House Divided (85 page)

Trav waited for an opportunity to suggest this to Tony; but Tony always breakfasted alone in his room, and by the time he appeared he was a little fuddled. Trav, like any other man, took his thimbleful of brandy before his morning coffee, his juleps and his Madeira when he chose, his quiet glass at bed time; but Tony obviously drank from morning till night. He even carried a flask in his saddlebags; and either he drank a great deal or what he drank affected him more than it should. It was no injustice to say that he was drunk much of the time. At night, more than once, Trav, rather than let 'Phemy see Tony limber-legged, helped him to bed.

'Phemy was a newcomer in the house, but Trav admitted to himself
that she was an improvement on Joseph. The peg-legged Negro had been willing, but he was inept; the house was now spotless, and always in perfect order, and this had not been true in Joseph's time. On his first day at Chimneys, Trav asked for Joseph, and found him now in charge of the saw mill where with power from a singing little mountain stream logs were converted into posts and rails and boards for the plantation's many needs. Joseph was happy in his new work; he had always had an accurate eye to decide just how each log should be sawed, slabbed here, slabbed there, planked or quartered, cut into posts, riven into rails. In his two-legged days Joseph could tell at a glance how to get the largest amount of usable material out of a log. He had on his return to the mill calmly assumed command.

So Joseph was all right, and 'Phemy kept the house immaculate. Trav in the past had seldom seen her; but it seemed to him now that behind her dignity and the efficient way in which she foresaw all his needs and Tony's, there was something rancorous and angry, something almost malevolent! He remembered that daughter of hers who was even lighter in color than 'Phemy, and who had nursed the children till Enid insisted he get rid of her. Perhaps 'Phemy had blamed him for selling the girl. He tried to take toward her a kindly tone, suggested there was more work here than she could manage alone.

'Phemy said firmly: “No, thank'ee. I gits along.” Curiously, when he spoke to old Maria who still ruled the kitchen, suggesting 'Phemy needed help, she used almost exactly the same words.

“Dat high yaller! Huh, she gwine git along!”

'Phemy's almost arrogant composure puzzled Trav. She was as easy in her manner as though she were the lady of the house; but once, returning with Tony from one of their rides, coming up the path past the quarter and toward the loom house, Trav heard what was unmistakably 'Phemy's voice, shrill with anger.

“Don' you go let dat old goat line you, you heah me! You do an' I'll——”

Then there was a sudden silence, as though the riders had been seen; and Tony beside Trav laughed in that reasonless way of his and lifted his horse to a canter till they came to the house and dismounted there.

So 'Phemy was not always so composed. Trav wondered what had prompted the outburst he overheard; and after she had served their
supper that evening, Trav asked Tony some questions about her. Tony chuckled into his glass.

“ 'Phemy? Her mother was one of the Coyby niggers, came to Great Oak when Mama and Papa were married. She's one of Papa's other bastards, I suppose.”

Trav felt his cheeks stiff with anger. “You take all that too hard, Tony.”

Tony grinned at him, wagging his head. “Too hard? I'm surprised at you, Trav. Papa and Mama brought me up to think that blood, family was everything. If I took a cut at some nigger wench with a riding switch, Mama used to say that that was no way for a Currain to behave!”

“A man's name doesn't matter. It's what he does.”

Tony nodded sagely. “A Currain by any other name would smell as sweet. To be sure.”

“Any man makes mistakes. They don't count. It's the fine things he does, the good things.”

Tony drained his glass. “So you'd remember only the good. But what did someone say, Trav?—the evil that men do lives after them! Hence, obviously, all the little bastards in the world!”

Trav yielded to sudden anger. “Tony, you drink too much! For God's sake, man, have some self-respect!”

Tony's eyebrows rose in owlish derision. “Self-respect? To be sure. Am I not one of the noble Currains?”

Trav bit his lip. There was no profit in this. Perhaps by talk of other things he could bring Tony back to a saner mood. He began to speak of the need for an overseer or a driver here. It was true that all the good white men were fighting; but Big Mill—He spoke at length, as persuasively as possible; he thought Tony was listening, even though his eyes were closed, till the other presently began to snore.

Trav left him asleep at the table. He went out to the veranda and sat a while, trying to solve this problem. When he came wearily indoors at last, Tony was no longer in his chair. 'Phemy, presumably, had put him to bed.

 

Next morning, Sunday, the hands were idle; but since Tony did not appear, Trav took a horse and rode far. His strength was almost completely
restored; he relished the fine rhythm of the saddle, exulting in his own returning vigor. He came home hot and dusty, and used the shower and came down to the veranda. 'Phemy brought him a julep; before it was done Tony joined him.

