Weekly Meredy.com E-book - Gone with the Wind - Part Two

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CHAPTER XV


The  army, driven back into Virginia, went into winter quarters on the Rapidan--a tired, depleted army since the defeat at Gettysburg--and as the
Christmas  season approached, Ashley came home on furlough. Scarlett, seeing him for the first time in more than two years, was frightened by the
violence  of  her feelings. When she had stood in the parlor at Twelve Oaks and seen him married to Melanie, she had thought she could never love
him  with  a  more  heartbreaking  intensity  than  she did at that moment. But now she knew her feelings of that long-past night were those of a
spoiled  child thwarted of a toy. Now, her emotions were sharpened by her long dreams of him, heightened by the repression she had been forced to
put on her tongue.

This  Ashley  Wilkes  in his faded, patched uniform, his blond hair bleached tow by summer suns, was a different man from the easy-going, drowsy-
eyed  boy she had loved to desperation before the war. And he was a thousand times more thrilling. He was bronzed and lean now, where he had once
been  fair  and  slender, and the long golden mustache drooping about his mouth, cavalry style, was the last touch needed to make him the perfect
picture of a soldier.

He  stood  with  military straightness in his old uniform, his pistol in its worn holster, his battered scabbard smartly slapping his high boots,
his  tarnished  spurs  dully  gleaming--Major  Ashley  Wilkes,  C.S.A.  The  habit  of command sat upon him now, a quiet air of self-reliance and
authority, and grim lines were beginning to emerge about his mouth. There was something new and strange about the square set of his shoulders and
the  cool bright gleam of his eyes. Where he had once been lounging and indolent, he was now as alert as a prowling cat, with the tense alertness
of  one  whose nerves are perpetually drawn as tight as the strings of a violin. In his eyes, there was a fagged, haunted look, and the sunburned
skin was tight across the fine bones of his face--her same handsome Ashley, yet so very different.

Scarlett  had  made  her plans to spend Christmas at Tara, but after Ashley's telegram came no power on earth, not even a direct command from the
disappointed  Ellen,  could drag her away from Atlanta. Had Ashley intended going to Twelve Oaks, she would have hastened to Tara to be near him;
but  he  had  written his family to join him in Atlanta, and Mr. Wilkes and Honey and India were already in town. Go home to Tara and miss seeing
him,  after  two long years? Miss the heart-quickening sound of his voice, miss reading in his eyes that he had not forgotten her? Never! Not for
all the mothers in the world.

Ashley  came  home  four days before Christmas, with a group of the County boys also on furlough, a sadly diminished group since Gettysburg. Cade
Calvert  was  among  them, a thin, gaunt Cade, who coughed continually, two of the Munroe boys, bubbling with the excitement of their first leave
since  1861,  and Alex and Tony Fontaine, splendidly drunk, boisterous and quarrelsome. The group had two hours to wait between trains and, as it
was  taxing  the  diplomacy  of the sober members of the party to keep the Fontaines from fighting each other and perfect strangers in the depot,
Ashley brought them all home to Aunt Pittypat's.

"You'd  think  they'd  had enough fighting in Virginia," said Cade bitterly, as he watched the two bristle like game-cocks over who should be the
first  to kiss the fluttering and flattered Aunt Pitty. "But no. They've been drunk and picking fights ever since we got to Richmond. The provost
guard took them up there and if it hadn't been for Ashley's slick tongue, they'd have spent Christmas in jail."

But  Scarlett  hardly  heard a word he said, so enraptured was she at being in the same room with Ashley again. How could she have thought during
these  two  years that other men were nice or handsome or exciting? How could she have even endured hearing them make love to her when Ashley was
in  the  world?  He was home again, separated from her only by the width of the parlor rug, and it took all her strength not to dissolve in happy
tears  every  time she looked at him sitting there on the sofa with Melly on one side and India on the other and Honey hanging over his shoulder.
If  only  she  had the right to sit there beside him, her arm through his! If only she could pat his sleeve every few minutes to make sure he was
really  there,  hold  his  hand  and use his handkerchief to wipe away her tears of joy. For Melanie was doing all these things, unashamedly. Too
happy to be shy and reserved, she hung on her husband's arm and adored him openly with her eyes, with her smiles, her tears. And Scarlett was too
happy to resent this, too glad to be jealous. Ashley was home at last!

