House Divided (84 page)

“Exactly,” the Captain assented. “And I will try to make our mutual investment a profitable one.”

Darrell leaned forward. “See here, sir, my father and I have some funds to invest. Perhaps——”

Captain Pew showed what Darrell acknowledged was a natural reluctance to admit too many to share the prospective profits; but Darrell argued that the risk would also be divided. With success, the enterprise might be enlarged: more vessels, more profits. The Captain yielded a little and a little more; Darrell, intoxicated by these successes, forgot his first impression that Captain Pew was a daunting and a dangerous man. He felt he had met the other on his own ground and won a victory. Nell from the first was mildly on his side; Mr. Means was chiefly concerned with keeping his own participation secret. It
might be misunderstood. Nell, smiling a little, agreed that this was true.

“For a member of Congress to profit from the straits in which the Confederacy finds herself—yes, you are right, Mr. Means. Perhaps you would care to let one of us take over your share?”

“Ah-hum!” The fat man chuckled. “Not necessary, Mrs. Albion; not necessary at all. Scruples need never be carried to extremes.” He rose. “So it may be considered settled. Now I must say good night. Certain matters——”

He looked expectantly at Captain Pew, but the Captain did not stir. Mr. Means might have sat down again, but Nell had risen to go with him to the door. Captain Pew, when he and Darrell were alone, speaking quietly under cover of the voices in the hall, inquired: “You are not leaving, Mr. Streean?”

Darrell smiled. “Nor you, Captain?”

The Captain chuckled and drew a gold coin from his pocket. “Leave it to chance?” Darrell nodded; the coin spun.

“Heads,” said Darrell.

Captain Pew glanced at the coin in his palm; he shrugged, surrendering. As he dropped the gold piece in his pocket, the front door closed, and Nell rejoined them. Captain Pew came to his feet. “I too must go,” he confessed. He spoke to Darrell. “You and your father and I can discuss details tomorrow.”

Darrell nodded as casually as possible, hoping his manner suggested that this was after all only one among his many ventures; he was anxious to impress this cold-eyed man who made him feel like a child.

 

When Nell returned from seeing the Captain to the door, Darrell said quizzically: “So we're rid of them.”

“Captain Pew doesn't usually leave the field so easily.”

He nodded, laughed. “Dolly may discover that, one day.”

“I can see that she might find him fascinating,” Nell commented. “Of course he's a scoundrel; but at least he makes no secret of it.”

“That reminds me,” he drawled, “I saw Uncle Tony recently.”

Her eyes met his in warning. “He and I are old friends, you know.”

“When did you see him?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Darrell laughed. “I hadn't seen him in years. Shocking old sot. Let's not speak of him. He's changed. You've not, you know; or if you have, I wish all changes were so enchanting.” She smiled, and he said: “I used to think of you as an old woman; attractive, something of the coquette perhaps, but—well, old.”

“I'm older now, by—how many years is it?”

“You seem no older than I.”

“Perhaps it is you who have aged.” Her eyes considered him. “I seem to see the ravages of—time, is it, Dal?”

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he insisted.

“Why, I've been—busy, and happy.”

“Busy?”

“The hospitals,” she reminded him. “And for a time I worked for Mr. Memminger. The Confederacy is printing so many bonds, so much currency that the Treasury keeps a room full of ladies signing bills and bonds all day long.”

He grinned. “Working in a money factory? Did you bring home an occasional sample of your product?”

She said: “I gave up the work. There were so many whose need of employment was greater than mine, who have no other income, ladies driven from their homes in northern Virginia, refugees.”

Darrell nodded indifferently. “So you've been busy. But the happiness?” At this question, he thought there was concern in her eyes, and felt a lively curiosity. As an experiment he rose. “See here, Nell, this is an embarrassingly formal room. I remember a much pleasanter little nest upstairs.”

“I no longer receive there.”

Darrell smiled teasingly down at her. “Your discretion does you credit, Nell; but isn't it suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”

“That little room was not sacrosanct in Uncle Tony's—reign. Has he a successor?”

“You used to be a nice boy, Dal,” she said quietly, “but you were always impudent. That could be forgiven—in a boy.”

He eyed her shrewdly. “Those roses in your cheeks, that sparkle in your eye!” And then in delighted astonishment: “Why, God bless me, you're blushing! I'd not believe it of you, Nell!”

For a moment she did not speak. Then she said evenly: “Good night, Darrell.”

