House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “Why, the government offices aren’t even clean!” he said harshly. “Filthy pallets and beds piled into every empty room; the glass at the hydrant smelling of stale whiskey so badly I couldn’t drink from it; no towel by the washstand.”

  “The clerks have to sleep somewhere,” Streean reminded him. “And we work under such pressure that only liquor keeps us going. Every apothecary in Richmond is selling brandy on forged prescriptions.”

  “It all makes things worse for the army.”

  “It’s the spies that hurt the army,” Streean retorted. “Too many passports to the North are being issued, too many enemies allowed to depart, too many mail carriers come and go. Every one of them takes information north, and they have plenty to tell. When General Johnston criticizes President Davis, they know it and carry the word.” He added: “But Johnston won’t be long in command.”

  Trav had heard enough of the distrust between General Johnston and the President so that this prediction did not surprise him. “Who will take his place?”

  “Lee, probably; old Granny Lee. Oh, they’ll make Johnston fight a battle first. You know he gets wounded in every battle. Probably that’s why he prefers a retreat to battle. But Davis will make him face the music once, at least. If he’ll be considerate enough to get himself killed, it will save removing him.”

  Trav colored with resentment. He was enough of a soldier to be loyal to his commanding officer. “I judge you’d be glad to see him go.”

  “He’s too ready to criticize the supply services. First he says we don’t send him enough; then that we send too much; then that what we send costs too much! Why, damn it, everything costs more in war!”

  “Maybe too many men are trying to profit from the army’s needs.” Trav’s slow anger for a moment had its head. “A few courts martial, a few fusillades would put an end to that!”

  Streean chuckled. “I didn’t know you were so bloody-minded.” His smile was lightly mocking. “After all, you soldiers have the glory of serving in the field; but we who stay at home and do the army’s chores—well, surely we’re entitled to some reward!”

  Trav was glad to get away from Richmond, from greedy scheming, from disorder and confusion, from jealousy and knavery, from bungling and selfishness. He and Brett and Tony went to Great Oak, and the day he returned to Culpeper, Longstreet sent for him.

  “Currain,” he said, “I’ve always talked to you more frankly than to anyone else, because I’ve observed that you don’t repeat what I say.”

  Trav wondered what was coming. “Yes, sir.”

  “General McClellan is preparing to attack us.” Longstreet spoke only to put his own thoughts in order. “He may come down on Manassas, he may hit us in flank at Fredericksburg, he may make a landing near Urbana and cross our rear, or he may land his army at Fortress Monroe. But he must first and always defend Washington! If he lands an army at Fortress Monroe, Johnston can advance to the Potomac and force McClellan to meet him there. Yet there is another possibility: a strike north from the Valley, threatening to take Washington in the rear. That move will call McClelland’s army to meet it, will disorganize his plans.” His eyes at his own words began to blaze. “McClellan’s a deliberate man. If he’s made to hurry, it will upset him.”

  He seemed to expect some word, so Trav said: “I don’t like to hurry myself. It upsets me.”

  Longstreet, if he heard, did not comment. He went on as though Trav had not spoken. “Currain, sometimes, even within the rigid framework of a soldier’s duty, there comes an opportunity to act. General Johnston and General Smith have gone to Richmond. That leaves me in command here. If I try what I propose and fail, I’ll be court-martialled; but if I succeeed, it will dislocate all McClellan’s plans. Knowing how deliberate he is, I see no risk—to the South, that is—and a chance of great gain. The risk is to me personally; but I’ll take that risk, on the chance that to do so will serve the South.”

  He paused, and after a moment he asked: “What do you think? Should I be bold?” But before Trav could reply, he said quickly: “Never mind. I must make the decision.” So Trav held his tongue; and after a moment Longstreet nodded.