Now  and then she put her hand up to her cheek where he had kissed her and felt again the thrill of his lips and smiled at him. He had not kissed
her  first,  of  course.  Melly had hurled herself into his arms crying incoherently, holding him as though she would never let him go. And then,
India and Honey had hugged him, fairly tearing him from Melanie's arms. Then he had kissed his father, with a dignified affectionate embrace that
showed  the  strong  quiet  feeling  that  lay  between them. And then Aunt Pitty, who was jumping up and down on her inadequate little feet with
excitement.  Finally  he  turned  to  her, surrounded by all the boys who were claiming their kisses, and said: "Oh, Scarlett! You pretty, pretty
thing!" and kissed her on the cheek.

With  that kiss, everything she had intended to say in welcome took wings. Not until hours later did she recall that he had not kissed her on the
lips.  Then  she  wondered  feverishly if he would have done it had she met him alone, bending his tall body over hers, pulling her up on tiptoe,
holding her for a long, long time. And because it made her happy to think so, she believed that he would. But there would be time for all things,
a whole week! Surely she could maneuver to get him alone and say: "Do you remember those rides we used to take down our secret bridle paths?" "Do
you  remember how the moon looked that night when we sat on the steps at Tara and you quoted that poem?" (Good Heavens! What was the name of that
poem, anyway?) "Do you remember that afternoon when I sprained my ankle and you carried me home in your arms in the twilight?"

Oh, there were so many things she would preface with "Do you remember?" So many dear memories that would bring back to him those lovely days when
they roamed the County like care-free children, so many things that would call to mind the days before Melanie Hamilton entered on the scene. And
while  they  talked  she  could perhaps read in his eyes some quickening of emotion, some hint that behind the barrier of husbandly affection for
Melanie  he still cared, cared as passionately as on that day of the barbecue when he burst forth with the truth. It did not occur to her to plan
just  what they would do if Ashley should declare his love for her in unmistakable words. It would be enough to know that he did care. . . . Yes,
she  could  wait,  could  let  Melanie  have her happy hour of squeezing his arm and crying. Her time would come. After all, what did a girl like
Melanie know of love?

"Darling, you look like a ragamuffin," said Melanie when the first excitement of homecoming was over. "Who did mend your uniform and why did they
use blue patches?"

"I  thought  I  looked  perfectly  dashing,"  said Ashley, considering his appearance. "Just compare me with those rag-tags over there and you'll
appreciate  me more. Mose mended the uniform and I thought he did very well, considering that he'd never had a needle in his hand before the war.
About the blue cloth, when it comes to a choice between having holes in your britches or patching them with pieces of a captured Yankee uniform--
well,  there  just  isn't any choice. And as for looking like a ragamuffin, you should thank your stars your husband didn't come home barefooted.
Last  week  my  old  boots wore completely out, and I would have come home with sacks tied on my feet if we hadn't had the good luck to shoot two
Yankee scouts. The boots of one of them fitted me perfectly."

He stretched out his long legs in their scarred high boots for them to admire.

"And  the boots of the other scout didn't fit me," said Cade. "They're two sizes too small and they're killing me this minute. But I'm going home
in style just the same."

"And  the  selfish  swine  won't  give  them to either of us," said Tony. "And they'd fit our small, aristocratic Fontaine feet perfectly. Hell's
afire, I'm ashamed to face Mother in these brogans. Before the war she wouldn't have let one of our darkies wear them."

"Don't worry," said Alex, eyeing Cade's boots. "We'll take them off of him on the train going home. I don't mind facing Mother but I'm da--I mean
I don't intend for Dimity Munroe to see my toes sticking out."

"Why, they're my boots. I claimed them first," said Tony, beginning to scowl at his brother; and Melanie, fluttering with fear at the possibility
of one of the famous Fontaine quarrels, interposed and made peace.