“Oh come now—” Her eyes held his; he tried to laugh, shook his head. “I'm not going so soon.” He sat down again, defiantly, as though to stay forever. “Nell, listen.”

She rose, moved toward the mantel where a bell pull hung. He saw her intent, leaped after her; but she turned swiftly to face him.

And there was, from nowhere, a small double-barrelled Deringer in her hand, levelled at him fair.

He stopped in his tracks, but he laughed in quick amusement. “Why, Nell, you look dangerous!”

She nodded. “I am, Dal. Be sure of that.” With her left hand, the little weapon steady, she reached behind her to the bell pull. He spoke in sudden anger.

“A little late, these scruples, Nell!”

For a moment then he knew fright, for there was death in her eyes; but then steps sounded on the stair. As Milly appeared in the door the pistol hid itself in the folds of Nell's skirt.

“Good night, Mr. Streean,” she said.

He bowed, choking with rage. “Good night, ma'am.”

 

Outside the house he turned to look back. Certainly Uncle Tony had a successor. Some day he would make it his pleasure to know a little more about that successor who had made her so happy and so beautiful. It occurred to him suddenly that the successor might be Captain Pew, and, thinking of the Captain, he remembered their conversation; so when he came home and found Redford Streean still at his desk, he spoke of the blockader.

“I've seen him dancing attendance on Dolly,” Streean agreed, and Darrell said dryly:

“I wouldn't take him for a dancing man; but he has an interesting proposal in hand.” He related their conversation. “I suggested he talk with you.”

“It sounds interesting,” Streean agreed. “I'll suggest he come here so he and I can talk privately.”

“Privately?” Darrell laughed. “With Dolly around?”

“You'll have to see she's not at home when he comes.” When
Darrell objected that he wished a voice in whatever arrangement was made, Streean said: “I won't settle anything without you. Make Dolly take you to see Enid's new house. Trav has bought a place on Clay Street. Dolly and Enid seem to like each other.”

Darrell reluctantly agreed, and next day he and Tilda and Dolly went to call on Enid, and she delighted in showing him everything, leading him happily here and there, explaining this and that. He amused himself by paying her many compliments, at which she bridled like a girl. Women never realized that their charms faded. She had always had an eager ear for his faintly veiled audacities, so phrased that for a woman to appear to understand them was half surrender. If it had been worth the trouble, he would have made her his mistress long ago, as her mother had been Uncle Tony's; but it was certainly not worth the trouble now. Besides, Uncle Trav had a quality that Darrell recognized and respected. In the role of a betrayed husband he might be dangerous. Darrell asked Enid where Trav was.

“Oh he's gone to Chimneys to see Tony.” They had finished their inspection of the new house, were back in the drawing room with Dolly and Tilda; and Enid cried: “That reminds me, Tilda. Clarice Pettigrew called this morning. You know we used to be neighbors at Chimneys. Mr. Pettigrew was killed at Manassas last year, and one of her sons is in a hospital here, and dying, she thinks.”

“There are hundreds of poor boys here now,” Tilda agreed. “It's terrible to see them, Enid.”

“Well, I certainly don't intend to see them,” Enid declared. “It would make me sick. Clarice was just out of her mind. I think that's why she called, really. She just had to have someone to talk to. We never saw much of each other at Chimneys. They were very gay, always off gallivanting somewhere; and of course Trav never wanted to go anywhere, as long as he could spend his days with white trash and niggers. Oh, that's what I started to tell you. I had a nurse for the children for a while, a bright mulatto named Sapphira, and she was just wickedly beautiful, and Trav was always—well, I made him sell her to Mr. Pettigrew. Clarice says Tony has bought her back again. You know how Tony is, and I'll just bet Trav told him about her. He—” She broke off, clapped both hands over her mouth. “Heavens, I shouldn't say such things! I forgot you were here, Darrell.”

Darrell said in a gravely reassuring tone: “I didn't hear a word, Cousin Enid. She's beautiful, eh?”

“Oh, beautiful as sin, really.” She went on: “And now Trav's at Chimneys. He said he wouldn't be gone long, but if that girl's there——”

Darrell saw his mother listening avidly. She would spread this whisper, and it would run along busy feminine tongues as swiftly as a telegram along a wire. Enid knew this as well as he. Uncle Trav ought to take a riding crop to her, teach her discretion. “What's the girl's name?” he asked. “I was at Chimneys recently, may have seen her.”

“Sapphira,” Enid told him; and Dolly laughed teasingly.