  “I’ll give you a note to say that you will explain my views. Go to the Valley, find General Jackson. Tell him I propose, if he agrees, to lead a detachment of the army to join him for a quick strike at the force in front of him. Tell him why I suggest this. Bring me his answer.” He turned to the table beside him, wrote hurriedly. “Here, this is all you will need,” he said. “Go as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Longstreet gave Trav the scribbled note unsealed, and fifteen minutes later Trav rode away. He had never seen General Jackson, knew little about him except that at Manassas he had turned a reproachful epithet into an honorable nickname. On that desperate field, General Bee, hard-pressed, sent to Jackson for help; but Jackson did not respond and General Bee, seeing the other’s troops still motionless, cried: “Look at Jackson, still standing there like a damned stone wall!” Yet it was on that stone wall that Bee’s driven regiments rallied, and the battle was won, and now Bee was dead; but he would be immortal because of that angry outburst that gave Jackson his sobriquet.

  Trav had an impression that since then Jackson had made mistakes, had lost some minor engagements; but if Longstreet thought well of him, so did Trav. Jackson was reported now to be at Swift Run Gap. Trav went by rail to Orange Court-House, took horse from there and rode up the well-farmed valley of the Rapidan through Burtonville and on. Toward dusk he came down the long grade into Stanardsville; but as he drew nearer the mountains there were not so many farms, and ahead the tangled hills were dark with forest, so he lodged at Stanardsville that night, and was early on his way. Two miles or so beyond the town, while the heights on either side of the Gap rose high and higher ahead of him and he began to dread the long ascent, the road dipped into still another deep valley. He descended, then settled to the steady climb. More than once he had to breathe his horse before at last he reached the divide, and through the notch where the road cleft the forest he saw the blue reaches of the Valley far below.

  The descent was easier; he came down to a crossroad, and saw dust to the north and turned that way. When by and by he overtook a marching column, he spoke to the mounted officer.

  “The General?” the other echoed. “Why, sitting back there on the fence, watching us pass.”

  Trav turned back toward the man indicated; he rode near and dismounted, and secured his horse to the fence. The General, intent upon the troops in the road, had not yet looked toward him. Trav had unconsciously expected to see Jackson wear a visible dignity and grandeur. Instead, here was a shabby, dusty, bearded man with a dingy cap pulled low over his eyes, and wearing the biggest cavalry boots, presumably on the biggest pair of feet, that Trav had ever seen. The General perched on the fence with knees drawn up, heels on a rail; he was sucking at a lemon, his eyes upon the marching men.

  Trav approached, saluted, stood waiting. When Jackson looked toward him in silent inquiry, he said, surprised to find himself suddenly hoarse: “Captain Currain, sir, of General Longstreet’s staff, with a message from General Longstreet.”

  Jackson said softly: “Deliver your message.”

  Trav remembered the letter he carried; he produced it. The General turned it in one hand. The lemon was in the other. “Not sealed,” he commented in a toneless voice that suggested disapproval. He fumbled the letter open, still with one hand, and read it slowly. Then he put the lemon into his mouth to free his hands and slowly tore the letter into little bits. A strong breeze was blowing; he tossed them into the air.

  “Deliver your verbal message, Captain.”

  Trav, speaking by rote, repeated Longstreet’s every word. The other did not interrupt till Trav was done; then he asked:

  “You memorized that?”

  “No, sir. I remembered it—the sense of it.”

  The General sucked hard at his lemon, looked at it reproachfully. “Gen
eral Longstreet proposes to come to the Valley himself?”

  “‘To lead a detachment’ were his words.”

  The lemon again. “He ranks me,” General Jackson remarked, as though thinking aloud. “But my men are used to me.” He sat for a long time, head bowed, eyes shadowed; and Trav shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uneasy at this silence, till at last the General’s shoulders lifted a little and he spoke.

  “Tell General Longstreet you gave me his message, Captain.”

  Trav hesitated. “Is that all, sir?”

  The other’s head turned, and Trav under the impact of that glance felt his cheek burn. Jackson did not speak. Trav hurriedly saluted.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He went to his horse and mounted, finding himself absurdly clumsy, hoping the other was not watching. As he passed where Jackson sat, he ventured a sidewise glance. The General was absorbed once more in watching the marching men who filled the road.

  When Trav came back to Culpeper he saw eagerness in Longstreet’s eyes, saw that eagerness fade as he reported Jackson’s reply. The General nodded.

