XXXII

NOT long after the news of the fight in the early part of March between the Monitor and the Merrimac reached Natchez, a letter arrived for Valette from Duncan. It was for her alone and a long letter.

The one-time United States steam frigate Merrimac burned by the Federals had been raised by the Confederates and covered with the first armorplate yet seen in America. At Hampton Roads she steamed into the Federal squadron, sank U.S.S. Cumberland and U.S.S. Congress and fought the Monitor. In the meantime McClelland advanced on Yorktown and Stuart’s cavalry was harrying his outposts and patrols. In the company, Duncan wrote, was a Leipzig professor, who, when he heard some of his students speak of going home to fight for the Confederacy, had resigned his chair in the university and came along with them. He brought a Latin grammar, and sometimes by the campfire gave them lessons, which would be useful in the professions afterward; and he knew the history of military strategy and tactics. Duncan and the professor often talked of this war and the place it would have in military history. The letter was about that.

This was to be a war of rifle bullets, trenches, abbatis, wire entanglements, hand grenades, winged grenades, rockets, and many types of booby traps, Duncan said in his letter. Magazine rifles and Requa’s machine gun were invented. Gas bombs were ordered, balloons used, armored ships were now made, and armored trains, torpedoes, land mines, flag and lamp signalling, and the field telegraph. At Mobile had been built an under-sea boat. But the great tactical revolution had come with the rifle. And because of the rifle the wind went out of the bayonet as arms; it was descended from the pike of older times, and Schultz thought it almost as out of date. Professor Schultz had examined many corpses and found very few bayonet wounds; what had come into war now was the rifle and its mates: the spade and the axe for earthworks.

Because of the rifle the defense had become the stronger form of war. Stonewall Jackson had said that his men sometimes failed to drive the enemy from his position, but to hold one, never! Professor Schultz took for a good example the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. Out of 7000 British taking part in the attacks, 3300 were killed and wounded, and 500 prisoners; the Americans out of 4500 men had eight killed and thirteen wounded. The Americans were armed with the long Tennessee flintlock rifle, the British with Brown Bess muskets, and they attacked in rigid formation. “The Herr Professor says,” Duncan went on, “he was once in the war in Bavaria but never battles like ours. A plain with the lines advancing, the generals leading in gold braid and cocked hats, colors flying, bands playing, is not seen in our army, not when we make an attack. All the Yankees see of us is bushes and smoke, every man to himself, running forward, kneeling to load, running forward again. So we talk late at night sometimes about tactics and the rifle.

“I will write you again as I have occasion to know more. How is my Greenwich rifle? Please make them keep it cleaned. Your own Duncan.”

This was all the letter was about and all of it was to her. Valette reread it several times, stopping to kiss the writing. She finished it walking about the room. It was the sweetest letter Duncan had written her. It was the most beautiful letter ever written.

“But My Dumplin’s gone calling and is not back from Magnolia Vale!” she said, “I’ll go see——”

She flew up to the dressing-room where Duncan had his guncase, and took out the rifle. His father had ordered it from Greenwich, England, for Duncan’s eighteenth birthday; he had paid 325 for it, the barrel was Damascus, the mountings were gold.

“Of course, of course, of course,” Valette said to herself, “My Dumplin’ watches Duncan’s guns. But there must be a spot left or something. She took the rifle and stood looking at it as if it had been a flower, and then turned to a drawer for the cleaning rags and grease, and at the same moment decided to take everything down to Mammy Tildy’s cabin. “It’s just as well Mammy should know what Duncan’s discussing with me. She’s just a little too certain I’m not good enough for Duncan, that’s what I think of it.”

While both of them worked at the unnecessary polishing, Valette explained to Mammy Tildy the new tactics, about the bayonet, the march formations.

“So Mr. Duncan says this is a war of the rifle.”

“I see it is,” said the old woman, “Yes, m’am, and da’s whar my lil Marse Duncan gwi’ shoot de b’ar. We gwi’ rub dis here bar’l off efn we don’t stop, Miss Valette.”

“I’ll read you all these things,” said Valette, leaving the gun to Mammy, who stood there holding it lightly across her arms as if it were a baby, “you’ll see. She took the letter from her bosom: “trenches, abbatis, traps, hand grenades, winged grenades, bombs, rockets, wire entanglements.”

“Jesus, hep yo’sef!”

When Mrs. Bedford returned, Valette was waiting to give her the letter to read. She was going upstairs to dress; after dinner she would ride over to Lucy’s.

The rifle was back in the guncase, but now that she had seen it better she remembered Duncan’s explaining to her once how barrels like this were made, she said. They were made by welding together narrow thin strips of three metals, fine-wrought iron, steel, and another harder steel, and while that was hot they twisted it around a rod to make the bore in it. “Which,” Valette said—for love of Duncan she remembered these details quite rightly, though Mrs. Bedford was not herself informed enough to know it, “makes a spiral, My Dumplin’, which is welded solid later.”

“Precious, if I were you I don’t believe I’d explain it too fully, you might blow your head off.”

Later, on her way to Duncan’s room, Mrs. Bedford stopped to give back the letter.

“So you think there never was such—Would anything but a man ever have written it? Do you know, precious, at the battle of Salamis there was a lady admiral and they say when she got her blood up and laid about her, she sank as many Greek ships as she did Persian. Don’t glare at me. And now, don’t choke me—kiss me though. So you think this letter—well, I suppose ’tis.”