“You're awfully interested, Darrell, it seems to me.”

“Just wondered if I'd seen her.” If this wench was a house servant, Uncle Tony had kept her out of sight. “I'll probably drop in at Chimneys again before long, Cousin Enid; see if she's all you say.”

After their participation in Captain Pew's ventures had been arranged, Darrell proposed to his father that he return to Chimneys and take Uncle Tony the proceeds of that sale of slaves; but Streean wished him to sail with Captain Pew on the next trip to Nassau. “I'd like to go myself,” the older man explained. “One of us ought to keep an eye on the Captain. He's—” He smiled. “Well, Captain Pew doesn't seem to me entirely devoid of self-interest, Darrell. But I've too many irons in the fire, so you'd best go.”

Darrell assented. Uncle Tony could wait, and that unknown Sapphira.

September, 1862

 

 

T
RAV had already decided that when he was strong enough he would go to Chimneys to bring back house servants for Enid; but James Fiddler's word made him hurry his departure. As a result, the journey exhausted him, and the jostling stage awoke a ferocious pain in the region where the ball had pierced his body. When he arrived at Martinston he was so near collapse that he put up at Pete Loury's tavern, intending to go on to Chimneys next day, when he would be rested.

But in the morning, though rebellious at his own weakness, he felt unable to move. He was troubled too by something in the tavern keeper's manner, and by the actions of the servants at the inn. The Negro who carried his bag to his room had scuttled away, and in the morning no one came to him till he heard shuffling footsteps in the hall outside the door and called, and a Negro girl with broom and dustpan looked in.

He asked her to summon her master, and when Pete Loury came to the door Trav saw in his eyes an embarrassed uncertainty.

“Mawnin', Mister Currain,” Pete said awkwardly. “Right smart of a mawnin', now ain't it?” The sun was streaming through the windows.

“Well, I don't feel so smart myself,” Trav confessed. “I got a hole through me, here a while back, that a mouse could crawl through; and the trip didn't do me any good. I'm going to lie abed today, if it won't be too much of a bother to you.”

“Sho, no trouble at all,” Pete assured him. “Yankees too much for you, wuz they?”

“Why, they laid me low for two months. Pete, I'd be obliged if you'd send word to Mr. Currain at Chimneys that I'm here. I'll be able to go on tomorrow, if he could send the carriage in for me.”

“I'll do that, to be shore. And I'll have old Miranda fix you up a real nice mess of breakfast.”

He turned, almost with relief, to depart; and Trav said: “Come back when you have time; let me hear the news.”

“Well, we git our news mostly when the stage comes. I did heah they's some new fighting up't Manassas Junction.”

“I know. I heard that yesterday. But I mean the news around here, Pete. I've been away a long time.”

The tavern keeper hesitated. “Well, ain't much happens heah, but I'll be back.”

A Negro presently brought a loaded tray, and Trav, devouring bacon and grits and coffee, hot bread and dark molasses, felt his strength return. When Pete at last appeared, he asked questions; and Pete, at first cautiously, told him of this man and of that one, living furtively on their scattered farms and ready at the approach of authority to vanish into the wooded highlands.

Trav said understandingly: “I can see being in the army might come hard on some.”

“Why, I sh'd jedge it's all right for them that likes it,” Pete admitted. “You-uns that looks to git something out of it, or to hang on to what you got, you might look at it different; but they ain't a thing in it for the likes of us around heah, only laying in camp to git sick and die off, or gitting theyselves kilt by the Yankees.” Pete himself was an old man, dried and lean and frail. “It wouldn't suit me,” he said frankly. “And I don't know as I'd blame a man if it didn't suit him.”

“It didn't suit me,” Trav admitted. “I never thought to do any fighting. I set out to rustle up corn and hog meat for the army to eat, all such.” Unconsciously, as always when he met these old friends, he fitted his speech to the other's pattern. “But if you get nigh enough to it, soon or late you're bound to take a hand.”

“I dunno,” Pete reflected. “Used to be I liked a good gouging as well as the next one; but I neveh did have no stummick for cuttin' and shootin' folks. It's too gol-blamed permanent.”

Trav nodded, and his own thoughts made his anger rise. “I hate
the whole business the way you hate a rattler. I just want to kill it, kill it dead.”