  “He was unwilling to be ranked in his own territory,” he commented. “In his place, I would no doubt feel as he does.” After a moment he added: “If I were there and our strike failed, the blame would have been mine; but General Jackson would not fear blame for what he thought a promising move. Evidently he did not agree with my suggestion.” He shook his head. “It is a pity, all the same. The Valley is our sally port. Through it we can hit them where they’re tender. Well, another time, another time.”

  Of this matter, for the moment, no more was said. Longstreet had lost his old readiness for speech. To casual conversation he listened sometimes so inattentively that Trav thought Cinda was right in believing him a little deaf. When he did speak, however, in direction to his own officers, or in response to a question from General Johnston, it was firmly and positively. He seemed always completely sure of his own mind. One day Trav referred to this.

  “Why, yes,” Longstreet agreed. “That is true. I am sure of myself.” A faint hint of the old twinkle showed in his eyes. “A man, a man in authority, should be sure of himself. There’s no advantage in knowing a thing unless you know you know it. I’ve been told that I am slow; but I believe in taking time to make up my mind. Once a man forms an opinion, it’s hard for him to change it. It becomes his property, and his instinct is to defend it, not to question it and test it. So the wise man is slow to make up his mind because he knows that once he has done so it will be hard for him to change.” He almost smiled. “Take McClellan now. He’s decided to attack Richmond by the way of the Peninsula. If we make a move to threaten Washington, Lincoln will order McClellan to change his plans; and McClellan will be as distracted as a chicken with its neck wrung, making up his mind all over again.” He said after a moment: “And we should try to do just that. Certainly we should do something! The longer we delay, the greater the odds against us.”

  The odds were already heavy enough. Regiments and companies were below their full strength; many furloughed men had not returned to duty; the hospitals were crowded, and there was a shortage of weapons so acute that even now, after almost a year of war, to arm some regiments with pikes instead of guns was seriously proposed. When the dark news of Shiloh came, Longstreet commented:

  “That’s ’Lys Grant again. If he were in McClellan’s place he’d be in Richmond before summer. McClellan has a hundred thousand men on the Peninsula right now, and Magruder hasn’t twenty thousand to hold him.”

  Magruder cried for reinforcements, and orders came for Longstreet to start his division toward the Peninsula. As the march began, Longstreet himself went with General Johnston and General Smith to Richmond to meet the President in council; and on the move Trav stayed one night at Cinda’s. He found her troubled by the dangers in the wind and angry at the fainthearts who were ready to despair.

  “People are scurrying away, pretending it’s just to escape the hot term,” she told him. “But if you ask me, they’re just plain scared, running off to hide in the mountains, or going south.” She laughed shortly. “But I’m a fine one to talk! I’m scared myself! The only way I can get to sleep at night is to start thinking how I hate and despise Abe Lincoln. It’s like counting sheep! I get so mad I forget to be scared.”

  “Faunt goes into a rage at the thought of him.”

  “How is he?”

  “Well, he’s pretty shaky. Tony tried to stand up for Lincoln, and Faunt got pretty red, but Brett quieted him down.”

  “What in the world got into Tony?” She was suddenly as flushed as Faunt had been that day at Great Oak. “If he ever tried that here, I’d order him out of the house.”

  “Oh, he just said something about South Caronna secessionists being as bad as Massachusetts abolitionists.”

  She nodded reluctantly. “Seceding was idiotic, of course; but that white trash in Washington had no right to try to stop us.” She added: “Trav, Mr. Fleming writes from the Plains that someone is setting fire to houses and corn cribs and barns around Camden.”

  “The negroes?”

  “Mr. Fleming says not; says it’s the sand hill tackeys. Speaking of white trash made me think of it. No, Mr. Fleming says our people at the Plains would fight for us, if we gave them guns.”

  Trav laughed grimly. “We haven’t enough guns for our soldiers.”

  “We don’t dare arm the negroes anyway. Travis, why should they be loyal while we fight to keep them slaves?”

  “I suppose it’s their nature to—love their masters. Like dogs.”