There were callers at Montrose when Valette arrived. Their voices came out to her on the gallery as she stood for a moment watching the shadows of the columns. The shadows were cast strangely together in the afternoon sun; and where there were none, the walls in this light were softer, waiting for the rich sundown. She heard some one among the callers saying what a good story about Monsieur Humbert that was. “But it’s five years ago, it’s ages,” they were saying as Valette entered.

“But it’s forever true of that type of young man,” said a lady whom Valette had never seen before, some visitor at Monmouth, a friend of Mrs. Quitman’s. “We have scores it could be true of.” She went on to describe the type as a tall, slender, young man with full dark eyes and long hands, the dark eyes quiet and easy enough until you looked at them twice.

“And no good can come of that type.” Mrs. Quitman said. “It’s one Southern type that no good comes of.”

“I don’t see why we have to say that,” said Lucy, who so far had been listening in silence.

Mrs. Quitman, hearing something unexpected in Lucy’s voice, turned toward her in surprise. “Say what?”

“I just don’t see why tall and dark and eyes have so much to do with it.”

“Lucy, Mrs. Quitman doesn’t mean just that,” her mother said, glancing from her daughter to the old lady, who got nothing except the tone in Lucy’s voice.

“You don’t? Well, mark my words, at bottom that sort of men are reckless, they are arrogant.”

“But, Mrs. Quitman, what if they are——?”

“Often enough they are most agreeable, fine manners, insinuating. Just you follow them up, you find some devilment or other. You don’t understand yet, my dear.”

“I imagine I don’t. I’m sorry.” Lucy rose and excused herself from the company.

“Since Edward’s left, the child’s been keeping too much to herself,” Agnes said, in a tone with which, unconsciously, we speak to older people when we think they are stupid.

Valette followed Lucy on to the gallery. “I remember Monsieur Humbert’s eyes,” she said, putting her arm around Lucy’s waist. “I remember how——”

“I’ve almost forgotten him.”

“For goodness’ sake, you have?” Valette understood and yet was astonished at the blunt way Lucy had said that.

“Do you see all that fluttering about down by one of the pigeonnières?” said Lucy, using the Creole form of the word. “I’m going down there. If it’s Paralee’s old tomcat I’ll wring his neck.”

On their way down the path, Valette avoided looking at her friend. They could find nothing wrong, though there was a great stir of the pigeons going on, in and out of the openings and above the pretty cupola. The shadows of their wings flecked over Lucy’s white dress.

“Has Eddie written since I saw you?” Valette asked.

“Only a line—let’s go round by the pond, I don’t want to hear any more from old ladies about dark-eyes,-mark-my-word. Do you? Buddie wrote, always busy with General Beauregard, said nothing about himself or anybody or anything else.”

“Smell how sweet!” Valette plucked two roses from a trellis and was giving one to Lucy. “They say General Beauregard’s the best for military tactics, and Eddie was good in that at the seminary, you remember? So that’s what keeps him so busy.”

Unconsciously Valette put her hand to her bosom and felt there the crackle of Duncan’s new letter. She thought, “I’m happy, happy, happy! Lucy must be happy, too, and if she’s not I can’t help it. Why shouldn’t I go on being happy?” Then a catch took her generous heart. She left Duncan’s letter, which she had hurried over from Portobello to read Lucy, unmentioned, lying against her young bosom. She did not mention the letter, but caught her friend’s hand and kissed it so hard that Lucy turned, looking at her with that clear gaze:

“Now don’t you be worrying over me, Valette. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, yes, I know you can.”

They strolled along in silence. “Not one word of Charlie Taliaferro, oh, Lucy!” Valette said to herself. “Not a word, and you won’t speak it.” Glancing sidewise at the proud, white face with its delicate mouth, she resolved that as for herself she would cry and howl whenever she was unhappy; it was better to have it out. Was it wicked to go along as Lucy was doing, so alone from every one? It was like Valette to feel that half of life consists in what you hide and what you do not hide from people, and especially people who love you.

As they passed the camellia bushes the rain of petals underneath, now white, now pink like a shell, seemed to be laid at the feet of love and happiness? Did she not know that Duncan would come again? What else was love? When their elbows brushed the camellias, the petals fell in showers.

“Tell me, Valette,” Lucy said, “did it seem mighty strange to you at first, not knowing where people were, I mean having them off there in the war?”

“Yes. But time passes, the end of February will be here before we know it.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, and then suddenly, “so don’t be worrying about me. People tell me Valette Somerville’s a butterfly, mighty pretty and attractive, of course, Cud’n Abe McGehee saying to me, Valette’s about as serious as a bird; but I said, now look here, Cud’n Abe, you can’t tell me, for I know better; you go choose yourself a raincrow—if that’s what you admire, there must be plenty. You know Cud’n Abe a year or so ago was in love with a young plump widow in Clinton, but she went up a tree with a lamp looking for her cat, and he was disenchanted or something, we never found out exactly what.”

“But, Lucy——”

“You’re just smarter than these people, Valette, that’s what’s the matter. I reckon you’re about the best friend I have.”

“Lucy——”

“Yes, the best friend.”

During the rest of the visit they told each other names of those who had gone to the war. John Lyle, Henry St. Ange, Victor Fleming, George McGehee from Woodville, Urban Wagner, and Victor Dunbar, Ike Campman, Francis Carroll, boys away in the Confederate armies.