“You haven’t seen her for twelve or thirteen years,” he reminded her. “And she’s had six children, you know.”
“Well, so have I. Though I’ve only three left.” Her throat contracted as it always did when she thought of Clayton, and she turned to find her knitting, made the needles fly. “Her complexion isn’t what it used to be!”
“You evidently studied her pretty carefully.”
“Oh, we spent hours together. I suppose we’ll see a lot of them.”
“I hope so.”
“Travis thinks the world of him, you know. And he likes Travis, too. You can see that. Travis seems a boy beside him, though he’s actually older. Cousin Jeems is—well, I don’t know how to put it, but he seems to be inside himself, somehow.”
He nodded. “I know. Something happens to men in command. They acquire a quality—it’s not arrogance, but it’s a sort of, well, confidence, perhaps. An officer, a man who has once sent men he loves to their death, acquires a maturity that no civilian ever achieves. Boys become men——”
Cinda smiled. “While ordinarily, men never get over being boys?”
“I suppose not. So the General seems older than Trav, though Trav has always seemed to you and me a pretty staid old man himself. Probably no man who has commanded other men in battle is ever quite a boy again.”
“Yet Cousin Jeems is full of fun,” she reminded him. “There’s always a twinkle in his eyes. He’s always joking; and Travis says that at headquarters he cuts up scandalously.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Brett agreed.
The fine December days were like Indian summer. Mrs. Longstreet brought the children on from Lynchburg and settled at the Arlington. Cinda thought Garland, the eldest boy, less attractive than the others; and clearly he and his father were not on the best of terms. Mary Ann, like all babies, was perfection. Tommy Cloyd and Rollin Lyle had some days in Richmond, and Vesta was happy with Tommy, and furious at Rollin because he paid Dolly such humble adoration.
“I gave him a piece of my mind,” she told Cinda. “But you just can’t talk any sense into him, Mama. I reckon he just really does love Dolly, and he’ll go on loving her till he dies; and she wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man alive! She says his scar just makes her shiver!”
Dolly was becoming the sensation of Richmond. At least three duels, it was said, had been fought because of her. She was seen everywhere, always surrounded by beaux. Burr came home on leave and once while he and Barbara were at Cinda’s, Dolly appeared, with a dazzled youngster from Burr’s own squadron; and she kissed Burr prettily, and protested that she hadn’t seen him for simply ages, and wasn’t the cavalry wonderful, and oh how she wished she was a man so she could help whip the Yankees. “I’ll bet you’ve killed just dozens of them, Burr! I envy you so.”
He looked at her with level eyes. “Don’t be a fool, Dolly!”
“But, Burr, I mean it! It must be just simply marvelous!”
He made a harsh sound. “Did you ever smell the body of a dead man whom you’d killed three days before, who’d been lying in the sun?” Giving her no time to answer, he came strongly to his feet, strode toward the door. Behind him she cried prettily:
“Why, Burr Dewain, I think you’re real mean to talk to me that way! Isn’t he, Aunt Cinda?”
But he was gone, leaving Barbara here; and he did not return till Dolly and her escort had departed. Cinda suspected that the dreadful question he had put to Dolly came out of his own experience; but she knew if this were true he would never tell her so. When he came back, Cinda saw that he was contrite; and she made an opportunity to be alone with him, asked gently:
“Weren’t you a little hard on Dolly, Burr?”
“I suppose I was,” he admitted. “But—that sort of talk—” He made a heavy, hopeless gesture. “Dolly needs someone to be hard on her!” he said, his anger returning. “She’s—well, she goes out of her way to tease men and torment them; brings them to a simmer, and then when they’re ready to boil, she pushes them to the back of the stove! And I don’t mean just flirting! She does a lot of harm! I wish she weren’t my cousin! I ought not to talk about her this way, even to you; but there’s plenty of talk about her, when men have had too much to drink. I’ve heard things said—well, I had to pretend not to hear them, or else call the man out.”
Cinda, angry at Dolly for his sake, advised him to shut his ears. “Dolly’s not worth fighting over. Let Darrell protect her.”
