“Do you never ride into Camden? Of course, with so many attractions here——”
Rollin answered him readily: “Why, in fact, sir, Burr and I thought to ride in this evening. Even in Charleston, Mr. Eader, we’ve heard praises of the wines in Mr. Robinson’s cellar at the Kershaw House.”
“I know where he keeps his most choice bottles,” Mr. Eader assured them. Thus politely the rendezvous was made.
Clayton rode to Camden with them. When he and Burr and Rollin reached the Kershaw House, two or three acquaintances were in the taproom, but not Mr. Eader. Clayton thought he would not be long. Someone remarked to Clayton that he seldom came to town, and with an ear for Mr. Eader’s arrival, he took the chance-offered cue.
“I’m much too busy at the Plains,” he said. “Cotton’s a crop that requires a man’s attention.”
“No more than rice,” Rollin suggested.
“Every man thinks his own task the most difficult,” Clayton agreed. “My uncle Travis believes tobacco offers more problems than either cotton or rice.”
As he spoke, the door opened, and Mr. Eader and Mr. Bellmer, a white-skinned, flabby little man, who had acted for Mr. Eader in more than one affair, came in together. Clayton’s dislike of Mr. Bellmer was almost as intense as his feeling toward Mr. Eader. Nevertheless he felt himself today obliged to a surface cordiality.
“Ah, gentlemen. Will you join us, and state your pleasure?”
When they were seated—Mr. Eader across from Rollin as though already they were confronted—and full glasses had been set before them, Clayton resumed the conversation. “We were discussing,” he explained, holding his tone casual, “the trials of the farmer. My uncle, Mr. Travis Currain, makes tobacco profitable at Chimneys, but he is forever protesting at the labor involved; seed beds in which every clod must be pulverized and the very soil purged by fire, seedlings to be weeded and tended through six or eight weeks, transplanting, many cultivations, buds to be pinched off, leaves and suckers to be removed, horn worms that must be culled by hand like a delicate fruit—and after the plants are grown, the harvesting, curing, stripping.” He smiled. “Why, to hear him, you would suppose it to be a lifetime’s work to raise a pipeful. For my part, I think the cotton planter best deserves sympathy.”
“You are correct, sir,” Mr. Eader assured him, as though he spoke by rote. “No other crop requires such tender and unabated care. The land must be bedded in early winter, it must be well drained, it must be plowed exactly thus and so, the crust must be harrowed—and all this before the first seed is sown. There’s a winter’s work in itself! Then the seeds, once sown, must be covered, and the earth scratched to permit them to germinate; and then come weeds, and plowing, and chopping and more plowing with mold-board and sweep after the turn-plow has dirted the plants. And picking and ginning, each is an art in itself! Then when one year’s crop is saved it is time to start preparing for the next. Yes, cotton-planting has its difficulties.” He looked for the first time at Rollin Lyle, said in a condescending tone: “Now rice is easy, by comparison; no more than a matter of letting in the water on your swamps. Yet I have heard Charleston men complain.”
“I assure you, sir, there is more to rice culture than flooding the swamps,” Rollin objected. “In the fall and winter, there are the ditches and the drains to clean, levees and gates to keep in repair. Then the plowing is a long muddy business, and harrowing and trenching, all before you let the water on at all. Sowing the seed is easy enough, to be sure.” They were all as quietly attentive as though he spoke of matters of which they were ignorant; and the other gentlemen in the taproom, perhaps recognizing that something unusual lay behind this conversation, ceased their own talk to listen. “It’s only after planting time that water helps at all,” Rollin continued. “There’s the sprout-flow to start the seed, but after that the hoeing must be done before the stretch-flow—the long-flow—to make the seedlings reach for air and thus outgrow the weeds; and the people have to wade through the fields and pull weeds the hoes missed. And after the stretch-flow the fields must be hoed again while the plants make their dry-growth before the lay-by, the harvest-flow. No, Mr. Eader, there’s more to growing rice than flooding. The hands have work enough, you may be sure.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” Mr. Eader assented. “And for the hoeing the hands must wade in mud all day long, I suppose. Tell me, Mr. Lyle, is it the hard work or the wet feet that kills off your niggers so fast?”
