda. “It must be just awful for her to have that sort of husband, and children like that.” She felt an almost maternal tenderness toward General Longstreet. “He's so awkward and shy and embarrassed all the time, and pretends to be so sure of himself so people won't guess it.” It had never occurred to Trav that Longstreet was shy, yet he decided that Lucy might be right. Certainly Longstreet never let others see the aspects of his character which he revealed to Trav. His silence, his apparent deafness, his positive way of talking might all be a part of the trait Lucy saw in him. There could be no doubt that Lucy had a level head. She was a mighty sweet girl.

Trav was not so much at ease with his son, discovering in Peter an almost frightening precocity. Peter was exuberantly glad that they were going to live on Clay Street. Enid's gladness, so overwhelming that it banished Trav's last remaining doubts of the wisdom of the purchase, was easy to understand, since Clay Street was one of the most
attractive in Richmond. The gracious homes set close to the street were backed by well-tended gardens, so from earliest spring until the approach of winter there were flowers everywhere; rose bushes supported by frames or by the house walls to which they clung, japonicas, Cape jessamine, azaleas, and not only shrubs and vines but every conceivable perennial and annual. The White House of the Confederacy, the home that had been provided for President Davis, stood at the end of Clay Street overlooking the ravine of Shockoe Creek. Senator Semmes and Judge Campbell lived almost directly opposite; and these two houses and President Davis's residence were the centers of much of Richmond's gaiety. Enid felt that by moving into this neighborhood they would become a part of that lively and gracious world.

But Trav discovered that Peter's pleasure sprang from other considerations; and since Trav asked the right questions and betrayed no disapproval, Peter confided to him that down in the ravine along the creek, almost under the back doors of the fine houses on Clay Street, there was a magic valley called Butchertown, in which dwelt a remarkably brave and adventurous and fearless lot of boys who were just about the best fighters that you could find anywhere around. Peter's admiration for these paragons was profound. Five Butchertown boys could whip ten hill boys any time, he declared; and best of all, the Butchertown boys were his friends. He had won admittance to their fraternity by the fact that he had secretly pored over Tommy Cloyd's copy of Hardee's
Tactics
till he knew many passages by heart, and since the Butchertown boys delighted in playing war games, they called him the Cadet and let him teach them all he knew.

Trav said: “That's real interesting, Son. Matter of fact I've been studying that book myself, so you and I were learning the same things. But how did these boys find out you could teach them?”

“Well, you see,” Peter explained, “when we came from Great Oak to live at Aunt Cinda's, I didn't know any boys, and I went all around town sort of exploring, and one day I saw six or seven boys down by the creek playing with sticks for guns and pretending to be soldiers, and they saw me and started to chase me, but I didn't run away. Boys won't chase you if you don't run away, you know.”

“Like strange dogs,” Trav suggested. “If they see you're not afraid they don't bite you.”

Peter nodded absently. “Yes sir. So we got to talking, and I told them they were doing their drill all wrong. So they started to tease me and threatened to paddle me and said I was too big for my britches. So I said I could show them. So I taught them the Manual of Arms, and how to give orders——”

“Teach me,” Trav suggested. “I've never known how to do it right.”

“Why, you say ‘Support', sort of quiet, and then you say ‘ARMS' as loud as you can. ‘Attention SQUAD'. ‘Shoulder ARMS'. ‘Present ARMS'. Like that.”

“I see.”

“I knew I oughtn't to teach them all that till they learned the Position of the Soldier,” Peter admitted. “But I thought it would be more interesting for them, and it was.” He sighed happily. “So now they let me play with them all the time. It's going to be just wonderful living right near where they live.”

“But Son,” Trav suggested, “you'll be one of the hill boys, won't you? Living up on Clay Street?”

“Oh golly, no,” Peter protested. “The Butchertown boys fight the hill boys all the time, and throw rocks at them and chase them. No sir, I'd rather side with my friends.”