"I  had  a  full beard to show you girls," said Ashley, ruefully rubbing his face where half-healed razor nicks still showed. "It was a beautiful
beard  and  if  I  do  say  it  myself, neither Jeb Stuart nor Nathan Bedford Forrest had a handsomer one. But when we got to Richmond, those two
scoundrels," indicating the Fontaines, "decided that as they were shaving their beards, mine should come off too. They got me down and shaved me,
and it's a wonder my head didn't come off along with the beard. It was only by the intervention of Evan and Cade that my mustache was saved."

"Snakes,  Mrs.  Wilkes!  You  ought to thank me. You'd never have recognized him and wouldn't have let him in the door," said Alex. "We did it to
show our appreciation of his talking the provost guard out of putting us in jail. If you say the word, we'll take the mustache off for you, right
now."

"Oh,  no,  thank you!" said Melanie hastily, clutching Ashley in a frightened way, for the two swarthy little men looked capable of any violence.
"I think it's perfectly lovely."

"That's love," said the Fontaines, nodding gravely at each other.

When Ashley went into the cold to see the boys off to the depot in Aunt Pitty's carriage, Melanie caught Scarlett's arm.

"Isn't his uniform dreadful? Won't my coat be a surprise? Oh, if only I had enough cloth for britches too!"

That coat for Ashley was a sore subject with Scarlett, for she wished so ardently that she and not Melanie were bestowing it as a Christmas gift.
Gray  wool for uniforms was now almost literally more priceless than rubies, and Ashley was wearing the familiar homespun. Even butternut was now
none  too plentiful, and many of the soldiers were dressed in captured Yankee uniforms which had been turned a dark-brown color with walnut-shell
dye.  But Melanie, by rare luck, had come into possession of enough gray broadcloth to make a coat--a rather short coat but a coat just the same.
She  had  nursed a Charleston boy in the hospital and when he died had clipped a lock of his hair and sent it to his mother, along with the scant
contents  of  his  pockets and a comforting account of his last hours which made no mention of the torment in which he died. A correspondence had
sprung  up between them and, learning that Melanie had a husband at the front, the mother had sent her the length of gray cloth and brass buttons
which  she  had  bought  for her dead son. It was a beautiful piece of material, thick and warm and with a dull sheen to it, undoubtedly blockade
goods  and  undoubtedly very expensive. It was now in the hands of the tailor and Melanie was hurrying him to have it ready by Christmas morning.
Scarlett  would  have  given  anything  to  be  able to provide the rest of the uniform, but the necessary materials were simply not to be had in
Atlanta.

She  had a Christmas present for Ashley, but it paled in insignificance beside the glory of Melanie's gray coat. It was a small "housewife," made
of  flannel, containing the whole precious pack of needles Rhett had brought her from Nassau, three of her linen handkerchiefs, obtained from the
same source, two spools of thread and a small pair of scissors. But she wanted to give him something more personal, something a wife could give a
husband,  a  shirt,  a  pair  of  gauntlets,  a  hat.  Oh,  yes, a hat by all means. That little flat-topped forage cap Ashley was wearing looked
ridiculous. Scarlett had always hated them. What if Stonewall Jackson had worn one in preference to a slouch felt? That didn't make them any more
dignified looking. But the only hats obtainable in Atlanta were crudely made wool hats, and they were tackier than the monkey-hat forage caps.

When  she  thought of hats, she thought of Rhett Butler. He had so many hats, wide Panamas for summer, tall beavers for formal occasions, hunting
hats,  slouch  hats  of tan and black and blue. What need had he for so many when her darling Ashley rode in the rain with moisture dripping down
his collar from the back of his cap?

"I'll  make Rhett give me that new black felt of his," she decided. "And I'll put a gray ribbon around the brim and sew Ashley's wreath on it and
it will look lovely."

She  paused  and thought it might be difficult to get the hat without some explanation. She simply could not tell Rhett she wanted it for Ashley.
He  would  raise  his  brows in that nasty way he always had when she even mentioned Ashley's name and, like as not, would refuse to give her the
hat. Well, she'd make up some pitiful story about a soldier in the hospital who needed it and Rhett need never know the truth.

