To think that Brett might be on his way to one of those Yankee torture camps was a nightmare. When Cinda confessed her weak despair, Vesta protested: “But, Mama, the war’s over, so they won’t take any more prisoners.”
“The whole army surrendered! They’re all prisoners!”
“Why, no, they’ll be paroled.”
But Cinda perversely clung to terror, almost resenting Vesta’s reassurances. The girl tried to make her smile, telling her about the Yankee band concerts in Capitol Square, so near the big house on Fifth Street that from the balcony they could hear the strains of music. “All last week, no one went to hear them except the negroes,” she said. “So this week they’re not letting any negroes come into the Square at all—but of course no white people go near the place, and the band just sits there and plays and plays all by itself.”
Cinda would not be diverted. “Oh, Vesta, he’ll never come home!”
“Hush! I’ll begin to be provoked with you! Papa’s all right! Wait and see!”
“I’m tired of waiting!”
“Well, then, come take a walk with me, get a little fresh air.”
“Walk the streets? With Yankee soldiers staring?”
“You can’t always stay indoors! It’s going to be like this for goodness knows how long. You might as well get used to it!” Vesta’s tone quickened. “Put on your bonnet and we’ll walk down the hill and call on Mrs. Lee.”
Cinda would not go even that short distance, but Vesta did. “And Mrs. Lee hasn’t given up!” she reported when she returned. “She says General Lee isn’t the whole Confederacy! The brave old thing says the Yankees have never captured any Southern city except Vicksburg, except places we’d already given up!”
“Has she heard from General Lee?”
“No.” Vesta added persuasively: “And if he hasn’t come home yet, you couldn’t expect Papa to be here this soon!”
Cinda shook her head, refusing comfort. General Lee was nothing now, but Brett was everything. The days dragged wearily. Wednesday, General Weitzel, the Federal Commandant, issued an order that the prayer for the President of the United States must be included in religious services; so on Good Friday St. Paul’s did not open its doors for the usual observances. Brett did not come and did not come; but Saturday they began to see from the windows an occasional haggard man in a gray uniform; and toward dusk they heard voices and some confusion down Franklin Street, and people hurried past the house in that direction. From the upper balcony, through an opening among the branches of the big magnolia, they saw a crowd collected in front of the Lee house, and a little knot of horsemen for whom the throng made way. Despite the dusk and the gloom of a rainy evening they saw enough to guess the truth. General Lee had come home.
Tilda suggested that evening that since there would be no Easter service at St. Paul’s, they go tomorrow to Dr. Hoge’s church, a few steps down Fifth Street from the house. Dr. Hoge had left the city when Richmond was evacuated, but Dr. Reed, whose church had burned, would preach in his place. But Cinda had no desire to hear Dr. Reed. “I don’t want to hear any voice but Brett’s,” she confessed. “I know I ought to be ashamed of myself. I wasn’t ever as bad as this, not even when Clayton was killed; but I can’t help it, Tilda! There’s just nothing but water in my bones.”
“You’re acting like an idiot! I’ve a mind to box your ears.”
Cinda smiled weakly. “Why, Tilda, you sound the way I used to talk to you! Go on, do it! It might be good for me.”
“If I thought so, I would,” Tilda retorted, and stormed away.
Next morning Cinda lay late, her curtains drawn, wishing for sleep. When her door opened, softly and without any warning knock, she sat up in quick rapture, certain this was Brett; but it was Tilda, and in exasperated disappointment, Cinda cried: “I declare, Tilda, it’s too bad of you to wake me! I didn’t get to sleep at all till daylight.”
Tilda came in and closed the door. “I had to, Cinda.” Her voice was low. “Cinda, Lincoln’s dead!”
Cinda at first did not comprehend. “Well, waking me up won’t bring him back to life again!” But then she realized what Tilda had said. “Lincoln! Dead?”
“They say someone shot him.”
“Shot him!” Cinda’s throat contracted. “Oh, Tilda, I don’t believe it! It’s just another Sunday rumor!”
“Julian says it’s true. He’s just come.” Julian and Anne and Judge Tudor had returned to the Twelfth Street house when order in the city was restored. “Mr. Grant told Judge Tudor. They shot Lincoln, and killed Mr. Seward and his whole family, and tried to kill all the cabinet officers.”