Trav thought with mild amusement that here in miniature was an age-old conflict between loyalty to class and loyalty to friends. Enid might not approve of Peter's choice of companions, but that was a question for time to solve. Certainly, even if she knew about it, it would not dim her happiness now. From the first she had been fairly intoxicated with anticipations. “I declare,” she told Trav, “if you kept me living with your kin like a poor relation much longer I'd just go crazy! Cinda never lets me forget it, nor Mama.”

“Why, they're glad to have you here!”

“Oh, you always say that, but you just don't know! I didn't want you to be mad at her just on account of me, so I never said anything about it; but Cinda actually ordered me out of the house once, when I came up from Great Oak to visit her.”

Trav protested: “Now Enid, Cinda wouldn't—” Then he caught himself as Cinda herself knocked on the door and came in; and to his distress Enid said at once:

“Cousin Cinda, Trav and I were just laughing about the time you
couldn't stand me a moment longer and sent me home to Great Oak! Remember?”

Trav looked at Cinda, sure of her denial; but she hesitated, so he knew what Enid had said was true. “Oh I just lost my temper.” Cinda spoke too casually. “Musn't hold that against me, Enid. My tongue and my temper, between them, keep me in hot water all the time.”

Enid laughed and kissed her and protested: “Why, you know I don't hold it against you a bit! We were just laughing about it, that's all.” She did not enlarge upon her victory, but Trav felt a troubling resentment. No matter what Enid had done or might do, Cinda should keep her temper in control. He and she had always been close and understanding, and probably Enid sometimes seemed to her mighty provoking; but in any open break between his sister and his wife, he must stand on Enid's side. He found comfort in the fact that Enid presently would have a home of her own. Once the small irritations of daily contact were removed, she and Cinda would be better friends.

The house on Clay Street was built of brick in the Greek Revival style, two stories and a basement at the ground level, with the kitchen and quarters for the house servants and a stable in the yard behind. Except for personal belongings and the contents of wardrobes and bureaus, Trav bought from Mr. Pierce both house and furnishings. Judge Tudor was Mrs. Pierce's brother, and she had asked the Judge and Anne to select the things she wished to keep and remove them to their own house on Twelfth Street for storage. Enid was impatient for this process to be completed and she went to watch Anne and her father there, jealously scrutinizing everything they took, and sometimes protesting to Trav, till he reminded her that the house was not yet hers.

“I can't help it,” she declared. “I feel as though it's mine already. I just hate to see them take anything away.”

 

It was while Anne and her father were still thus engaged that Cinda had that first word of Julian. When she came home she hurried to Trav's room. “Oh Travis,” she cried, “Julian's alive!” Before he could speak she added: “At least, I'm sure he is! I know he is! I found a
Yankee soldier who saw him that night after the fighting was over.” She told the story while tears without sobs poured out of her. But for proof that Julian still lived, she had only her inner sureness; and when Trav realized this he thought to warn her was the truest kindness.

“Don't count too much on this, Cinda,” he said gently. “You know Brett has had inquiries made in the Northern hospitals; and we've been exchanging prisoners right along. Julian would have sent some word.”

She shook her head. “No, no, he's alive! I'm sure of it.” And she said proudly: “He was trying to save Elegant, Travis; trying to carry him away. Even after he was shot he dragged Elegant off into the woods. And he called to me, Travis! He called to me!”

“Perhaps that Yankee doctor can find out what happened to him,” Trav suggested. “And General Longstreet might be able to help.”

“I'll send for Brett Dewain,” she decided. “He will know what to do.” She rose at once, too eager to delay, and hurried down the stairs. When he was alone, Trav's face settled into sorrowful lines. It was too bad, too bad. The first hurt of Julian's loss had begun a little to heal; but now that wound was open again. The agony when this hope failed would be worse than the first agony of despair.