All  that  afternoon, she maneuvered to be alone with Ashley, even for a few minutes, but Melanie was beside him constantly, and India and Honey,
their  pale  lashless  eyes  glowing,  followed  him  about  the  house. Even John Wilkes, visibly proud of his son, had no opportunity for quiet
conversation with him.

It  was  the same at supper where they all plied him with questions about the war. The war! Who cared about the war? Scarlett didn't think Ashley
cared very much for that subject either. He talked at length, laughed frequently and dominated the conversation more completely than she had ever
seen  him  do before, but he seemed to say very little. He told them jokes and funny stories about friends, talked gaily about makeshifts, making
light  of  hunger and long marches in the rain, and described in detail how General Lee had looked when he rode by on the retreat from Gettysburg
and questioned: "Gentlemen, are you Georgia troops? Well, we can't get along without you Georgians!"

It  seemed  to  Scarlett that he was talking fervishly to keep them from asking questions he did not want to answer. When she saw his eyes falter
and drop before the long, troubled gaze of his father, a faint worry and bewilderment rose in her as to what was hidden in Ashley's heart. But it
soon passed, for there was no room in her mind for anything except a radiant happiness and a driving desire to be alone with him.

That  radiance  lasted  until everyone in the circle about the open fire began to yawn, and Mr. Wilkes and the girls took their departure for the
hotel.  Then  as  Ashley and Melanie and Pittypat and Scarlett mounted the stairs, lighted by Uncle Peter, a chill fell on her spirit. Until that
moment  when  they  stood  in  the  upstairs  hall,  Ashley  had been hers, only hers, even if she had not had a private word with him that whole
afternoon.  But  now,  as  she  said  good night, she saw that Melanie's cheeks were suddenly crimson and she was trembling. Her eyes were on the
carpet and, though she seemed overcome with some frightening emotion, she seemed shyly happy. Melanie did not even look up when Ashley opened the
bedroom door, but sped inside. Ashley said good night abruptly, and he did not meet Scarlett's eyes either.

The  door  closed  behind  them, leaving Scarlett open mouthed and suddenly desolate. Ashley was no longer hers. He was Melanie's. And as long as
Melanie lived, she could go into rooms with Ashley and close the door--and close out the rest of the world.

Now  Ashley  was going away, back to Virginia, back to the long marches in the sleet, to hungry bivouacs in the snow, to pain and hardship and to
the risk of all the bright beauty of his golden head and proud slender body being blotted out in an instant, like an ant beneath a careless heel.
The past week with its shimmering, dreamlike beauty, its crowded hours of happiness, was gone.

The  week  had  passed  swiftly, like a dream, a dream fragrant with the smell of pine boughs and Christmas trees, bright with little candles and
home-made  tinsel,  a  dream  where  minutes  flew as rapidly as heartbeats. Such a breathless week when something within her drove Scarlett with
mingled  pain  and  pleasure  to  pack  and cram every minute with incidents to remember after he was gone, happenings which she could examine at
leisure  in  the  long months ahead, extracting every morsel of comfort from them--dance, sing, laugh, fetch and carry for Ashley, anticipate his
wants,  smile  when he smiles, be silent when he talks, follow him with your eyes so that each line of his erect body, each lift of his eyebrows,
each quirk of his mouth, will be indelibly printed on your mind--for a week goes by so fast and the war goes on forever.

She  sat  on the divan in the parlor, holding her going-away gift for him in her lap, waiting while he said good-by to Melanie, praying that when
he  did come down the stairs he would be alone and she might be granted by Heaven a few moments alone with him. Her ears strained for sounds from
upstairs,  but the house was oddly still, so still that even the sound of her breathing seemed loud. Aunt Pittypat was crying into her pillows in
her  room,  for  Ashley  had  told her good-by half an hour before. No sounds of murmuring voices or of tears came from behind the closed door of
Melanie's  bedroom.  It  seemed to Scarlett that he had been in that room for hours, and she resented bitterly each moment that he stayed, saying
good-by to his wife, for the moments were slipping by so fast and his time was so short.

