Andersonville (100 page)

Do you think that I might be of service over there?

I doubt it, Harry. She is very old, very frail. I presume twould be merely a case of rest and quiet—mild stimulants perhaps.

Should you be there yourself, Lucy?

She had lowered her face but lifted it quickly. I thought that you would need me, she said.

Suddenly he could not breathe.

No Game for you, sir. No tug and pull upon that tired brain! I had Naomi put by a few necessaries before she went to the quarters. She’s left a fire, so now I shall prepare your supper.

Somehow I feel especially soiled tonight. A weak chuckle caught in his throat.

Your pitcher is filled, I trust. But I’ll just bring some hot water, Cousin. The large kettle is on—

You will not tote water for me, said Harry firmly. He followed her out to the kitchen. She went ahead, carrying a candle, holding her hand to shield the flame.

Do you go scrub now, she told him when she had filled the pitcher. I’ll make ready, and serve you in style upon a tray.

With an apple in my mouth and sausages about my neck?

He heard her quiet, Most assuredly, coming after him. In his room Harry Elkins stood upon the mat and bathed. He owned some clean clothes, for he had been given most of Sutherland’s. Certain garments had been a trifle tight for him before, they were tight no longer. The trousers were now too loose. He belted them tightly, put on slippers and jacket, arranged his maroon stock. Maroon might have done for Sutherland Claffey; Harry thought that in his own case maroon was absurd; but still it was the only such scarf he owned. He went down into the library. Lucy had put his supper tray upon a table, and stood rubbing her thumbs against her first fingers in a display of nervousness quite adolescent. Through strained silence Harry could actually hear the pressure and squeezing of flesh upon flesh. Later he could not recall exactly what was said. He remembered an overpowering sense of isolation, and then recognition of a long tortured defeat: it was as if Ira Claffey directed the thought to him across chilly dark miles which separated them. He had a notion that Lucy spoke of ham and warmed-up biscuits, he was not sure. Rising out of knowledge that the two of them were alone, sole alone, alone in the house, alone and unwatched and unguarded, there shafted suddenly an enormous desire. The candle was behind Lucy, so light which shone from it made transparent delicacy around the outer surface of her hair . . . candlelight limned her figure, made it dark and solitary and haloed. Why should stockade and hospital diminish into oblivion now? They had refused to diminish before. Harry’s weariness gave desperation, desperation gave strength. He started to say, the morning you kissed me, the other time I held you in my arms. . . . He was shocked at the harshness of his own voice. He could say nothing more, he whirled Lucy against him. God, God, he heard her gasping, before her mouth was smothered by his. The two of them pushed against the table, wrapped close: over went the candle upon the tray, there was a flash and sizzling, the light went out, there was faintest smell rising from an edge of ham newly scorched.

...And my darling, my darling Harry, I’ve never before, as you know, because it’s sinful. It’s— I shouldn’t ask you if you have— No, no, I daren’t ask.

But Lucy, I—haven’t.

Never before?

Never.

They were in his room; somehow each felt that it would be an additional wickedness to have gone to hers.

Soon as we’re married, Lucy whispered, lifting herself up to peer closely at him in gloom— We shall move in here, shan’t we? Somehow, my room— It was always mine, my maiden room. Actually this is larger—

He drew her face down into the hair of his chest. You know, he said, and well aware that simple frankness was ridiculous— This is adultery. We’ve committed adultery, are committing it.

She breathed, Yes, yes, Harry. Will we burn in Hell?

Myself, perhaps yes. No one could burn you, no power of fiends.

But—the Bible— Uncle Dayto, and sermons— All the prayers I’ve uttered and other folks have uttered. Oh I declare, we’re so wicked, aren’t we? . . . Why didn’t you love me before? Why didn’t you let me know that you loved me?

You know.

No, my darling, I don’t, I don’t. Tis the same old hospital, same old horrid stockade, the same nasty knowledge of men dying, dying, dying, watching them die, smelling them die. It must have been the same today for you.

Harry told her, Not the same now. Suddenly I felt that I must turn to you.

Darling.

There was only their struggle and rapid breathing for a time.

Afterward he was the first to speak. Should you wish to play the Game? he asked.

Yes, yes, yes. . . .