Clayton at that word felt his nerves draw taut, felt the sudden breathless silence in the room. In that silence came Rollin’s quiet reply.
“Why, Mr. Eader, I would not have expected so much solicitude from one who notoriously and cruelly abuses his people.”
Mr. Eader with a violent movement thrust back his chair and stood up; and Mr. Bellmer, as though they were two manikins operated by the same spring, rose with him. Mr. Eader spoke. “Do I understand you correctly, Mr. Lyle?”
“Why, I think so,” Rollin assured him. “If you understand me to express my contempt for a man who treats his negroes as you treat yours —you understand me precisely, sir.”
So, for good or ill, the thing was done. Clayton knew a profound relief. From what was now to follow, Cousin Dolly’s name need take no stain.
10
May, 1860
WHEN Brett Dewain returned from Charleston to the Plains, he was concerned because of what had happened at the Democratic Convention, and he looked forward as he always did to sharing his anxieties with Cinda. But when she and Clayton met his train, her quick embrace had in it an intensity which warned him that she too was deeply troubled; that even more than he needed her, she needed him.
“Oh, Brett Dewain,” she whispered, holding him strongly. “Don’t ever leave me! Don’t ever leave me again!”
Meeting Clayton’s eye, seeing his son’s grave countenance, Brett knew this was no small matter. He led her toward the waiting carriage where they were secure against being overheard. When they were on the road, before he could ask a question, Cinda said hurriedly:
“Tell him, Clayton. I’d get it all mixed up.”
She linked her hands through Brett’s arm, pressing close to him; and Clayton looked at his father, hesitated, said at last:
“Well, Papa—you knew Cousin Dolly and Aunt Tilda were here?”
“I knew they were coming. I saw Mr. Streean in Charleston. He said he had put them on the train at Kingsville.”
“Well,” Clayton explained, “Jenny and I wanted to make it pleasant for them, so one night we had a picnic at Muster Spring.” He told Brett, in quiet detail, what happened there. “So when Mr. Eader rode away in a rage, Mama sent me after him to try to—smooth things over.”
Cinda whispered: “Oh I wish you’d been here, Brett Dewain!”
“I’m sure Clayton did all I could have done,” he assured her; and Clayton said regretfully:
“Well, I couldn’t do anything, sir, short of intervening; and I had no right to do that.” He explained exactly what he did do, Brett nodding approval; and he continued: “When they met, I acted for Rollin. They used your pistols, sir.” He hesitated. “Rollin is not a good shot, and he wanted to kill Mr. Eader, so he required that they sit facing each other across a table.”
Brett looked his grave surprise. “Did Mr. Bellmer agree?”
“He disagreed pretty strongly at first,” Clayton admitted.
Brett, feeling Cinda beside him suddenly shiver, wishing to ease her distress, spoke laughingly. “Like Congressman Potter’s reply to Roger Pryor a fortnight since. Had you heard about that?” Clayton had not, and Brett explained: “They had some words on the floor of the House, and Pryor sent him a challenge, and Potter accepted and specified that they would fight with bowie knives. Pryor’s second refused to let him meet Potter on those terms; and the Northern papers were amused. Their idea is that a duel arises from a mutual desire of two men to kill each other. Potter, incidentally, is a giant; and Roger Pryor is rather frail.” He added: “Mo
st Southern men sympathize with Pryor, of course.”
“Well, Mr. Bellmer used pretty strong language,” Clayton admitted: “Called the idea barbarous, and vulgar. I offered to discuss the point with him on any terms he chose, so he modified his language. I know he thinks of himself as a stickler for the code in every detail.”
Brett nodded. “Yes. In the Martin-Scott affair twenty years ago he acted as second, and Mr. Martin fired after the word and Mr. Bellmer killed him. But I believe he has seldom acted as principal.”
“He modified his language,” Clayton said quietly. They had come to the ferry, and he spoke no more till they were on the road again. Brett saw the Negro ferry man watch them with furtive eyes. This affair must have made much talk among the blacks as well as whites. Once away from the ferry, Clayton continued: “I gave them their instructions.”
Cinda, clinging to Brett’s hand, asked in a shaking fascination: “What instructions, Clay?”