She  thought  of  all the things she had intended to say to him during this week. But there had been no opportunity to say them, and she knew now
that perhaps she would never have the chance to say them.

Such  foolish  little  things, some of them: "Ashley, you will be careful, won't you?" "Please don't get your feet wet. You take cold so easily."
"Don't  forget to put a newspaper across your chest under your shirt. It keeps out the wind so well." But there were other things, more important
things  she  had  wanted to say, much more important things she had wanted to hear him say, things she had wanted to read in his eyes, even if he
did not speak them.

So  many  things  to say and now there was no time! Even the few minutes that remained might be snatched away from her if Melanie followed him to
the  door,  to  the  carriage  block.  Why  hadn't  she made the opportunity during this last week? But always, Melanie was at his side, her eyes
caressing him adoringly, always friends and neighbors and relatives were in the house and, from morning till night, Ashley was never alone. Then,
at  night,  the  door  of  the bedroom closed and he was alone with Melanie. Never once during these last days had he betrayed to Scarlett by one
look,  one  word, anything but the affection a brother might show a sister or a friend, a lifelong friend. She could not let him go away, perhaps
forever, without knowing whether he still loved her. Then, even if he died, she could nurse the warm comfort of his secret love to the end of her
days.

After  what  seemed an eternity of waiting, she heard the sound of his boots in the bedroom above and the door opening and closing. She heard him
coming  down the steps. Alone! Thank God for that! Melanie must be too overcome by the grief of parting to leave her room. Now she would have him
for herself for a few precious minutes.

He  came  down  the steps slowly, his spurs clinking, and she could hear the slap-slap of his saber against his high boots. When he came into the
parlor, his eyes were somber. He was trying to smile but his face was as white and drawn as a man bleeding from an internal wound. She rose as he
entered, thinking with proprietary pride that he was the handsomest soldier she had ever seen. His long holster and belt glistened and his silver
spurs  and  scabbard  gleamed,  from the industrious polishing Uncle Peter had given them. His new coat did not fit very well, for the tailor had
been  hurried  and  some  of the seams were awry. The bright new sheen of the gray coat was sadly at variance with the worn and patched butternut
trousers and the scarred boots, but if he had been clothed in silver armor he could not have looked more the shining knight to her.

"Ashley," she begged abruptly, "may I go to the train with you?"

"Please  don't.  Father  and  the girls will be there. And anyway, I'd rather remember you saying good-by to me here than shivering at the depot.
There's so much to memories."

Instantly  she  abandoned  her plan. If India and Honey who disliked her so much were to be present at the leave taking, she would have no chance
for a private word.

"Then I won't go," she said. "See, Ashley! I've another present for you."

A  little  shy,  now  that the time had come to give it to him, she unrolled the package. It was a long yellow sash, made of thick China silk and
edged  with  heavy  fringe. Rhett Butler had brought her a yellow shawl from Havana several months before, a shawl gaudily embroidered with birds
and  flowers  in  magenta  and  blue.  During  this  last week, she had patiently picked out all the embroidery and cut up the square of silk and
stitched it into a sash length.

"Scarlett,  it's  beautiful!  Did  you make it yourself? Then I'll value it all the more. Put it on me, my dear. The boys will be green with envy
when they see me in the glory of my new coat and sash."

She wrapped the bright lengths about his slender waist, above his belt, and tied the ends in a lover's knot. Melanie might have given him his new
coat  but  this  sash  was her gift, her own secret guerdon for him to wear into battle, something that would make him remember her every time he
looked at it. She stood back and viewed him with pride, thinking that even Jeb Stuart with his flaunting sash and plume could not look so dashing
as her cavalier.

"It's  beautiful,"  he  repeated,  fingering  the  fringe.  "But  I know you've cut up a dress or a shawl to make it. You shouldn't have done it,
Scarlett. Pretty things are too hard to get these days."

"Oh, Ashley, I'd--"

She had started to say: "I'd cut up my heart for you to wear if you wanted it," but she finished, "I'd do anything for you!"

"Would  you?" he questioned and some of the somberness lifted from his face. "Then, there's something you can do for me, Scarlett, something that
will make my mind easier when I'm away."

