House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  Longstreet agreed, and when Brett talked to Mr. Petigru, who had from the first stood staunchly for the Union, he found that Mr. Petigru was of the same opinion.

  “I had some hope even the secession delegates would come to their senses in time,” Brett admitted.

  Mr. Petigru shook his heavy head. He was a massive man, broad of chest and thick-bodied, his hair long enough to touch his shoulders, with a wide mouth full at once of strength and gentleness and eyes that seemed to survey the world with understanding and compassion. He was Charleston’s foremost citizen in spite of the fact that he held no public office; and he was a brilliant lawyer and a famous wit, but there was no jesting now in eyes or tone.

  “No, Mr. Dewain,” he said. “No, when the Convention met, it was already too late. This was all managed from Washington, on a plan predetermined. Time might have led to a settlement, so no time was permitted. Immediate, absolute, irrevocable secession was the program; and it was rushed through.” He added grimly: “And now the program calls for war, to make reunion impossible, to prevent reconciliation and a reconstruction of the Union by far-seeing men of business like yourself.”

  Brett said a doubtful word. “I’m afraid our opinions have little weight today.”

  “That is true,” the other admitted. “Yet delay may give time for a change. When a pot is at the boiling point it must either boil or cool off. It cannot be held at highest pitch forever. Simple delay is not much of a program, Mr. Dewain; yet to that we are reduced. Every day that passes without a shot being fired brings hope a little nearer.”

  Sunday Brett supped with Mr. Petigru and with John Manning, the former governor, at the Charleston Club. Half a dozen others were in the party, including Senator Wigfall and old Edmund Ruffin. Brett heard from them the most recent developments in the negotiations regarding Sumter. Three weeks before, Mr. Seward, speaking for President Lincoln, had promised Judge Campbell of Alabama that the Fort would be evacuated; and a fortnight later this pledge had been repeated, with apologies because its fulfillment had been delayed. As recently as yesterday, when the Secretary of State was again urged to carry out the promised evacuation, Mr. Seward replied by telegram:

  Faith as to Sumter fully kept. Wait and see.

  Senator Wigfall explained these things to Brett and asked his opinion. “Some of us think Mr. Seward’s promises are a trick to delay our action. I know Mr. Petigru believes in delay. You’re a man of sense. What is your view, Mr. Dewain?”

  Brett hesitated. “You and I do not see eye to eye, Senator,” he remarked. “No one questions that to secede was our right; but I believe it was also a mistake—and it may prove a costly one.”

  Edmund Ruffin exploded with a wrathful vehemence. “Costly? Why, sir, secession is the first step toward the creation of a great and powerful nation. The Confederacy, controlling the mouth of the Mississippi, will control the trade of its tremendous watershed. With its monopoly of cotton the Confederacy can confer prosperity upon the North and upon Europe, or deny them that prosperity at will. Our farmers, relieved from the necessity of paying the tribute to Northern industry which iniquitous tariffs now impose upon them, will go on to an undreamed-of prosperity. A glorious future—–”

  Senator Wigfall gently interrupted him. “Excuse me, sir. I asked Mr. Dewain to appraise the worth of Mr. Seward’s promises. Let us hear him.”

  Brett answered with reluctant honesty. “Why, I suspect that when Mr. Seward presumes to speak for the President he mistakes his man.”

  Old Mr. Ruffin cried: “Absurd, sir! Mr. Seward is the de facto President of the United States! He will control every action of that ass the Black Republicans have set in the presidential chair.”

  “Politicians may think so,” Brett admitted. “Even Mr. Seward may think so. But if I am well informed, Mr. Lincoln will make his own decisions. And I’m convinced he will never surrender any Union fortress.”

  “Exactly,” Senator Wigfall cried. “You hear that, gentlemen? If we want the Fort—we must take it.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, but Brett spoke urgently. “I believe to take Sumter would be a mistake. If you take it, you will unite the North behind Mr. Lincoln. There’s no real war party in the North today. The disposition there is to accept peaceably your peaceable secession. Mr. Lincoln will never be able to carry Congress and the North into war against you unless he can trick you into beginning hostilities.”