“Why, I explained that I would say: ‘Ready, gentlemen? Fire! One-two-three. Hold!’ They must not fire before I said the word, nor after I said ‘Hold!’ That’s the formula.” He looked at his father, and hesitated, and Brett watched this fine son of his, wishing Clayton need not have suffered this ordeal. The marks of strain were plain in the young man’s eyes.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
“Why, I think Mr. Eader’s courage failed him,” Clayton said slowly. “Or perhaps he lost control of himself. They sat facing each other across the table, their pistols pointed upward at arm’s length. They were so close that when the pistols were levelled the muzzles would practically meet. I said: ‘Ready, gentlemen?’ And before I gave the word, Mr. Eader lowered his weapon and fired.”
Brett felt choking rage fill his throat. “That was deliberate. Harry Eader has nerves like ice. I will kill him for that.”
But Cinda’s hand tightened on his arm, and Clayton said quickly: “No, Papa. You see, the bullet hit Rollin in the jaw, and he started to fall out of his chair, and Mr. Eader jumped up, and then Rollin’s pistol went off. He didn’t know what he was doing, but the bullet hit Mr. Eader in the heart.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Brett asked: “How is Rollin?”
“Why, he’ll get well.”
Cinda cried: “But the poor boy is scarred for life, the whole left side of his jaw shattered.”
Brett said steadily: “Harry Eader’s needed killing these thirty years, but I’m sorry it happened this way.” He pressed Cinda’s hand. “It was hard for you—and for Dolly.”
“Dolly?” Cinda almost laughed in open anger. “Why, she was just simply gloating! Clayton and Burr brought Rollin home——”
“Burr?”
“Yes, he and Rollin were expelled from the college for some silly boyish bravado. They brought Rollin home, and Dolly insisted she would take care of him, nurse him! She was as excited as an Indian with his first scalp. I packed her and Tilda off to Richmond—sent Burr with them—so there wouldn’t be too much talk about it.”
“Is Rollin still here?”
“Yes. Doctor Trezevant came and patched him up, and the wound is healing. Judge Longstreet was kind enough to call, and he says Rollin can go back to college when he’s well enough. Oh, Brett Dewain, why weren’t you here?”
“I could have done no more than Clayton did.” Then to lead her thoughts into less disturbing channels, he added: “I couldn’t have prevented their meeting, and—I was watching another sort of meeting which may have even more serious consequences.”
Cinda looked puzzled, but Clayton said in quick interest: “We heard that the Convention broke up.”
“The Democratic party broke up,” Brett corrected, “Split in two.”
Cinda said impatiently: “Oh, politics!”
“This is more than politics,” he told her seriously. “Mr. Yancey calls it the first step of a new revolution.”
“But—what does he mean?”
“Disunion!” Brett’s tone was low, his eyes stern. “Disunion.” And he said wearily: “Oh, it was in the air from the first, the plot, the plan, the thought in every mind. The night before the Convention met, a crowd with a band marched up to the Charleston Hotel and demanded speeches; and after two or three fire-eating harangues, some dissenter shouted: ‘Hurrah for the Star-Spangled Banner!’ The crowd turned on him like so many yapping dogs, and he had to run for his life, and someone else yelled: ‘Damn the old rag! Tear it down!’ That set them cheering again.”
Cinda asked, incredulous: “They can’t do it, can they? They don’t mean it, do they?”
“Yes. Yes, they mean it. The leaders do.” He elaborated upon what had happened in Charleston to make her forget this tragic business here at home. “The plan may work, Cinda. With the Democratic party split, the Black Republicans may elect Seward; and then these same men who split the party will call his election the signal for that irrepressible conflict Roger Pryor is forever predicting. They’ve split the party to elect Seward, and they’ll use Seward’s election as a pretext to split the Union. They’re already shouting the battle cry, declaring that Seward’s election would deliver the South, bound and helpless, into the hands of her enemies. Yancey, Rhett, Pryor, all the hotheads.”