I shall let you into the secret without a Black Mark. Proverbs, Fifth Chapter:
Rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.

Lucy began to whimper. But I’m not your wife, you see.

Do you suppose the Lord will forgive us for being a bit hasty, Lucy? Possibly we could do penance as Catholics do. Just for the sake of a few days?

My love, twill be weeks. There are the banns.

Something else, said Harry. First Corinthians, somewhere or other:
But
if they cannot contain, let them marry.
So we shall, Lucy.

She repeated, We shall. And presently she asked as they lay side by side gazing up into dark, What would Suthy think?

He would shoot me, beyond doubt.

He cannot shoot you now.

Again they were silent for a long while, until timidly Lucy began to trace the pattern of his eyebrows with her finger. In turn she pushed down the weary crumpled eyelids and let her hand pass smoothly and coolly over the closed eyes. So odd to see you close, even in dark, without your specs. Harry, you must know I’m very wicked. I suffer lust. Harry, I—I’ve dreamed of you.

So have I dreamed of you.

In this way they broke the dignity of rearing, cut through the veil of morality in which both had been draped. They were shocked to discover that they did not feel at all depressed about it. They kept reiterating that they should be sunk in remorse, should be praying for forgiveness. The staunch pure code forever applied—and especially in Lucy’s case—seemed a shriveled broken hedge behind them. They had crashed through it, had cavorted in Eden.

I wonder, said Harry, when the Fall will occur, Cousin?

Dear Harry, you must call me Cousin no longer. Soon you will say Wife, soon say Mrs. Elkins, Ma’am. She tittered at the thought; then relaxed wide awake and glowing, a little sore in intimate portions; but enriched by joy. She believed that her joy would be perpetual.

Old Mrs. Bile died the next morning, and Mrs. Dillard was driven back to the Claffeys’ at noon by a Bile nephew. Effie’s mind was filled with recollections of a peaceful passing; she thought of agèd death as a release from all sin and pain, a glorification to be envied; she continued in busy thought, concerning herself also with Heaven, and the notion of her own children and grandchildren reveling there. In this mood she scarcely recollected that Lucy and Harrell Elkins had spent a night to threaten chastity. She presumed that she knew a gentleman when she saw one, and a lady as well. She knew that no gentleman such as Elkins would presume to dishonor a pure young lady, that no pure young lady such as Lucy would presume to desire to be dishonored.

The footsore Ira came trudging up with the dusk—thwarted, charged with dread weight of the invasion he had witnessed, dread knowledge that he had started for Richmond too late. . . . Twould have done no good in the end, Poppy, Lucy soothed him. And God let you come back to us safely through all dangers. When they sat alone later, with Mrs. Effie sleeping, and Elkins not yet come from the hospital, Ira saw the new Lucy. He recognized much, almost he guessed and could imagine more.

His stubbled face broke into a smile. My dear, you appear comely, especially comely.

She came flying, running across the room, dropped down, buried her face in his lap, hugged his legs convulsively.

Is it Cousin Harry?

The fair head nodded violently.

I take it he’s declared himself?

Again the furious nodding.

Now, how dared he do so? He has not spoken to me.

Her head was motionless, her face burning against him.

But do you wish me to forgive him?

Once more the nodding, more rapidly than ever.

Are you happy, my dear?

Oh, Poppy, she mumbled.

In that event I shall embrace Cousin Harry with fatherly affection when he appears, and we shall take a glass of wine together.

They did in fact do this; but Elkins suffered the guilt which he had not suffered when lying with Lucy. He spilled his silver cup of wine—Sutherland’s cup—before it was half empty, temporarily miserable. He thought that he should confess the enormity of his sin. Almost he struggled to speak awful words, to ask forgiveness of this wronged father; then the whole wide picture of agony near which and in which they had lived, rose before him. It was a persuasive mural in which life and death were elementals and essentials—not the practice of morality or of social or religious custom. He thought, Come, come, don’t be a child about this matter. He and Ira shook hands fervently on separating. Harry went to his room and slept with more bliss than he had known in sleep since first he sought duty at Andersonville.