Cinda, with a confused feeling that she must do something, began to dress. “Call June,” she said absently. “I want my breakfast.” She felt in Tilda a need for words; but what was there to say? Their own father was Abraham Lincoln’s grandfather, but it was Lincoln who had made this war, and Lincoln’s fleets had starved the South, and Lincoln’s armies had stolen and burned and destroyed everything they could lay their hands on, and Lincoln’s soldiers had killed Clayton and maimed Julian. If Lincoln were dead, she was glad of it! It was high time for him to die!
But Tilda might read her thoughts. “Don’t stand there gawking at me! Call June, do!” Tilda went out on the balcony to summon June from the kitchen in the back yard; and when the shutters were opened Cinda saw sun glint on the leaves of the magnolia. Tilda returned. “She’s coming, Cinda.” She hesitated. “What are you thinking?”
“About Lincoln! I think it serves him right! After all the things he’s done to us!”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Oh, I suppose I don’t.”
“I wish I’d known him,” Tilda confessed. “Or at least seen him. They say he called on Mrs. Pickett while he was in Richmond. He knew the General, or something.” She wrung her hands. “I suppose the Yankees will do all sorts of terrible things, to get even. Julian said we’d better close the shutters, but Vesta wouldn’t let him. She said it would just be acting guilty.”
Cinda was already half dressed. “Tell Julian I’ll be right down,” she said. “Don’t let him go.”
As Tilda departed, June came with breakfast; and Cinda heard her swallow hard, and she thought the old woman had been crying. She spoke quietly.
“He was a good man, June.”
“Yas’m.” There was a faint, wailing overtone in June’s voice. “But he done de wuk de good Lawd set him tuh do. He gone to rest in Jesus’ bosom now.” That simple faith released Cinda’s own tears, and to weep brought her some easement.
They were all together, the children with them, when Brett appeared. They had no warning that he was near. He came in through the basement door and up the stairs; and the sound of his step was enough for Cinda. She flew to meet him, too nearly breathless to speak, and her streaming tears wetted the lips she lifted to his kiss. The others pressed about them, laughing and crying together, and they led him into the drawing room, and Cinda demanded—as though it mattered—why he came in by the back door; and he said in weary amusement:
“Well, I was afraid my mare would play out before I got to the front door, so I took her through the alley right to the stable. I’d have been here yesterday, but she went dead lame and I had to walk and lead her the last twenty or thirty miles.” He turned to a chair. “Let’s sit down. I’m tired.”
Julian asked: “Did you know Lincoln’s dead?”
“Yes, we heard it as we came up from the bridge.”
Vesta cried: “Who’s ‘we,’ Papa? Is Rollin with you?”
“No, Honey; Fitz Lee and Rosser didn’t surrender. They’re trying to get to General Johnston; and of course Burr and Rollin went with them.” He spoke to Cinda. “Trav planned to go to Lynchburg, to Enid.”
She saw how tired he was, drained equally of strength and spirit; and his need of her now made her stronger. “It’s all over, darling,” she said gently.
He nodded, slumped in his chair. “Yes, all over.” He fumb
led in his pocket, found a slip of paper, held it out. Cinda read the printed lines.
Appomattox Court House,
Virginia
April 10, 1865
The bearer, Private—Brett Dewain—Third Company Howitzers, Hardaway’s Battalion, a paroled prisoner of the Army of Northern Virginia, has permission to go to his home and remain there undisturbed with one horse.
B. H. Smith, Jr.
Captain Commanding Third
Company Howitzers
Cinda passed the parole to Vesta, it went from hand to hand. “I got that on the eleventh,” Brett explained in dull tones. “But we couldn’t leave till Wednesday. A dozen of us started together, but some of the horses were better than others, so we soon separated. We made Buckingham Court House that night. Confederate money was no good, so we couldn’t buy anything, but some people gave us supper.” His voice was empty and spiritless. “There were only three of us, by that time. We decided the farmers on that road would have too many soldiers to feed; so we went to Cartersville and ferried across the river.” Julian was looking at the parole, and Brett said: “Better give that back to me, son, so I can show it to the Yankee sentries and prove I’m an honest man.”