When Burr had returned to duty, Barbara shyly told Cinda their baby would be born in June; and Cinda laughed in quick happiness. “But there, I should have guessed by the way Burr strutted around while he was at home!”
It was on a Monday morning two days before Christmas that Faunt at last returned. Vesta heard that the Blues were coming, the hour their train would arrive; and she and Cinda were in the eager waiting throng. When the train ground to a stop a happy welcome arose; but instantly this was hushed in puzzled mystification. For at the car windows and on the platforms appeared not the handsome young faces that were expected, but the countenances of weary-eyed and haggard men. The bright new uniforms were faded and tattered, the men were long-haired ragamuffins with untrimmed beards. But that momentary silence broke in a great universal sigh, like a sob of tenderness; and then as the men of the Blues began to descend the steps, this brief sadness gave way to a valorous new clamor of ardent voices, everyone determined that these heroes should never be allowed to guess that first dismay. Here were beloved warriors, now at last returned.
Faunt was as changed as his comrades. He who had always been slender was emaciated now. He had worn a small mustache; now it was lost in a heavy beard above which deep hollows pitted his sunken cheeks. When Cinda and Vesta were able to claim him, his arms embracing them were hard as wires; but his very voice was tired. Cinda felt as though a weary son had come home to her.
Yet it was astonishing to see how quickly, under Caesar’s ministrations and in Burr’s clothes—Brett’s were too free about the middle, Burr’s too broad at the shoulders; but Burr’s would serve—Faunt came back to an outward normality. Vesta had a thousand questions, naming place after place. Were you there? Were you there? The Cauley? Carnifex Ferry? Hawk’s Nest? Scary Creek?
“Yes,” Faunt said, and smiled. “They might have named Scary Creek after me, that day. It was my first fight, seemed pretty alarming. But later on, we all got so we didn’t care.”
“Became brave?” Vesta asked.
“No, just footsore, half-sick, half-fed, half-drowned by rain, half-stifled by mud.”
There were other questions, other answers. “We were at cross purposes, much of the time,” he said. “General Floyd wouldn’t agree with General Wise, General Wise wouldn’t agree with General Floyd; and whenever we were about to really accomplish something, orders would come from Richmond for us to withdraw, ‘to avoid rashness’.” He said grimly: “As if war were a game you could play without risk! There was a woman, Mrs. Tyree. Her husband kept a public house on the turnpike. She took no sauce from the Yankees, knocked one marauder out with a piece of stovewood, took another man’s gun away from him and threatened to shoot him; and when some Yankees came and said they meant to burn her house, she locked herself in and told them to go ahead and burn it if they wanted to. If the army had been as rash as that old woman, we might have done some miracles. As it was, we just frittered away time and lives.”
“Whose fault was it?”
“Why—largely the weather, I think. It’s all mountains and mud out there; and it wore you out to march in the mud and rain. We marched in it and ate in it—when we had anything to eat—and slept in it. There were nights it rained so hard that the men said if you lay down you’d drown. And the men were half sick—or wholly sick—much of the time: coughs and sneezes, fever, measles.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how they stood it.”
Cinda asked with a tender smile: “Where were you?”
He understood her, chuckled. “Oh, I was there
too, of course; but—you forget yourself in admiring your comrades. I suppose that’s what keeps you going.”
“Do you like General Wise?”
“Yes. Floyd’s a horse-faced, sulky man with not much military capacity; but General Wise is a fine man, and intelligent, and he has a sense of humor. He told a battery to open fire one day and the gunners said they had no target, and he said never mind a target, to go ahead and make some noise anyway. When things are ticklish, he just squares that big dimpled chin of his and bulls ahead—and gets somewhere.”
Vesta asked: “What about General Lee? Mr. Daniel has written some horrid things about him in the Enquirer.”
“I think he’s the best man in Virginia,” Faunt said thoughtfully. “But it’s true he didn’t do well out there. He was too—considerate, too polite. If he’d just told Floyd and Wise and the others what to do, and then made them do it, we might have given the Yankees trouble. It’s possible that General Lee isn’t—well, sufficiently firm for high command.”
“Do the Blues like Jennings Wise as much as we do in Richmond?”
Faunt smiled. “Are you one of his adorers, Vesta? I thought there was something about Tommy Cloyd.”