Trav saw at once that there was an unnatural excitement in the other; but Tony's laugh was as persistent as ever. “Afraid I dozed off in the middle of your discourse last night, Trav. You were as long-winded as the Reverend What's-his-name, used to hold forth at Bruton Church when I was a boy. Sorry, but I never could stand being preached to.” He lifted his glass, let the spicy drink trickle through the ice into his mouth, finished the julep at one long draught, tossed the glass heedlessly over the veranda rail. “Come along, old Slow-and-steady! Dinner time. I saw you off for an early ride this morning. You must be starved.”

Trav set his half-empty glass aside and followed Tony through the hall to the dining room; but in the doorway he stopped dead still. A woman stood in the further corner of the room, fear in her eyes. Trav recognized her; 'Phemy's bright mulatto daughter whom he had sold to the Pettigrews long ago.

Tony went to her, took her hand, said amiably: “Come, come, child! Nothing to be afraid of. It's just your Uncle Trav!”

The Negress looked at Trav, her eyes blank with terror. Trav saw with a cold precision and with complete understanding that her dress was fine, and there were jewels in her ears. Her obvious fright reminded him that for this moment she was not to blame. Then he saw 'Phemy in the door that led to the gallery and the kitchen, watching them.

But 'Phemy was not to blame, nor the girl. This was Tony's doing. Trav, still in the doorway, looked at his brother; and Tony, teetering a little, laughed and said:

“This pretty niece of yours presides at my table, Trav, when I wish particularly to grace the board.”

Trav turned quietly away. In his room, cold with anger and yet with pity too, he packed his bag and descended the stairs. As he went toward the front door to call for a horse, to ride to Martinston, to put this place forever behind him, he heard Tony laughing in the dining room.

August—October, 1862

 

 

A
NNE TUDOR, in this summer of 1862, was just past seventeen years old. Judge Tudor had married late in life, and he was forty-three when Anne was born. Anne's mother died soon after the baby's coming, so Anne was an only child; and Judge Tudor in his first grief retired from public life and preferred to stay thereafter at the plantation on the Northern Neck. The fact that when Anne was a year old Fauntleroy Currain, who was the Judge's next-door neighbor, suffered an even worse bereavement, losing both wife and child, drew the Judge and Faunt together.

As a child Anne found Uncle Faunt a jolly and companionable playmate and an understanding friend; and when she came into her 'teens her heart went out to him in the lavish and demonstrative affection of which only girls at that age, not yet schooled in conventional inhibitions, are capable.

Since neither Faunt nor her father ever treated her as a child, it was not till with the outbreak of the war her father decided to move to Richmond that she realized her own youth, and began to suspect that her devotion to Faunt might seem to older people amusing. She clung to it, as though to prove to them and to herself that she was old enough to know her own heart; yet she came to know in Richmond many boys and girls of her own age. Julian was one of them; she liked him, even while this liking seemed to her disloyalty to Faunt. That she seldom saw Faunt and that when she did he seemed almost unconscious of her presence only strengthened her determination to prove her constancy.

When she volunteered to go with Cinda to Washington, she took
her father's consent for granted; but after Cinda and Burr had left them he asked her: “Are you surprised that I'm letting you go, Anne?”

“Why, Papa, you always have let me make up my own mind.”

“I know.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, idiot!” Her tone was tenderly affectionate. “You know that as well as I do!”

He smiled, and for a moment he did not speak, and when he did it was carefully. “Anne, I don't want to distress you. But may I just tell you what is in my mind?”

“Why, of course, Papa.” She could not guess what was to come.

“I'm sorry your mother isn't alive.” She waited, her eyes wide and still. “But you and I have always talked man to man.” He hesitated, then went on: “Anne, war changes people. Sometimes men whom you never respected before become valiant warriors and splendid gentlemen; but sometimes the reverse is true. War is—well, it's like strong drink. Some men it magnifies, some it debases.”

She knew no way to help him to what he wished to say.

“Sometimes fine men, the finest men, change for the worse,” he said regretfully. “Anne, you've always liked and admired Uncle Faunt. But he is changed, Anne. Perhaps by the war, or by his wound and his long illness. I know no other explanation. But believe me, he is changed; changed in ways you can't know. And if you did know, you wouldn't fully understand. And he's often in Richmond. If you stayed here, you would see him.” His eyes met hers fairly. “Anne, I'm glad you're not to see Uncle Faunt for a while. That's why I'm glad you're going with Mrs. Dewain.”