“Well,” the tavern keeper commented, “I reck'n theah's enough of you all that feel the same way to keep it going long as yo're a mind to. But the thing is, it comes on a lot of folks that don't feel the way you do. Law says a white man with twenty slaves don't have to go in the army less'n he's a mind to; but that don't let out anybody around heah. Ain't none of us got any twenty slaves. So we-uns do the fighting and you-uns set on the verandy all cool and comfo'table and watch youh people sweat.” He seemed to remember that his word might give offense, for he said apologetically: “Leastways that's the talk I heah.” He spat accurately at the white china spittoon beside the bed. “Men come home on furlough and tell't Richmond's full o' young sprigs that's got details, or bought themselves out of fighting or something. They ain't nobody got details around heah.”

Trav would not willingly agree, but he could not honestly dissent. What Pete was saying was true enough. As the law stood, no man of means or influence need fight unless he chose; but the poor man had no choice. “I saw James Fiddler in Richmond,” he said. “He'll be missed at Chimneys. I didn't think he'd ever leave.”

The innkeeper looked at him in a sidelong fashion. “That young Mr. Streean—youh nephew, ain't he?” Trav nodded. “Him and a man named Pudrick come along a while back and bought a lot of the people. Pudrick let on they'd been bought cheap. Did some bragging. I sh'd jedge Jim Fiddler didn't hold with selling them.”

Trav held his eyes steady, hid his astonishment. The overseer had not told him this, and Pete's disclosure shocked and angered him; but he would not say any word critical of Tony. “Chimneys had more people than were needed there,” he said.

Pete nodded. “I jedge the place c'n git along with what's left,” he assented. He rose. “Well, you rest yourself. I sent a boy to Chimneys to tell Mr. Currain yo're here.”

 

Trav, left alone, lay for a while in thought of this which Tony had done; and he slept and woke when a bountiful dinner appeared. He drowsed again till he heard a horseman gallop into town, and excited
voices below; and not long after, Chelmsford Lowman came to his door.

The postmaster's manner was hearty enough. “Heard you was here,” he said. “But Pete said you was wore out. But here's some news will make you perk up. Word just come from Sal'sbury that General Lee give the Yanks another going over last Friday and Sat'day, up at Manassas, same as we did last summer. Busted 'em wide open till there ain't what you could call an army left.” He laughed in a rich content. “Looks like it's bad luck for the Yanks to come down Richmond way. You'd think they'd learn.”

Trav had heard yesterday first rumors of the opening of that battle; he asked many questions now, unwilling to accept too easily this word of glorious victory. So often rumor coupled with the easy optimism of the South to exaggerate successes. But Lowman knew enough to make it certain that this had been an overwhelming defeat for Pope's army. “A signal victory,” General Lee called it; and Lee was a man who weighed his words.

Trav felt a deep impatience to be back with the army again, to do his share of these great deeds; but first he must see Tony. Next morning he was strong enough to move; and in the late forenoon the carriage drew up at the tavern door, and Tony came to welcome him.

This was an affable and cheerful Tony, readier to laugh than Trav had ever known him to be. During the drive back to Chimneys, Tony's monotonous good humor began to be disturbing. To Trav's relief, for he dreaded questioning his brother, Tony volunteered the statement that James Fiddler was gone. “More fool he,” he said with a chuckle. “But he was bound to don the dreadful panoply of war.” Trav suspected that Tony had had no small amount to drink this morning. “I tried to make him see his folly; yes, and his disloyalty, too. He's as much of a deserter as any of these white trash fellows hiding out around here.”

“You'll miss him.”

“Oh I think not.” Tony's persistent laughter was increasingly irritating. “I'm a pretty good farmer myself, Trav. Enjoy it, you know. Mighty interesting. And profitable, too. By the way, I've done the sensible thing, sold off all the surplus people.” Trav felt the other's
sidelong glance, kept his own eyes upon the road. Ed Blandy's cabin was just around the next bend, still hidden by the pine wood. “They were eating us up like a swarm of locusts,” Tony declared. “Bound to make trouble. Not enough work to keep them busy, and the ones that were working were quarreling with the ones who weren't. Niggers have to be busy, Trav. Keep them busy. Then they're happy.” This clipped way of speech, these ejaculatory sentences were something new. So was this loquacity, and the empty laughter. “Should have consulted you all, no doubt, but you were off to the wars. Seemed best to act in your interests.”

“It's all in the family,” Trav assented. “You're in charge here.” Each of them—Faunt at Belle Vue, Brett at the Plains, he himself here at Chimneys and later at Great Oak—had always acted on his own decisions. It was true they never sold slaves, but Tony's deed was done past mending, and recriminations were folly.