  “I wish I could believe that! But anyway it’s not the negroes who’ve set the red cock crowing in the barns. Mr. Fleming says the tackeys are excited by all the talk about conscription, claiming they’ll be made to fight the war while we get the benefit. The newspapers down there are stirring up poor against rich, printing editorials about us riding around in carriages while the wives of poor soldiers trudge along on foot! Why shouldn’t people use carriages if they have them, I’d like to know?”

  “Well, I’d rather see the horses hitched to my wagons,” Trav admitted, and added jestingly: “But I’ll let you and Mama keep your carriages a while.”

  He rode away next day, following his trains toward Yorktown. Longstreet that evening rejoined his division on the march, and Trav, knowing the big man better every day, thought something had angered him. He was not surprised when at the first opportunity the General unburdened himself. He had been present when President Davis, General Lee, George Randolph, General Johnston, and General Smith discussed the situation confronting the Confederacy. Johnston thought the Peninsula indefensible; he wished to fall back to Richmond, stand on the defensive. “He’d abandon Norfolk, sink the Merrimac, open the James River to McClellan’s gunboats, wait, wait, wait, let McClellan play his own game.” Longstreet’s tone was bitter.

  Trav, thinking of his mother at Great Oak, asked: “Will they do that?”

  “Not yet, at least. General Lee was for a delaying action on the Yorktown line to give us more time; and President Davis agreed with him.” Trav nodded with relief at this postponement of the inevitable, and Longstreet added: “I like Lee. Johnston had his back hair up like an angry dog—he and Davis will never work together—but General Lee gentled him, calmed him.”

  “Did you offer any suggestion?”

  Longstreet made a harsh sound. “I said nothing till an opinion was asked; then remarked that McClellan was deliberate, careful, slow. Before I could go on, President Davis interrupted me to praise McClellan to the skies. Obviously he wanted no proposal from me, so I made none.” He added strongly: “Yet if we reinforced Jackson and threatened Washington, Lincoln would whistle McClellan home. The whole spring campaign against us would collapse.”

  Trav made no comment, and Longstreet repeated: “Yes, I was impressed by General Lee. His present position, keeping peace between President Davis and General Johnston, is a difficult one; but I believe he feels that
with time to get ready we can beat McClellan here! I’d like to see him in command.” His heavy fist clenched. “By the Almighty, Currain, it would be a satisfaction to have a leader who expected and sought victories.” After a moment he added thoughtfully: “It’s true Lee did nothing in Western Virginia; but in Mexico he knew how to find a way to win battles. I don’t believe he has forgotten. I feel great, controlled strength in Lee. And—President Davis believes in him.” The big man said with a strong vehemence: “We need a head, Currain. We need men and arms, of course; but the conscription act will surely pass, this week. That will keep in the army the men we have, and bring many more. It will end this whole question of twelve-months men going home when their terms expire. Yes, we’ll manage for men. But, Currain, most of all we need a head! General Lee says every man in the South should be compelled to grow food or to fight! I tell you, General Lee is a man!”

  When they were settled in their new position on the Yorktown line, Trav’s duties gave him leisure for daily rides to Great Oak. He made the most of these opportunities for the week or ten days before Vesta’s wedding. Faunt worried him. A persistent cough was presumably a relic of his illness; but also Faunt was more easily disturbed than Trav had ever seen him. When Trav spoke of the confusion in the encampment at Yorktown, where company and regimental elections were just now being held, Faunt said bitterly:

  “You can be sure they won’t elect good men. They want officers who ask favors, instead of giving orders.” He seemed to quote. “‘Officers who can remember, sir, that they are addressing not slaves but gentlemen!’” Trav, seeing the other’s burning eyes, tried to turn the talk to harmless things, but Faunt persisted. “Oh, I’ve seen them. The Blues, the new company, came down the end of March. The men I know best haven’t been exchanged yet, but I’ve ridden over to see them. They’re at Gloucester Point now. I’d like to be with them, but I’m weak as a kitten still. But Trav, they say the elections are ruining the army. New officers are no good, and the ones who are defeated resign and go home, so it’s a loss both ways.”