“There is!” she assured him, nodding happily. “There’s a great deal about Tommy! But Jennings Wise has been my dream hero for years, ever since I was a girl.”
“He’s a fine leader, yes,” Faunt assured her. He added: “I hear he’ll soon be promoted to colonel.”
“Oh, wonderful!” she cried; and she asked what the Blues would do now, and he thought they would stay a while in Richmond, to rest and refit. He hoped to go to Belle Vue.
“All that country between the Potomac and the Rappahannock is Yankee ground, any time they want to take it of course,” he explained. “But they haven’t taken it yet.”
Cinda said understandingly: “You’ll hate to see Belle Vue in Yankee hands.”
His cheek for a moment darkened with anger. “Yes, I shall hate that, Cinda.”
When they knew Faunt’s return was imminent, Cinda had delayed their departure for Great Oak, so that he could go down with them. Tony reached Richmond Monday night, and next morning he and Faunt rode escort to the carriages in which Cinda and Vesta and Jenny and the children made the all-day journey from Richmond. Tilda and Redford Streean and Dolly were not long behind them. Darrell, they said, was not coming; and Cinda was so glad that she even welcomed Mr. Streean.
Trav appeared at dusk; and everyone but Enid and Dolly was downstairs when he arrived, and they all gave him a happy welcome. “I began to be afraid you wouldn’t get here, Travis,” his mother confessed.
“I almost didn’t,” he admitted. “We went to collect some food and forage around Dranesville, took every wagon we could get together. General Stuart had a hundred and fifty of his cavalry out in front of us, and some guns, and four regiments of infantry; but the Federals stretched a wire across the road, and threw the cavalry into confusion and ambushed us. Stuart sent word to us to start the wagons back to our lines, and then he attacked the Yanks to hold them long enough for us to get away. It was a bad scramble. We saved the wagons, but we lost some men.” Before Cinda could ask the question, he told her: “Burr was there, but he’s all right. He and Julian came to Richmond with us. Julian wanted to see Miss Tudor, and Burr will stay with Barbara tonight, but he and Julian will start early, be here for dinner tomorrow. General Longstreet sent you his love, Cinda.”
“How are they all?”
“Fine,” Trav said proudly. “It’s wonderful to see the way his men like him. He’s so—human. It was cold the other night, and he sent a drink out to the headquarters sentries, said to the orderly: ‘Tell the boys I distinctly saw one of them wink at me when I came in just now.’ Little things like that make them ready to do anything for him. He goes out of his way to amuse them, keeps them interested. He’s put me at work organizing some theatricals now.”
They laughed together at the thought of Trav attempting such a task; but he said plans were well along. “We’re going to have the First Regiment’s band for an orchestra, and Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Warwick will be the managers. They both know about such things, so I’ve made them responsible.” He asked: “Where’s Enid?”
“Upstairs,” Mrs. Currain said; so he went to find her. Dolly presently appeared, and Vesta told her Trav’s newest assignment, and Dolly said eagerly:
“Wonderful! Why don’t we have some theatricals ourselves, this evening?” She looked around, tallying them off. “Of course we haven’t many gentlemen, but I can dress up in some of Julian’s clothes and be the hero.”
Vesta laughingly declared Dolly would never be able to look like a man. “I’ll be the hero, and you can be the heroine.”
“And I’ll be the villain,” Faunt suggested, smiling. They fell into a lively discussion of this proposal, but by the time Trav and Enid appeared it was clear to them all that the project presented too many difficulties. Instead, after supper, they arranged a happy riot of hurriedly planned charades, and turned from them to rowdy children’s games in which under Dolly’s pretty urgencies even Mrs. Currain joined. They played “My Lady’s Garden”. While two or three of the people, with fiddle and banjo and rattling bones, set the tune, the players formed a slowly marching circle around a prisoner in the middle, singing together the familiar words.
Do please let me out! I‘se in dis lady’s gyarden!
Do please let me out! I’se in dis lady’s gyarden!
De gate is locked and de walls is high!
Oh do let me out! I’se in dis lady’s gyarden!