Anne almost smiled; he was so humble, awkwardly floundering, loving her. She had no faintest idea what he meant. She knew men did disgraceful things, but she did not know what those things were, nor did she wish to know. Uncle Faunt's sins, whatever they were, did not matter now. Nothing mattered except to make her father happy. She came to him, kissing him.

“Why, Papa, I'm surprised at you, making up romances for your daughter just like a gossipy old lady. Of course I've always liked Uncle Faunt; but good gracious, Papa, I'd never go falling in love with him!” In her heart some voice protested at this betrayal, but she
hushed it. “Don't you worry, silly old darling! The minute I'm falling in love with anyone you'll be the first one I'll tell. I'll tell you before the young man even begins to suspect it himself. You wait and see!”

She found pretty ways to make him forget his fears; but when she was abed that night, her departure all prepared, she tried to understand what he had said. His words still had for her no clear meaning; she only knew that for some reason her father was critical of Uncle Faunt. Yet surely Uncle Faunt had never done anything he shouldn't; he was too gentle and sweet and wise and brave and fine!

 

When early next morning the carriage with Burr and Cinda stopped at the door she hugged her father hard; she kissed him, bade him not worry, and went swiftly down the steps to join them. Burr's pass and the deference that she and Cinda commanded easily overcame any obstacles General Winder's men might have put in their way. The all-day journey to Gordonsville seemed to her interminable; for Longstreet's brigades were hurrying to join Jackson there, so the cars were crammed with troops and the roads she saw from the windows were full of regiments on the march, and of crawling wagons and great guns.

“Burr,” she said once, “I didn't know an army was all spraddled out like this. I thought an army was soldiers in nice straight lines like the drills at the Fair Grounds.”

Burr laughed. “No, this is what an army looks like, Anne; men and wagons and guns and ambulances scattered for miles. The army that wins battles is the one that gets them un-scattered, gets them all together at the right time.”

They talked together in the easy forgetfulness of youth, till Anne saw Cinda's still eyes and remembered their errand, and fell silent. But Cinda, as though she guessed Anne's thought, became thereafter so valiantly merry that when at last they reached Gordonsville and left the train, Anne squeezed her arm and whispered that she was wonderful.

Burr had left his horse at High Fields, the Forgy home, halfway between Gordonsville and Louisa Court House; and there they were made as welcome as old friends. Mrs. Forgy said General Lee's headquarters
were at Orange Court House. Pope's army was concentrated between the Rapidan and the Rappahannock, thirty miles or so northeastward. Stuart had ridden off along the plank road toward Chancellorsville a week ago; but she did not know where he was now.

Burr decided to leave Anne and Cinda here while he went on to find Fitz Lee's brigade. The wait for his return seemed a long one, though on Sunday Major Forgy rode down from Orange Court House with half a dozen brother officers for dinner, and Anne was radiant under their gentle gallantries. Not till late Sunday evening did Burr return, and Faunt came with him. Burr had found General Fitz Lee close by, at Louisa Court House; but he was to move tomorrow through Verdiersville toward Raccoon Ford.

“And if we join him there tomorrow night, he's sure he can arrange something,” he promised.

Mrs. Forgy would have put her carriage at their service, but at Burr's suggestion they had brought their habits and were prepared to ride; and Faunt and Burr thought this the wiser plan.

“The carriage will make you keep to the roads,” Faunt explained. “Mounted, you can go where you choose.” Cinda reminded him that they each had a trunk, and he said the trunks might follow in a farm cart. “But the less you take with you the better,” he warned them. “You'll be able to buy anything you need, even in Alexandria. Better leave here whatever you can manage without.”

“Not even Anne's little trunk?” Cinda urged. Burr said the trunk could be packed on a mule, and eventually, with some contriving, they managed to cram indispensables into it and into saddlebags. Their hoops would be secured behind their saddles.

That night they made their preparations, and at first sun next morning they set out. Anne, when Faunt joined them, had felt faintly guilty, because it was to make sure she should not see Uncle Faunt for a while that her father had consented to her coming. To appease her own conscience she assumed toward him a mature and aloof dignity; but she was a little hurt to find that on the road he seemed to avoid her, riding most often with Cinda while Burr kept her company.

They went through Louisa, and Anne thought it was a charming little town, the old court house with its small flanking buildings, the comfortable brick houses. Beyond, their road followed gently rolling
high ground where they had to pass Fitz Lee's plodding wagon trains; and from an occasional rise they could see through summer haze the bold mass of the Blue Ridge that seemed very far away. “But on a clear day you'd think it wasn't five miles off,” Burr assured her. The way swung more northerly, through a region of small farms and tumble-down houses; and to Anne's question Burr explained that the more extensive and substantial places lay to the west, near Boswell Tavern and Gordonsville and Orange. The road began to cross a succession of ridges and deep valleys in which ran bold bright streams, and once she saw what Burr said was an iron furnace a little above the ford they passed. The creeks were headwaters of the North Anna river; one of them, a fair twenty feet wide, was the river itself. The deep valleys were cool and pleasant, and from each ridge they saw the distant mountains marching with them miles away.