  The Senator chuckled. “I’m afraid, Mr. Dewain, you overrate this backwoods lawyer. You attribute to him a capacity for statesmanlike guile of which he is completely incapable. Abe Lincoln is a nobody, a second-rate politician with neither ability nor character.” He added strongly: “But, sir, even if you are correct in thinking he wants war, I assure you that for us, too, war is necessary. I need not mince words in this company. As a loosely knit organization of independent states, the Confederacy cannot long survive. If it is to live, it must be unified by battle. Until we are bound together by blood, we will be a nation only in name.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and Brett nodded in sombre understanding. It was not to defend slavery, not to demonstrate the right of secession, not to thwart the abolitionists, not to escape the tariff laws passed by the industrial North; it was simply and straightforwardly to set up a new nation that these men were bent.

  Senator Wigfall added a further word. “This necessity was recognized when we met in Washington in January. It was faced and it was accepted, Mr. Dewain.”

  Brett asked curiously: “What was this meeting of which you speak, Senator?”

  “Why, sir, fourteen senators from what are now the seceding states met on the night of January fifth. We decided to prompt the secession of our various states, to meet at Montgomery in February and form the Confederacy. Every step in our program was planned that night, and that program has been followed to the letter-except that we at first expected to name Mr. Hunter of Virginia as President, and would have done so if Virginia had followed us out of the Union.”

  Edmund Ruffin said quickly: “That is why we must now take Sumter: to move Virginia. Without Virginia and the Border States, the Confederacy can never achieve respectable stature; but if we attack Sumter, Mr. Lincoln will call the North to arms, and Virginia and the others will unite with the Cotton States to resist coercion.”

  Brett for a while said no more, silently considering these several individuals. Senator Wigfall was a tall, powerful man with the muscular neck of a gladiator, his masses of black hair barely touched with gray, his square jaw and strong mouth not wholly hidden by the new beard beneath his dark mustache. His eyes were at once fierce and resolute. His passions, Brett thought, would never make him forget shrewd wisdom, never make him neglect the devious way that might most easily lead to the goal he sought. Edmund Ruffin, that spidery little old man with his lank white locks, was in stature no more than half the Texan’s size; but in him there was an equal conviction of the justice of their cause—and an equal readiness to achieve by guile what force might not easily accomplish.

  Mr. Petigru broke the brief silence: “You are wrong, gentlemen. My voice has little weight, yet I tell you, you are wrong. It is inconceivable that you can create here a new nation divided from the North by nothing but an imaginary line and an idea. You had the legal right to secede, but you were wrong to exercise that right. That you did so was a great misfortune. If you precipitate this conflict, you invite a terrible and tragic outcome.”

  After a moment the Senator spoke in courteous dissent. “Every man respects your opinion, Mr. Petigru, no matter how strongly he disagrees with you. But you are mistaken, sir. The Yankees will not fight. I know them well. They’re cowardly rascals! We have ruled them ever since the founding of the Union, seating our Presidents in the White House, kicking and cuffing the Yankees like so many dogs. They’re poltroons, sir!”

  Brett replied: “If you begin war, sir, they will fight; and they will come against you with three or four men to your one.”

  “
We’ll find graves enough to bury as many men as they care to send,” old Mr. Ruffin retorted; and Senator Wigfall said amiably:

  “Pshaw, Mr. Dewain! As a man of business, you know that without our cotton, Northern industry will collapse. Cotton is king, sir. Cotton rules the world. To get our cotton, the North must yield. England and France must become our allies, must fight on our side if we need them.”

  “I’d be sorry, even if you are right, Senator, to bring Englishmen to fight against our countrymen.”

  Edmund Ruffin banged his small fist upon his knee. “Absurd!” he cried in shrill tones. “I tell you, sir, I would rather see one of the English princes established as our monarch than live under the Lincoln government. That young prince who came to Richmond last October —I was pleased with him.”

