The Long Roll
imposing. He spoke. "I supposed that you had heard the news. Along the
railroad and in Charlottesville it was known; there were great crowds. I
see it has not reached you. Mr. Lincoln has called for seventy-five
thousand troops with which to procure South Carolina and the Gulf
States' return into the Union. He--the North--demands of Virginia eight
thousand men to be used for this purpose. She will not give them. We
have fought long and patiently for peace; now we fight no more on that
field. Matters have brought me for a few hours to Albemarle. To-morrow I
return to Richmond, to the Convention, to do that which I never thought
to do, to give my voice for the secession of Virginia."
There was a general movement throughout the room. "So!" said Corbin Wood
very softly. Cousin William rose from the sofa, drew a long breath, and
smote his hands together. "It had to come, Cary, it had to come! North
and South, we've pulled in different directions for sixty years! The
cord had to snap." From among the awed servants came the voice of old
Isham the coachman, "'Secession!' What dat wuhd 'Secession,' marster?"
"That word," answered Warwick Cary, "means, Isham, that Virginia leaves
of her free will a Union that she entered of her free will. The terms of
that Union have been broken; she cannot, within it, preserve her
integrity, her dignity, and her liberty. Therefore she uses the right
which she reserved--the right of self-preservation. Unterrified she
entered the Union, unterrified she leaves it."
He paused, standing in the white light of the candles, among his
children, kinsmen, friends, and slaves. To the last, if ingrained
affection, tolerance, and understanding, quiet guidance, patient care, a
kindly heart, a ready ear, a wise and simple dealing with a simple, not
wise folk, are true constituents of friendship, he was then their friend
as well as their master. They with all the room hung now upon his words.
The light wind blew the curtains out like streamers, the candles
flickered, petals from the blossoms in the jars fell on the floor, the
clock that had ticked in the hall for a hundred years struck eleven.
"There will be war," said the master. "There should not be, but there
will be. How long it will last, how deadly its nature, no man can tell!
The North has not thought us in earnest, but the North is mistaken. We
are in earnest. War will be for us a desperate thing. We are utterly
unprepared; we are seven million against twenty million, an agricultural
country against a manufacturing one. We have little shipping, they have
much. They will gain command of the sea. If we can get our cotton to
Europe we will have gold; therefore, if they can block our ports they
will do it. There are those who think the powers will intervene and that
we will have England or France for our ally. I am not of them. The odds
are greatly against us. We have struggled for peace; apparently we
cannot have it; now we will fight for the conviction that is in us. It
will be for us a war of defence, with the North for the invader, and
Virginia will prove the battle-ground. I hold it very probable that
there are men here to-night who will die in battle. You women are going
to suffer--to suffer more than we. I think of my mother and of my wife,
and I know that you will neither hold us back nor murmur. All that is
courageous, all that is heroically devoted, Virginia expects and will
receive from you." He turned to face more fully the crowding negroes.
"To every man and woman of you here, not the less my friends that you
are called my servants, emancipated at my death, every one of you, by
that will which I read to you years ago, each of you having long known
that you have but to ask for your freedom in my lifetime to have it--to
you all I speak. Julius, Shirley, Isham, Scipio, Mammy, and the rest of
you, there are hard times coming! My son and I will go to war. Much will
be left in your trust. As I and mine have tried to deal by you, so do
you deal by us--"
Shirley raised his voice. "Don' leave nothin' in trus' ter me, marster!
Kase I's gwine wid you! Sho! Don' I know dat when gent'men fight dey
gwine want dey bes' shu't, an dey hat breshed jes' right! I'se gwine wid
you!" A face as dark as charcoal, with rolling eyes, looked over mammy's
shoulder. "Ain' Marse Edward gwine? 'Cose he gwine! Den Jeames gwine,
too!" A murmuring sound came from the band of servants. They began to
rock themselves, to strike with the tongue the roof of the mouth, to
work toward a camp-meeting excitement. Out on the porch Big Mimy, the
washerwoman, made herself heard. "Des' let um _dar_ ter come fightin'
Greenwood folk! Des' let me hab at um with er tub er hot water!" Scipio,
old and withered as a last year's reed, began to sway violently.
Suddenly he broke into a chant. "Ain' I done heard about hit er million
times? Dar wuz Gineral Lafayette an' dar wuz Gineral Rochambeau, an' dar
wuz Gineral Washington! An' dar wuz Light Horse Harry Lee, an' dar wuz
Marse Fauquier Cary dat wuz marster's gran'father, an' Marse Edward
Churchill! An' dey took de swords, an' dey made to stack de ahms, an'
dey druv--an' dey druv King Pharaoh into de sea! Ain' dey gwine ter do
hit ergain? Tell me dat! Ain' dey gwine ter do hit ergain?"
The master signed with his hand. "I trust you--one and all. I'll speak
to you again before I go away to-morrow, but now we'll say good-night.
Good-night, Mammy, Isham, Scipio, Easter, all of you!"
They went, one by one, each with his bow or her curtsy. Mammy paused a
moment to deliver her pronunciamento. "Don' you fret, marster! I ain'
gwine let er soul _tech_ one er my chillern!" Julius followed her.
"Dat's so, marster! An' Gawd Ermoughty knows I'se gwine always prohibit
jes' de same care ob de fambly an' de silver!"