Cinda thought with pitying tenderness and love: Why, he’s beaten, he’s given up, he’s worn to death; but I will make him whole again. Brett droned on. He had lodged in Manikin Town last night, and made an early start this morning, walking, leading his limping horse. His voice trailed into silence. Cinda rose.
“Brett Dewain, I’m going to put you to bed.”
He nodded. “I’d like to go to bed. I’d like to sleep a year.” Vesta came to help him up the stairs, and feeling his weakness Cinda wondered whether he would ever be strong again. She helped him out of his clothes while June in the bathing room filled the tub. The old woman took his worn, stained garments away to wash and clean them, and Cinda helped him bathe, and when he was in bed she sat beside him. He fell instantly asleep, and when she stole from the room he did not wake; nor did he wake that day at all. Lest she disturb him, she slept that night on a pallet by his bed. Let him sleep; let him rest; at least now and forever he was at home.
Monday the newspapers, in black-bordered columns, told the story of Lincoln’s assassination; and at dinner Cinda asked: “What do the soldiers think? About his being dead.”
Brett said honestly: “Why, they hope he’ll roast in hell! We used to laugh at him, when he was alive; but we’ve had four years of blood and death and starvation and general misery, and blamed him for it.” He added: “But of course we’ll keep our tongues between our teeth!”
“He’s brought death to plenty of others. I can’t really feel sad about it. And yet . . .”
Cinda left the sentence unfinished, and Vesta said: “I’ve never thought he was as bad as people said, Mama. Not since he let you bring Julian home.”
Brett spoke thoughtfully. “I remember this actor who killed him. He was in Richmond at the time of the John Brown business.” He shook his head in slow amazement. “My, but that was a long time ago. In another world.”
Cinda nodded; yes, a long time ago. The day they heard of John Brown’s deed, she and Brett had just returned from England, with the shipload of beautiful things which made this great house still so lovely and contenting. Mama was alive, spry as a cricket, as gay as any of them; and the big old house at Great Oak with its floors of heart pine as enduring as marble and its panelled walls and all its spacious beauty was still standing; and Trav was bringing the fields back to good culture, and the people were happy, and life was leisured and gracious and friendly. Vesta was a child just coming to womanhood, with her first love in her eyes, and Clayton was alive, and Burr’s hands were whole and beautiful, and Julian’s legs were strong.
Cinda shook her head, putting thoughts away. To remember was to weep, and she must dry her eyes of tears.
They heard that day that Roger Pryor had called a meeting of Petersburg ladies to mourn President Lincoln; and Cinda remembered Mr. Pryor speaking from the balcony at the hotel in Charleston, his long hair flying as he urged the attack on Sumter which ushered in these years of grief and suffering and terror and despair. Rhett, Yancey, Pryor, old Mr. Ruffin—these men more than any others had led the South on the dreadful road to war. They promised secession would bring liberty and peace and prosperity. Well, they had lied; and Mr. Yancey was dead, and Mr. Rhett had been repudiated even by his own state, and Roger Pryor who had called Mr. Lincoln every name in the calendar now hypocritically summoned ladies to pay the dead man homage. Old Mr. Ruffin? Cinda remembered that Mrs. Lee and her daughters had visited him at Marlbourne, out on the Pamunkey three years ago, during those months when after the Yankees seized Arlington Mrs. Lee was a homeless wanderer; but McClellan’s army came so near Marlbourne that she removed to Richmond, and probably Mr. Ruffin left his home at the same time. That old man had fired the first shot at Sumter; he had even touched off one cannon at First Manassas. Where was he now? Let him, too, answer for his sins!