"What is it?" she asked joyfully, ready to promise prodigies.

"Scarlett, will you look after Melanie for me?"

"Look after Melly?"

Her  heart  sank  with  bitter disappointment. So this was something beautiful, something spectacular! And then anger flared. This moment was her
moment  with  Ashley,  hers  alone. And yet, though Melanie was absent, her pale shadow lay between them. How could he bring up her name in their
moment of farewell? How could he ask such a thing of her?

He  did not notice the disappointment on her face. As of old, his eyes were looking through her and beyond her, at something else, not seeing her
at all.

"Yes,  keep  an eye on her, take care of her. She's so frail and she doesn't realize it. She'll wear herself out nursing and sewing. And she's so
gentle  and  timid.  Except  for  Aunt  Pittypat and Uncle Henry and you, she hasn't a close relative in the world, except the Burrs in Macon and
they're  third cousins. And Aunt Pitty--Scarlett, you know she's like a child. And Uncle Henry is an old man. Melanie loves you so much, not just
because  you were Charlie's wife, but because--well, because you're you and she loves you like a sister. Scarlett, I have nightmares when I think
what might happen to her if I were killed and she had no one to turn to. Will you promise?"

She did not even hear his last request, so terrified was she by those ill-omened words, "if I were killed."

Every  day she had read the casualty lists, read them with her heart in her throat, knowing that the world would end if anything should happen to
him.  But  always, always, she had an inner feeling that even if the Confederate Army were entirely wiped out, Ashley would be spared. And now he
had  spoken  the  frightful words! Goose bumps came out all over her and fear swamped her, a superstitious fear she could not combat with reason.
She  was Irish enough to believe in second sight, especially where death premonitions were concerned, and in his wide gray eyes she saw some deep
sadness which she could only interpret as that of a man who has felt the cold finger on his shoulder, has heard the wail of the Banshee.

"You mustn't say it! You mustn't even think it. It's bad luck to speak of death! Oh, say a prayer, quickly!"

"You say it for me and light some candles, too," he said, smiling at the frightened urgency in her voice.

But  she could not answer, so stricken was she by the pictures her mind was drawing, Ashley lying dead in the snows of Virginia, so far away from
her. He went on speaking and there was a quality in his voice, a sadness, a resignation, that increased her fear until every vestige of anger and
disappointment was blotted out.

"I'm asking you for this reason, Scarlett. I cannot tell what will happen to me or what will happen to any of us. But when the end comes, I shall
be far away from here, even if I am alive, too far away to look out for Melanie."

"The--the end?"

"The end of the war--and the end of the world."

"But Ashley, surely you can't think the Yankees will beat us? All this week you've talked about how strong General Lee--"

"All this week I've talked lies, like all men talk when they're on furlough. Why should I frighten Melanie and Aunt Pitty before there's any need
for  them  to be frightened? Yes, Scarlett, I think the Yankees have us. Gettysburg was the beginning of the end. The people back home don't know
it  yet. They can't realize how things stand with us, but--Scarlett, some of my men are barefooted now and the snow is deep in Virginia. And when
I  see  their  poor frozen feet, wrapped in rags and old sacks, and I see the blood prints they leave in the snow, and know that I've got a whole
pair of boots--well, I feel like I should give mine away and be barefooted too."

"Oh, Ashley, promise me you won't give them away!"

"When  I  see things like that and then look at the Yankees--then I see the end of everything. Why Scarlett, the Yankees are buying soldiers from
Europe  by  the  thousands!  Most of the prisoners we've taken recently can't even speak English. They're Germans and Poles and wild Irishmen who
talk  Gaelic.  But when we lose a man, he can't be replaced. When our shoes wear out, there are no more shoes. We're bottled up, Scarlett. And we
can't fight the whole world."

She thought wildly: Let the whole Confederacy crumble in the dust. Let the world end, but you must not die! I couldn't live if you were dead!