Clayton said: “Judge Longstreet’s one of them, sir. Ever since he came to the college he’s been telling the students that we must fight the North and whip them. I heard him speak to them about John Brown, call him every name in the calendar. He’s sure that if we withdraw from the Union the North won’t dare do anything. If the rest of the South won’t secede he says for South Carolina to take her stand alone.” He half smiled and quoted: “‘Put her cause in the hand of God and take her stand alone!’”
Brett chuckled. “I’ve heard so much oratory in the last two weeks it’s hard to talk naturally,” he agreed. “But I think if Seward is elected the South will secede.” And while the horses trotted smartly homeward, he went on: “Yancey had persuaded Alabama to instruct her delegates that unless the platform insisted on the extension of slavery to the territories, they were to withdraw. When the Cotton States lost out on that point, we talked to Yancey—several of us, Taylor of Louisiana, and Slidell, and some others—urging him to keep Alabama in the Convention. We persuaded him, too; but Governor Winston insisted the instructions be followed. So Alabama and all the Cotton States withdrew from the Convention.”
Clayton said: “Papa, I couldn’t understand why they didn’t go ahead and nominate Mr. Douglas anyway, even after the Gulf States withdrew.”
“Why, the two-thirds rule made it difficult,” Brett explained. “But also—the South doesn’t trust him.” He added thoughtfully: “I was surprised at the strength of the sentiment against him. Mr. Butler of Massachusetts—I had a long talk with him one evening—says that Lincoln, the Illinois man, ruined Mr. Douglas politically in the South when he ran against him for the Senate two years ago. They had a series of debates, and Lincoln led Mr. Douglas into saying that slavery could be kept out of the territories by unfriendly legislation. They call that ‘The Freeport Doctrine’ and it killed Douglas in the South.”
“Who’s Mr. Lincoln?” Cinda asked. “I never heard of him.”
“He’s a small-town politician out West, one of the blackest of the Black Republicans. He’s practically unknown in the South.” Brett hesitated. “As it happens, I heard him speak, three or four years ago, in Bloomington, Illinois. I was there on business. Mr. Dwight of New York was taking over a railroad they were building out there, the Alton and Sangamon, taking it over to protect his investment in it. He wanted me to put some Currain funds into it, suggested I go out and look the situation over. Bloomington was a little town in the middle of a real-estate boom, and a man named Fell, Jesse Fell, tried to sell me some land. There was a political meeting one evening, and Fell suggested we attend, so we did.”
He paused, as though remembering. “This man Lincoln was one of the speakers,” he said. “He’s a scarecrow; an awkward, gangling, shab
by, incredibly ugly man. When he stood up, I almost laughed. But his speech impressed me. In fact, he—well, frightened me. I don’t remember what he said, except one thing. He said the Republicans were going to stop the spread of slavery, and that they would not see the Union broken up. He said the North wouldn’t secede, and that the North wouldn’t let the South secede.”
Clayton laughed. “They can’t stop us!”
“I remember his words,” Brett admitted. “He looked tremendous, up there on the platform. He said, as if he were talking to our secessionists: ‘We won’t go out of the Union, and you shan’t!’ And the crowd went wild!”
Clayton made an angry sound, but Cinda asked uneasily: “Has he—any following?”
“No,” Brett assured her. “No, Mr. Butler says he’s only important because he killed Senator Douglas politically.” He said thoughtfully: “Mr. Butler’s an interesting man. I saw a good deal of him. Some of my business acquaintances in the North think he’s a devil with horns, because he fights for shorter hours for labor in their mills. They call him names that would be shooting talk down here. He seemed to me a clear-headed man, with mighty few illusions, but I wouldn’t want him for an enemy. He’d be a pretty ruthless fighter.” And he added: “He believes competition between the laborer and the employer for the profits of production stimulates the employer and leads to industrial progress. He says slavery is holding back the South, because by using slave labor we get along too easily; that if we had to do without it, we’d work harder—and do better. He reminded me how many planters had gone bankrupt in the last ten or fifteen years, and I suggested that the South was being ruined by the tariff; and he retorted that the sooner we big planters were bankrupted, the sooner we’d create an industrial South and begin to share tariff benefits.” Brett chuckled, said dryly: “He says that as long as we Southerners don’t have to work for a living, we’ll never develop our real capacities.”
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