Before she returned, Faunt came for a few minutes with Trav. Faunt was lean and brown and his eye was clear, and Trav thought he had never seen the other look so well; yet there was something frightening in this brother of his. It occurred to him that Faunt was like Stonewall Jackson, that warrior about whom so many legends began to arise. At Malvern Hill Jackson had ordered a charge, and the officer who received the order protested that if the men tried to charge they would all be killed. Jackson, so the story ran, said grimly: “Have no concern on that point, sir. I always carry away my wounded and bury my dead!” Jackson had an inhuman and ferocious determination, at once bold in attack and tenacious of the fruits of victory. It was said of him that in an advance, he might outrun his wagon trains by miles; but if he were withdrawing, he would fight to save a wheelbarrow. There was a tale about a Yankee officer who performed some deed of gallantry so conspicuous that Jackson's soldiers held their fire; but he reproached them for doing so. “The brave Yankees are the ones it is most important for us to kill,” he said. “Shoot the brave ones. The
cowards will run away.” He drove his own men and the enemy and himself. “Hit those people, smash them, scatter them, kill them.” That was Jackson's way. Ewell, serving under him in the Valley, thought he was insane; and there were others who agreed. Trav once spoke of this to Longstreet, and the General said calmly:

“Ordinary men usually think a genius is crazy. Most of the world's great deeds have been done by men whose fellows thought them mad.”

If Jackson were insane, it was with a deadly frenzy; and Trav today felt this same restrained and murderous fury in Faunt, behind his gentle tones, behind his faint smile. More than any of them Faunt had been hurt by the shameful knowledge that no matter how diluted, his blood and Lincoln's were the same.

Faunt's stay was brief. “I haven't five minutes,” he said. “A friend of mine has gone to see General Lee with some information.” General Lee's military home, where when he was in Richmond he made his headquarters, was on Franklin Street just around the corner from Cinda's and down the hill toward Capitol Square. “We're leaving at once.” Trav asked what the information was, and Faunt said: “Why, Mosby, one of Stuart's scouts, was captured at Little Beaver Dam station two or three weeks ago. The Yankees had him in Old Capitol Prison for ten days, but Stuart arranged for him to be exchanged and I came down and met the exchange boat at the Rip Raps an hour ago. Mosby saw General Burnside's army from North Carolina on transports at Fortress Monroe, and picked up some talk. They're on their way to Acquia Creek to reinforce Pope. That means Pope plans to move this way. I expect Lee will hit him before Burnside gets there.” He added: “You'll soon be fit again. Hurry and come back to us.”

Trav told Faunt that Julian might be alive, and Faunt's eyes softened. “The fine dear lad,” he whispered; and for a moment Trav could recognize the old Faunt whom it was so easy to love.

“Cinda's gone to send word to Brett,” Trav explained. “She'll be back soon. She'll want to see you, and so will Enid.” He said in diffident affection, “You've neglected us lately, you know.” But Faunt, coloring a little, said he could not stay.

Brett, at Cinda's summons, came home that night; and he and Cinda next morning went to see again the Northern soldier who remembered
Julian; and at Brett's request Dr. Murfin said he would try to get from Washington some more definite word. But Brett when they were alone told Trav honestly:

“He thinks it's hopeless, and I'm afraid it is. If Julian died, they might never have known his name. I'm writing to my old friend Mr. Gilby in Washington. He may be able to find out something.”

 

The slow days dragged away; and Trav thought Cinda was more tormented by the waiting now than by her hopelessness before this grain of promise came. General Longstreet, whose headquarters were now in Richmond, came frequently to sit a while with Trav. The big man was lonely; for Mrs. Longstreet stayed on in Lynchburg, and he could not leave his duties to go to her there. He said she was working in the hospitals. It had not occurred to Trav that there were hospitals elsewhere than in Richmond; yet he realized this must be so. Probably everywhere in the South there were sick or wounded men, as though a plague had swept the land.