"I  hope  you will not repeat what I have said, Scarlett. I do not want to alarm the others. And, my dear, I would not have alarmed you by saying
these  things,  were it not that I had to explain why I ask you to look after Melanie. She's so frail and weak and you're so strong, Scarlett. It
will be a comfort to me to know that you are together if anything happens to me. You will promise, won't you?"

"Oh,  yes!" she cried, for at that moment, seeing death at his elbow, she would have promised anything. "Ashley, Ashley! I can't let you go away!
I simply can't be brave about it!"

"You must be brave," he said, and his voice changed subtly. It was resonant, deeper, and his words fell swiftly as though hurried with some inner
urgency. "You must be brave. For how else can I stand it?"

Her  eyes  sought his face quickly and with joy, wondering if he meant that leaving her was breaking his heart, even as it was breaking hers. His
face was as drawn as when he came down from bidding Melanie good-by, but she could read nothing in his eyes. He leaned down, took her face in his
hands, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"Scarlett!  Scarlett!  You  are  so fine and strong and good. So beautiful, not just your sweet face, my dear, but all of you, your body and your
mind and your soul."

"Oh, Ashley," she whispered happily, thrilling at his words and his touch on her face. "Nobody else but you ever--"

"I  like  to  think  that  perhaps  I know you better than most people and that I can see beautiful things buried deep in you that others are too
careless and too hurried to notice."

He  stopped  speaking  and  his  hands  dropped  from  her face, but his eyes still clung to her eyes. She waited a moment, breathless for him to
continue,  a-tiptoe  to hear him say the magic three words. But they did not come. She searched his face frantically, her lips quivering, for she
saw he had finished speaking.

This  second  blighting  of  her  hopes was more than heart could bear and she cried "Oh!" in a childish whisper and sat down, tears stinging her
eyes.  Then  she  heard an ominous sound in the driveway, outside the window, a sound that brought home to her even more sharply the imminence of
Ashley's  departure.  A pagan hearing the lapping of the waters around Charon's boat could not have felt more desolate. Uncle Peter, muffled in a
quilt, was bringing out the carriage to take Ashley to the train.

Ashley  said "Good-by," very softly, caught up from the table the wide felt hat she had inveigled from Rhett and walked into the dark front hall.
His  hand  on  the doorknob, he turned and looked at her, a long, desperate look, as if he wanted to carry away with him every detail of her face
and figure. Through a blinding mist of tears she saw his face and with a strangling pain in her throat she knew that he was going away, away from
her  care,  away from the safe haven of this house, and out of her life, perhaps forever, without having spoken the words she so yearned to hear.
Time  was  going by like a mill race, and now it was too late. She ran stumbling across the parlor and into the hall and clutched the ends of his
sash.

"Kiss me," she whispered. "Kiss me good-by."

His  arms  went  around  her  gently, and he bent his head to her face. At the first touch of his lips on hers, her arms were about his neck in a
strangling  grip.  For  a  fleeting  immeasurable  instant,  he pressed her body close to his. Then she felt a sudden tensing of all his muscles.
Swiftly, he dropped the hat to the floor and, reaching up, detached her arms from his neck.

"No, Scarlett, no," he said in a low voice, holding her crossed wrists in a grip that hurt.

"I love you," she said choking. "I've always loved you. I've never loved anybody else. I just married Charlie to--to try to hurt you. Oh, Ashley,
I  love  you  so  much  I'd walk every step of the way to Virginia just to be near you! And I'd cook for you and polish your boots and groom your
horse--Ashley, say you love me! I'll live on it for the rest of my life!"

He  bent  suddenly to retrieve his hat and she had one glimpse of his face. It was the unhappiest face she was ever to see, a face from which all
aloofness had fled. Written on it were his love for and joy that she loved him, but battling them both were shame and despair.

"Good-by," he said hoarsely.

The door clicked open and a gust of cold wind swept the house, fluttering the curtains. Scarlett shivered as she watched him run down the walk to
the carriage, his saber glinting in the feeble winter sunlight, the fringe of his sash dancing jauntily.