  “The English will prefer to keep him to be their own king in due time,” Brett suggested.

  “No matter! One of his brothers would do!”

  Brett felt his cheeks burn angrily, but before he could speak there was an interruption, a messenger with a telegram for Senator Wigfall. He read it; then looked around triumphantly.

  “Well, here is the answer to our doubts. President Lincoln has sent formal notice to Governor Pickens that he proposes to provision Sumter.” He came to his feet. “So! As for me, gentlemen, my course is determined. A bold stroke will swing Virginia and the Border States, will end their indecision. I shall telegraph President Davis, urging that we attack the Fort at once.”

  Quickly the group dissolved. Brett, observing that Edmund Ruffin rose with some difficulty, offered him an arm; but the old man put it aside.

  “I am strong enough, sir,” he said, his tones ringing. “I have an appointment with history. The Palmetto Guards have accepted me as one of them; have accorded me the honor of firing the opening gun. Till I have done that, Mr. Dewain, mine is the strength of ten thousand.”

  Brett said a sorrowful good night to Mr. Petigru and returned to Cinda, walking slowly through the crowded streets, hearing excited voices everywhere. He had no more hope of peace; the issue, finally, was joined. He told her what had happened.

  “Oh, why are they such idiots?” she cried.

  “Don’t forget,” he urged, “that however mistaken, these men are sincerely convinced that honor and loyalty—as well as self-interest—demand that the South insist upon its rights.”

  “But—being so sly, doing things in such devious ways, attacking Sumter to make the North attack us to make Virginia join the Confederacy!”

  He said gravely: “Unless I’m wrong, this man Lincoln is as sincere as they—and as shrewd. He’s tricked them into opening hostilities. Edmund Ruffin counts on firing the shot that will rally all the border states to join the Confederacy; but that first shot will also rally the North behind Mr. Lincoln. And with the North behind him, he will never let us go.”

  She nodded wretchedly. “There was a time when I’d have said we’d make him let us go, but I’m not so warlike as I was, Brett Dewain.”

  Next day Charleston hummed like a hive of angry bees. Tuesday, Roger Pryor arrived in town; and he too lodged at the Charleston Hotel where Brett and Cinda were staying. The Virginia Congressman had long been an avowed advocate of secession; and when the rumor of his presence spread, a great throng gathered in front of the hotel, solidly filling the street, shouting for him to show himself. He came out at last on the balcony at the mezzanine level, and standing between two of the tremendous columns just outside the window where Brett and Cinda were listening, he spoke to the intent and cheering crowd.

  Virginia would be with them, he promised. “Give the old lady time! She’s a little rheumatic!” He won their confident laughter. “But as sure as tomorrow’s sun, once the first gun is fired, Virginia will be in the Southern Confederacy in an hour by a Shrewsbury clock!”

  Cinda, when he was done and the crowd dispersed, clung to Brett’s arm. “But at least, Brett Dewain, they haven’t yet fired that shot. Perhaps they won’t.”

  “They will,” he said. “Roger Pryor and his like will keep the pressure on the Government. They’ll have their way in the end.”

  Wednesday, Cinda was left long alone, and she kept her room, shutting her ears to the steady murmur of excited voices in the streets. Thursday Brett came to tell her that President Davis had directed General Beauregard to demand the surrender of the Fort. “They’ve sent a note to Major Anderson. He asked time to shape his reply; has till eight o’clock to yield.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Then the batteries will open.” He added in a dry tone, “Old Mr. Ruffin will have his great hour.”

  He left her almost at once and when he returned it was to say that Major Anderson had declined to surrender. “But he says they’ll be starved into it in a few days more.”

  “Will we wait?”

  “They’re demanding he fix an hour when he will yield the Fort. Colonel Chesnut and Captain Lee have gone out to him again—Roger Pryor went with them—and they have authority to act upon his reply.”

  “Then they can order the guns to fire?”