Through that week, people flocked into Richmond: soldiers coming home, refugees returning, freed Negroes guzzling freedom. Crowds were forbidden to gather on the streets, or people to assemble; and any public gathering of more than two people was held to be an assembly. “So if I’m with a friend and we meet a mutual friend, we cannot pause to speak to him,” Brett explained, mocking his own helplessness. The Yankees openly accused President Davis and the leading figures in the Confederate government of complicity in the assassination. Mr. Davis and his cabinet were gone none knew where, and Cinda prayed for Mr. Davis to escape; since if he were caught the Yankees would surely hang him, and once the hanging began, no neck would be safe. For four years now they had been proud to call themselves rebels; but rebels, if rebellion failed, were hanged. It was true that General Ord, who had taken over from General Weitzel the command of the city, seemed to be a considerate and courteous gentleman; but probably he and all the Yankees were just waiting for President Davis to be captured before setting up a gallows at every street corner!
To be sure, they would presumably hang only the great men, the leaders; so Brett was safe. But he was changed, something gone out of him. He seemed to feel most deeply the fact that they were completely impoverished. Confederate money would buy nothing; gold or the Yankee greenbacks were the only acceptable currency. Once Cinda found him tearing up and burning the Confederate bonds into which he had converted their fortune. It had been easy enough to say at that time: “If everybody in the South is to lose everything, so will we.” But no one then really believed in the possibility of this complete disaster. She asked in an empty wonder:
“Brett Dewain, how rich were we?”
He did not look up, continuing to feed the flames. “Well, most of our wealth was in slaves, Cinda. Slaves and land. In money at interest, and securities, all the Currain funds together amounted to about three hundred thousand dollars.” He added with a sound vaguely mirthful: “And now Julian—I saw him this morning, sitting on a pile of rubbish —is cleaning bricks down on Main Street at five Yankee dollars a week, knocking the mortar off them with a trowel.” “Vesta sells pies to Yankee soldiers.”
He nodded. “Caesar brought me three dollars in Yankee scrip today; three dollars and two bits. He earned it helping clean up the fire wreckage.” He smiled mirthlessly. “As soon as my mare gets over her limp, I’ll take the carriage and go into the hackney cab business and help support the family.” The last flame died, and he rose, brushing his hands. “Well, that’s done. The slate is clean.” He frowned in a puzzled way. “Cinda, I feel as though I were dead.” She could offer him no comfort but her arms.
On the twenty-eighth, Rollin returned. It was dusk when he arrived; and clinging to him, heedless of his dusty garments, Vesta in laughing gladness pulled down his face to hers and kissed and kissed him and plucked at his ears and his nose and pulled his hair till he protested happily: “Hey, what are you trying to do to me, Honey?”
“Seei
ng if you’re all here! Oh, darling, it’s wonderful just to feel you!”
Brett and Tilda were not at home when Rollin arrived, but Vesta and Jenny and Cinda were hungry to hear all he could tell. He had ridden off from Appomattox on the ninth with General Rosser’s command. They went to Lynchburg and decided to disband. “But some of us thought we could do something with General Johnston’s army. So–––––”
Cinda interrupted breathlessly. “Rollin, did you see Burr?”
“Yes, he was with us. About two hundred of us started for Greensboro.” Rollin added honestly: “But some dropped out on the way; went home, I suppose. President Davis was in Greensboro. He and his family were living in a box car at the station. Nobody offered them hospitality.”
Vesta cried: “Oh how cruel! Letting them live like beggars!”
“I suppose people were afraid to take them in.” Rollin went on: “Then we heard General Johnston was going to surrender, so three or four of us started back here.” He laughed. “We got a scare near Danville; saw a picket of Union cavalry come over the top of the hill and ride toward us. We held our breath, expecting them to charge us. It turned out they didn’t; but I’ll never forget seeing them silhouetted against the sky ahead. They told us we could get our paroles in Danville, and we did.”
Cinda asked: “But, Rollin, didn’t Burr come with you?”
“No, he went to Raleigh to find Barbara.”
She bit her lip. Barbara and her father and mother had gone off to Raleigh long ago, escaping all the misery of these last years, living in ease and comfort; and Cinda hated her. Burr was not Barbara’s; he was hers! Yet now he had gone to Barbara, and the thought was bitter in her throat. She asked Rollin: “Isn’t Sherman in Raleigh?”
“I suppose so. He was almost there before we left Greensboro. But they say that as soon as General Lee surrendered, Sherman stopped his men from doing any more damage; so Burr will be all right.”
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