The Reverend Mr. Cato Dillard took delight in publishing the banns according to elderly Scottish procedure; this practice was approved by the presbytery. Cato almost regretted that he might not cry Lucy and Harry indefinitely; but rules said that they were to be cried on three successive Sundays, and that was enough; so he made the most of it. The Dillards approved contentedly of the match. Effie foresaw pleasant future episodes wherein Harrell Elkins might instruct her in medicinal procedures. Even so she rankled a little when she recalled his sport about toad ointment. . . . Cato Dillard gave opinion that each of the young pair was an excellent Christmas present to give to the other, albeit a trifle in advance of the season. Banns were cried on the twenty-seventh of November, on the fourth and eleventh of December. Cousin Harry entered a plea for a wedding on the twelfth, but Lucy said that they must wait until Wednesday the fourteenth. That was her mother’s birthday. It would give her the feeling that her mother was somehow part of this solemn joy, that Veronica Claffey was no longer a forlorn shrunken monster to be shuddered away from in thought.

The Dillards arrived at the plantation Tuesday evening, accompanied by Laurel Tebbs, who had acquired the art of blushing whenever spoken to. She carried with pride a puckered bag of black silk, complete with drawstrings. This feminine delight had been given her by one of the neighboring Dennards of Americus, who found it among the effects of a recently deceased aunt. It now contained a pocket handkerchief actually dampened with cologne, and a square looking glass which said on the back:
Compliments of Beglois & Sons, Cotton Brokers, Savannah, Ga.
These things were Laurel’s personal property, she would not have parted with them under any circumstances. She had also a pill-box containing seven imitation garnet buttons which had come off an old gown of Mrs. Effie’s, and were a present to Laurel’s mother. Laurel was driven in style to the Tebbs place. Mrs. Dillard refused to allow her to spend the night there: she was sure that the widow must have retrogressed since October, she said that someone would call for Laurel at eight. . . . With Laurel safely bedded in Moses Claffey’s old room, the rest stayed round the fire a while. Cato Dillard quoted liberally from the Directory For Worship.

Marriage is of a public nature.

In her heart Lucy did not agree: she thought it rather a private affair.

The welfare of civil society,
said Mr. Dillard, fraying his whisker tufts between his fingers as he beamed,
the happiness of families and the credit of religion are deeply interested in it.

Well they should be, his wife agreed.

Therefore, the purpose of marriage ought to be sufficiently published a proper time previously to the solemnization of it.

I think that it has been sufficiently published in our case, Cousin Harry murmured sleepily. Three mortal Sundays.

It is enjoined on all ministers to be careful that, in this matter, they neither transgress the laws of God nor the laws of the community.

Cate, said Effie Dillard, you
are
an old blether! Away to bed with you. Away to bed with all of us.

The wedding day dawned gray, murky, raw. There were to be few guests, there were few whom the Claffeys wanted for wedding guests. Elkins had been given leave of indulgence from his hospital duties for two days; he would not request more leave, though Lucy begged. He said stubbornly that he would not be happy for longer, he would be thinking of his patients, of what he might do for them. Of the fellow surgeons he invited only Dr. Crumbley, that slight brown-faced man with whom he had worked long, and who labored with earnestness approaching his own—not enforced by external strictness, but of the soul. Two loads of Americus Presbyterians came driving up in mid-forenoon. These were not people rooted deeply in affections of the Claffeys: they were merely people whom the Claffeys had known for long, and so a strong association was imagined if not practiced. Two of the younger women had gone to the Female Institute along with Lucy. There ensued a certain amount of embracing and tearful cooing . . . these social appurtenances were vague, meaningless. Lucy could observe them, they did not strike deep. She looked beyond the people, saw Harry’s luminous eyes smiling within their glass.

That is all ye need to know, she misquoted gently when they were near each other again, ignoring the tangle of conversation.

Truth is beauty, said Harry. God bless you.

Bless you!

He did that when He brought me to you.

Shortly before the ceremony was to commence, the party received recruits. Ira it was who looked first through the window and saw them approaching: the stuffed rounded figure of a woman in ragged fringed shawl and broken-feathered bonnet, a woman dragging a small child in a cart which squeaked . . . the sullen black-haired youth teetering on crutches behind. The Tebbses! Ira whispered. Whom have we to thank for this?