De gate is locked and de key is los’
I mus’ and I will git out ob here
I’ll break my neck tuh git out ob here
Please do let me out ob dis here lady’s gyarden!
On the last “gyarden” each prisoner in turn made a dash for freedom; and there were shouts and laughter and gay tussles. Trav, trying to dodge free, plunging bull-like between Tilda and Dolly, brought them both down atop him in a heap. Faunt, when his time came, slipped through a narrow opening as easily as an eel. Trav’s Lucy—she was thirteen now, almost a young lady,—could never long be kept captive. When Dolly tried to elude Brett, he caught her and claimed a robust kiss for forfeit and got it; and Cinda made a mental note to call him to account for that! Dolly was badly enough spoiled already! Enid, prisoner after Dolly, made a feint to dart past Tony; but at the last moment she spun toward Faunt, and seemed to lose her balance and so fell into his arms and clung to him and cried: “Oh Heavens, you caught me! Well, then I must pay forfeit too!” She kissed Faunt with a rowdy gusto which made them all laugh; and Cinda felt Vesta’s questioning eyes upon her, and lest Vesta read her thoughts she laughed with the others; but she saw Faunt’s glance follow Enid as the game went on, and she had to assure herself with a certain violence that Faunt would never drift into a sordid involvement with Trav’s wife! She knew her fears were absurd; yet Enid was a lushly provocative little thing, flushed and panting now in this ridiculous game, her eyes forever meeting Faunt’s with that melting readiness for surrender which could turn the steadiest masculine heads. Even Brett was capering like a spring lamb, just because he had kissed Dolly! Men were all idiots when a pretty woman made eyes at them!
Next morning she lay late abed, listening to the little Negroes racing through the halls crying “Chris’mus gif’”at every door; till booted feet came thumping toward her room and a voice she knew called: “Christmas gift, Mama,” and here was Julian. Burr a moment later joined them; and the bright day began and ran its course, and left them all weary with merrymaking and ready for early sleep.
After Christmas, Cinda had expected to return to Richmond with Vesta and Jenny and the children, with the men to keep them company on the road; but Faunt said he would stay at Great Oak for two or three weeks longer.
“General Wise has been appointed to command at Roanoke Island,” he explained. “The Blues will come down river and go through
the Albemarle Canal by barge; and I’ll meet them in Norfolk, go on with them from there.”
Cinda said at once that she too would stay on a little longer. Not even to Brett did she admit her reason: but she would not leave Faunt here with Enid alone.
29
December, 1861—January, 1862
WHEN Trav came to Great Oak for Christmas, it was his first visit since August, and he had many bright anticipations. It would be fine to see Lucy and Peter and his mother and the others; and even Enid after this long separation might be glad to see him, as tenderly affectionate as when she chose she knew how to be. He took time in Richmond to load himself with presents for them all, including handkerchiefs and Barlow knives for the Negroes, and candies for the little Negro children who would come clamoring through the halls on Christmas morning. But the gift that pleased him most was for Enid. From the captain of a vessel which had evaded the still haphazard blockade, running into New Berne with a cargo of luxuries, Trav bought at an exorbitant price a delicate cameo exquisitely carved, rimmed with small diamonds and hung from a slender golden chain.
When he arrived everyone welcomed him with hand clasps and kisses; but when he went up to his room and would have taken Enid in his arms, she set her hands against his chest. “No, no, Trav! I hate being mussed when you’re all dusty and horsy from the road. You know that!”
He laughed to hide his hurt and went to bathe and change, and she sat before the mirror, talking idly over her shoulder, trying some new arrangement of her hair. When he was dressed, the cameo in his pocket, hiding his eagerness behind a casual tone, he said: “Oh, by the way, Enid, I’ve a surprise for you.”
“Really?” She yawned a little, rising to go downstairs. “What?”
“Shut your eyes!”
“Oh, don’t be childish, Trav.”
He was heavily jocular. “You can’t have it till you do.” But she turned away toward the door, her wide skirts swinging indolently, so he surrendered. “Why—here, then!” He followed her, forced to hurry. “Here, Enid.” She turned, her hand on the door knob, and he met her eyes and saw the hard distaste in them; nevertheless he persisted, touching her shoulder. “Here!”
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