When the wagon trains were behind them they had a free road, since Fitz Lee's main body was well ahead; and they took an easy gait staying far enough behind the cavalry that the dust the column raised had time to settle. On one height where there was a church on their right, a large house a little off the road on the left promised hospitality; and they were cordially received and rested and went on. A high cone-shaped hill, still well ahead and a little to the left of their course, seemed to spy upon their approach. “It keeps peeking at us over the tree tops,” Anne said laughingly. “Like some old maid peeping out of her window around the blind.”

Burr smiled. “That's Clark's Mountain,” he said. “And I wouldn't be surprised if someone were watching us. General Jackson probably has a signal station there.” The lofty hill had at first seemed far away; but it came nearer, and as they approached its shape seemed to change. No longer a cone, it became a ridge, highest in the center, tapering off to lower ground at either end.

At the crossing of the plank road, a cavalry patrol to which Burr spoke said Stuart had been close to capture that morning near Verdiers ville, when a force of Union cavalry surprised him and a few members of his staff at dawn before their horses were bridled.

“General Stuart had to jump his horse over the fence,” Burr reported, when he came back to them. “He lost his hat and cloak. That fine hat of his is his pride.”

“Don't we all know it!” Cinda agreed, her tone sharp. “Whenever he comes to church, he makes a point of arriving ten minutes late and marching down the aisle to a front seat and swinging that plumed hat against his knees! I'm glad he's lost it!”

Burr smiled. “He's getting a lot of quizzing about it today. He'll be at Raccoon Ford by the time we get there.”

 

Well before sunset, they arrived at General Stuart's headquarters; and he lodged them that night in the farm house on whose veranda he himself would sleep. Anne, though she had seen him riding at the head of his men like a figure out of dreams, had never met him face to face. His great red-brown beard and his huge mustache made him seem enormously full of dignity; but she saw the twinkle in his eyes when he bowed over her hand, the teasing smile with which he said they were his prisoners.

“Pass you through the lines?” he protested, when he heard their desire. “Hardly! If you're the loyal hearts you pretend to be, we'll never willingly lose you; and if you're disloyal, you'd tell all our secrets to General Pope!”

Anne looked uncertainly at Cinda; but Cinda gave him a dry answer. “You'll find you've caught a tartar, General! You'll presently be ready to take any risk to be rid of us.”

“Threats?” He frowned elaborately. “I assure you, I'm never afraid —of ladies.”

“But when you see the Yankees,” she reminded him, “you run so fast you lose your hat.”

For an instant in his flashing eye Anne caught a glimpse of the warrior; but then he smiled again. “That debt, Madame,” he assured her, “I shall collect one day from General Pope.”

Supper was a laughing time, with Anne and Cinda the belles of the occasion and a dozen young officers paying them many compliments. General Stuart turned to a desk and began to write one letter after another, but half his attention was still with them; for presently, without turning, he shouted: “Bob!” On that signal three Negroes appeared: a sleek mulatto with a guitar, and two others inky black. Bob, the mulatto, strummed and sang
Listen to the Mocking Bird
, and one of the others began to whistle an accompaniment, embroidering the air
with so many lively flourishes that Anne thought even a mocking bird would have been abashed by the superior excellence of this performance. The whistling Negro seemed to fill the room with bird notes, and Stuart even while he wrote joined in the singing; and at last he called: “Bob, let's have a breakdown!” The mulatto abandoned his guitar for rattling bones, the whistler set the tune, and the third Negro, while Stuart and the other gentlemen kept time with clapping hands, danced heel and toe, faster and faster, his steps an infinite variety, his eyes rolling, sweat beginning to glisten upon his black face, till Anne thought he must collapse in helpless exhaustion. He finished his dance with a bound that took him through the door, and the others vanished with him.

There were other songs thereafter, led by a man named Sweeney with a banjo; and they all sang together, Stuart and his men, Anne and Cinda. They sang
The Dew is on the Blossom and Evelyn
and Stuart's ear caught Anne's sweet tones and he invited her to sing for them.
Lorena
, he suggested. She protested that
Lorena
was a man's song, for a man to sing; and he said they would all sing it with her. So she began, but as she sang he signalled the others one by one to silence, so that at last she sang alone.