“Might have discussed it with Mama while she was here,” Tony admitted. “I did talk with Redford Streean. He agreed it was wise to get a price for them while we can. Didn't want to bother Mama. She's aged fast.”

They came to Ed Blandy's house. “I'll stop a minute,” Trav decided, “if you don't mind waiting. Come in with me?”

But Tony declined to do so. “I haven't the pleasure of the lady's acquaintance.” A faint derision in his tone made Trav's ears burn.

He had from Mrs. Blandy and from the children a shy welcome. They were none of them, except the new baby who crowed and gurgled on the wide bed in absorbed contemplation of his own toes, at ease; but this did not surprise Trav. Mrs. Blandy said Ed was fine, the last she heard. He and Tom Shadd were together in the Eleventh North Carolina, stationed at Camp Rains, near Wilmington. Trav did not know this regiment; and she said the Colonel was an Englishman and that Ed thought he worked them awful hard. Ed said Colonel Leventhorpe had the loudest voice he'd ever heard; and Trav chuckled.

“I'll match General Longstreet against him, Mrs. Blandy. The General can wake a mule up half a mile away without raising his voice above a whisper.”

They laughed together at that, and the children too, all of them for
the moment forgetting to be afraid of Trav. He said the corn looked good, and she said she and the children had worked as hard as they knew how, and Trav told her to remember him to Ed when she could, and she promised to do so. He returned to the waiting carriage, refreshed by this brief interlude. People like Mrs. Blandy made you feel as good as a deep draft of buttermilk cold from the spring house. She was somehow like Cinda; and Trav, back in the carriage, thinking of Cinda, said:

“By the way, Tony, did you know Cinda had word of Julian?”

“No. Streean told me he was missing after Williamsburg.”

“Well, he's alive,” Trav said. “Or at least he was, the latest news she had. He's in a hospital in Washington. She went to bring him home.”

Tony chuckled. “Washington? Maybe she'll call on that nephew of ours, Trav.”

Trav looked at his brother in regretful comprehension. The revelation of his kinship to Lincoln had not awakened in him any sense of personal humiliation. If his father's seed were somehow the source from which this war sprang, why then he would do his best to exterminate the dreadful weed; but he felt, beyond this obligation, no burden of shame upon himself. Tony, from his tone, did. Trav asked gently: “You're worrying about that, are you?”

Tony laughed. Why must he always laugh? “Worry? No! Damned clever fellow, that son of a bastard! He's fooled the Yankees, got to be President! Trouble is, he's out to get even with his grandpa's family. We'll all be no better than beggars before he's through with us; but I'm going to show the laddie boy I'm as clever as he is. He won't beggar me!”

Trav, not knowing what to say, said nothing, and Tony flicked the horses idly with the whip, but presently Trav's silence seemed to oppress him. “New Governor coming in, in a few days now.”

Trav accepted the lead. “Colonel Vance. Yes, I know. He had a big majority.”

“Of course. We're against this damned war, down here, you know. And so's Zeb Vance. He was against secession.”

“Not after Lincoln called on North Carolina to furnish troops.”

Tony chuckled. “Oh, no one dared say what he thought after that.
Vance volunteered, Colonel of the Twenty-sixth. Sure. But everyone knows where he really stands. Even the Philadelphia papers said his election was a Union victory. They sent soldiers into the country to keep deserters from going to the polls and voting for him; but he won anyway. We don't like Jeff Davis down here, sending Virginia men to impress our guns and the cloth from our mills. Governor Vance will show them that North Carolina is still a sovereign state, boss in her own borders.”

“We'll never beat the North if every Confederate state takes that attitude.”

“We'll take care of ourselves.”

Trav said soberly: “I think maybe you're wrong about North Carolina, Tony. She's sent over sixty thousand volunteers already.”

Tony laughed. “Yes, but half of them have deserted and come home.”

Trav hesitated, but before he could speak the big house came into view, and a moment later they turned up the drive. The familiar sweep of cultivated lowlands, the rolling wooded hills, the distant mountains made his pulse quicken with content, and he felt strength flow into him. Next day he rode for an hour, the day after he rode with Tony till dinner time; and all he saw was good. The plantation was in order, every field well tended. It was true that for this season's crops James Fiddler was largely responsible; but Tony would be able to go on. He could manage—if he would. Perhaps Big Mill might come on here to act as driver, to keep the hands at their work. Certainly the gigantic Negro had accepted responsibility at Great Oak and met it well.