  “If his answer does not satisfy them.” He said in a wry tone: “And of course no answer Major Anderson can make will satisfy Mr. Pryor.” He drew a deep breath. “The town’s wild,” he said. “People heard that Major Anderson must give his answer at eight o’clock, and everyone crowded down to the Battery to see the bombardment begin, climbed up on roof tops, jammed the wharves and the ships tied up alongside. I’ve just come from there.” It was almost midnight. “They were still waiting. I suppose they won’t have to wait much longer.”

  She wished him to stay with her, but he shook his head. “I have to be—I want to hear the word.”

  “Will you come back to me?”

  “I’ll come when I can.”

  But it was gray dawn before he returned, and already the town was shaken by the first thudding of the guns, and the streets were full of clamor and of outcry, the pound of running feet, the rumble of wagons, the shouts of jubilant men. When he came to their room, Cinda lay face down across the bed, her hands pressed to her ears. Without speaking he sat down beside her, and feeling the bed yield she turned and lay looking up at him.

  “The guns have begun,” she whispered. He nodded, and she asked quietly: “How many months, how many years, Brett Dewain, before they will be stilled?”

  “God knows.” He added: “Everyone is down along the Battery, watching the spectacle. Do you want to see? You could go up on the roof here.”

  She shook her head. “Oh no, no!” And she added wretchedly: “I know I’m absurd, as though shutting my eyes and ears could make any difference!” And she said, looking up at him, “Brett Dewain, I think you’ve changed already. There’s something new in your eyes. Something serene. I think you’re even happier.” She smiled up at him. “I feel shy with you now, Mr. Dewain. As though you were a stranger by my bed. Yet a beloved stranger.”

  He leaned down to kiss her; and they went together to the window to watch the passers in the street below, and stood there hand in hand. All that day the distant guns beat upon their ears. The night came on with heavy rain clouds threateningly low. Brett went to buy the Courier; and when he finished with it she picked it up, and once she read a sentence or two aloud.

  “Listen to this, Brett Dewain. ‘A blow must be struck that will make the ears of every Republican fanatic tingle. We must transmit a heritage of rankling and undying hate to our children.’ ”

  “I know,” he agreed. “I read that. It’s the way people are talking.”

  “ ‘Undying hate,’ ” she echoed, half to herself. “Do we want our children to go through life burning with undying hate? Hate’s a poison, Brett Dewain. What sort of world can be made with undying hate as a foundation?” He came to take her in his arms, and she pleaded: “Oh, Brett Dewain, can’t you find some word to comfort me?”

  “No one who’s still sane can find any comfort in what’s happening down the harbor, Cinda.”


  She nodded. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, there’s nothing I can do. Yes, I’ll stay with you.”

  All that night the cannonade continued. Rain for a while muted the sound, and Cinda slept and woke again at dawn. Brett was asleep. Well, let him sleep while he could. She went to stand at the window, looking along the almost empty streets; and day came, and the dawn clouds thinned and blew away, and the sun shone bright and clear.

  When a few hours later the Fort surrendered, the street below their windows was full of triumphant shouting: The throng laughed and cheered as though to welcome a happy holiday.

  16

  April, 1861

  FAUNT after that Christmas at Great Oak returned to Belle Vue jealous of every hour of his absence, as though already this loved spot were slipping away from him. The plantation was nearer the Potomac than the Rappahannock, on the gently rolling plateau north of the low ridge which ran the length of the Northern Neck. Faunt had never diligently worked his land. He had no overseer and he let his people take their own way, only insisting that they raise corn and small grains sufficient to feed themselves and the horses and mules, the cattle and the hogs. This year he did no more than usual, but he sometimes rode for hours. Occasionally Anne Tudor joined him, though more often he was alone with his thoughts. From a modest height of land near the house he could see the Potomac and the sweep of field and forest in Maryland beyond, receding into the distance, broken by no hills or mountains worth the name; and through a notch in the ridge behind him he could see some high ground south of the Rappahannock. He sometimes walked to this hilltop to sit there for an hour at a time, finding peace and beauty and content.