When they were gone came the leave-taking of the guests, of all who were
not to sleep that night at Greenwood. Maury Stafford was to stay, and
Mr. Corbin Wood. Of those going Cousin William was the only one of
years; the others were all young,--young men, young women on the edge of
an unthought-of experience, on the brink of a bitter, tempestuous,
wintry sea. They did not see it so; there was danger, of course, but
they thought of splendour and heroism, of trumpet calls and waving
banners. They were much excited; the young girls half frightened, the
men wild to be at home, with plans for volunteering. "Good-bye, and
good-bye, and good-bye again! and when it's all over--it will be over in
three months, will it not, sir?--we'll finish the 'Virginia Reel!'"
The large, old coach and the saddle horses were brought around. They
drove or rode away, through the April night, by the forsythia and the
flowering almond, between the towering oaks, over the bridge with a
hollow sound. Those left behind upon the Greenwood porch, clustered at
the top of the steps, between the white pillars, stood in silence until
the noise of departure had died away. Warwick Cary, his arm around
Molly, his hand in Judith's, Unity's cheek resting against his shoulder,
then spoke. "It is the last merry-making, poor children! Well--'Time and
tide run through the longest day!'" He disengaged himself, kissed each
of his daughters, and turned toward the lighted hall. "There are papers
in the library which I must go over to-night. Edward, you had best come
with me."
Father and son left the porch. Miss Lucy, too, went indoors, called
Julius, and began to give directions. Ready and energetic, she never
wasted time in wonder at events. The event once squarely met, she
struck immediately into the course it demanded, cheerfully, without
repining, and with as little attention as possible to forebodings. Her
voice died away toward the back of the house. The moon was shining, and
the lawn lay chequered beneath the trees. Corbin Wood, who had been
standing in a brown study, began to descend the steps. "I'll take a
little walk, Judith, my dear," he said, "and think it over! I'll let
myself in." He was gone walking rapidly, not toward the big gate and the
road, but across to the fields, a little stream, and a strip that had
been left of primeval forest. Unity and Molly, moving back to the
doorstep, sat there whispering together in the light from the hall.
Judith and Richard were left almost alone, Judith leaning against a
white pillar, Cleave standing a step or two below her.
"You have been in Richmond?" she said. "Molly had a letter from
Miriam--"
"Yes, I went to find, if possible, rifled muskets for my company. I did
not do as well as I had hoped--the supply is dreadfully small--but I
secured a few. Two thirds of us will have to manage, until we can do
better, with the smoothbore and even with the old flintlock. I have seen
a breech-loader made in the North. I wish to God we had it!"
"You are going back to Botetourt?"
"As soon as it is dawn. The company will at once offer its services to
the governor. Every moment now is important."
"At dawn.... You will be its captain?"
"I suppose so. We will hold immediately an election of officers--and
that's as pernicious a method of officering companies and regiments as
can be imagined! 'They are volunteers, offering all--they can be trusted
to choose their leaders.' I don't perceive the sequence."
"I think that you will make a good captain."
He smiled. "Why, then, the clumsy thing will work for once! I'll try to
be a good captain.--The clock is striking. I do not know when nor how I
shall see Greenwood again. Judith, you'll wish me well?"
"Will I wish you well, Richard? Yes, I will wish you well. Do not go at
dawn."
He looked at her. "Do you ask me to wait?"
"Yes, I ask you. Wait till--till later in the morning. It is so sad to
say good-bye."
"I will wait then." The light from the hall lay unbroken on the
doorstep. Molly and Unity had disappeared. A little in yellow lamplight,
chiefly in silver moonlight the porch lay deserted and quiet before the
murmuring oaks, above the fair downward sweep of grass and flowers. "It
is long," said Cleave, "since I have been here. The day after the
tournament--"
"Yes."
He came nearer. "Judith, was it so hard to forgive--that tournament? You
had both crowns, after all."
"I do not know," said Judith, "what you mean."
"Do you remember--do you remember last Christmas when, going to
Lauderdale, I passed you on your way to Silver Hill?"
"Yes, I remember."
"I was on my way to Lauderdale, not to see Fauquier, but to see you. I
wished to ask you a question--I wished to make certain. And then you
passed me going to Silver Hill, and I said, 'It is certainly so.' I have
believed it to be so. I believe it now. And yet I ask you
to-night--Judith--"
"You ask me what?" said Judith. "Here is Mr. Stafford."
Maury Stafford came into the silver space before the house, glanced
upward, and mounted the steps. "I walked as far as the gate with
Breckinridge. He tells me, Mr. Cleave, that he is of your Company of
Volunteers."
"Yes."
"I shall turn my face toward the sea to-morrow. Heigho! War is folly at
the best. And you?--"
"I leave Greenwood in the morning."
The other, leaning against a pillar, drew toward him a branch of
climbing rose. The light from the hall struck against him. He always
achieved the looking as though he had stepped from out a master-canvas.
To-night this was strongly so. "In the morning! You waste no time.
Unfortunately I cannot get away for another twenty-four hours." He let
the rose bough go and turned to Judith. His voice when he spoke to her
became at once low and musical. There was light enough to see the flush
in his cheek, the ardour in his eye. "'Unfortunately!' What a word to
use in leaving Greenwood! No! For me most fortunately I must wait
another four and twenty hours."