CHAPTER XVI


January  and February of 1864 passed, full of cold rains and wild winds, clouded by pervasive gloom and depression. In addition to the defeats at
Gettysburg  and  Vicksburg,  the  center  of  the Southern line had caved. After hard fighting, nearly all of Tennessee was now held by the Union
troops.  But  even  with  this  loss on the top of the others, the South's spirit was not broken. True, grim determination had taken the place of
high-hearted  hopes,  but people could still find a silver lining in the cloud. For one thing, the Yankees had been stoutly repulsed in September
when they had tried to follow up their victories in Tennessee by an advance into Georgia.

Here  in the northwesternmost corner of the state, at Chickamauga, serious fighting had occurred on Georgia soil for the first time since the war
began.  The Yankees had taken Chattanooga and then had marched through the mountain passes into Georgia, but they had been driven back with heavy
losses.

Atlanta  and  its  railroads  had  played  a  big part in making Chickamauga a great victory for the South. Over the railroads that led down from
Virginia  to  Atlanta  and  then  northward to Tennessee, General Longstreet's corps had been rushed to the scene of the battle. Along the entire
route  of  several  hundred  miles,  the  tracks had been cleared and all the available rolling stock in the Southeast had been assembled for the
movement.

Atlanta  had  watched  while  train  after  train  rolled  through the town, hour after hour, passenger coaches, box cars, flat cars, filled with
shouting  men. They had come without food or sleep, without their horses, ambulances or supply trains and, without waiting for the rest, they had
leaped from the trains and into the battle. And the Yankees had been driven out of Georgia, back into Tennessee.

It  was  the  greatest  feat  of the war, and Atlanta took pride and personal satisfaction in the thought that its railroads had made the victory
possible.

But  the South had needed the cheering news from Chickamauga to strengthen its morale through the winter. No one denied now that the Yankees were
good  fighters  and, at last, they had good generals. Grant was a butcher who did not care how many men he slaughtered for a victory, but victory
he  would  have. Sheridan was a name to bring dread to Southern hearts. And, then, there was a man named Sherman who was being mentioned more and
more  often.  He  had risen to prominence in the campaigns in Tennessee and the West, and his reputation as a determined and ruthless fighter was
growing.

None  of  them,  of  course,  compared with General Lee. Faith in the General and the army was still strong. Confidence in ultimate victory never
wavered.  But  the war was dragging out so long. There were so many dead, so many wounded and maimed for life, so many widowed, so many orphaned.


And there was still a long struggle ahead, which meant more dead, more wounded, more widows and orphans.

To  make  matters worse, a vague distrust of those in high places had begun to creep over the civilian population. Many newspapers were outspoken
in  their  denunciation  of  President Davis himself and the manner in which he prosecuted the war. There were dissensions within the Confederate
cabinet,  disagreements  between President Davis and his generals. The currency was falling rapidly. Shoes and clothing for the army were scarce,
ordnance supplies and drugs were scarcer. The railroads needed new cars to take the place of old ones and new iron rails to replace those torn up
by  the Yankees. The generals in the field were crying out for fresh troops, and there were fewer and fewer fresh troops to be had. Worst of all,
some  of  the  state  governors,  Governor Brown of Georgia among them, were refusing to send state militia troops and arms out of their borders.
There were thousands of able-bodied men in the state troops for whom the army was frantic, but the government pleaded for them in vain.

With  the  new  fall  of  currency, prices soared again. Beef, pork and butter cost thirty-five dollars a pound, flour fourteen hundred dollars a
barrel,  soda  one  hundred  dollars  a  pound, tea five hundred dollars a pound. Warm clothing, when it was obtainable at all, had risen to such
prohibitive  prices  that Atlanta ladies were lining their old dresses with rags and reinforcing them with newspapers to keep out the wind. Shoes
cost  from  two  hundred  to  eight  hundred  dollars a pair, depending on whether they were made of "cardboard" or real leather. Ladies now wore
gaiters made of their old wool shawls and cut-up carpets. The soles were made of wood.

The truth was that the North was holding the South in a virtual state of siege, though many did not realize it. The Yankee gunboats had tightened
the mesh at the ports and very few ships were now able to slip past the blockade.

The  South  had always lived by selling cotton and buying the things it did not produce, but now it could neither sell nor buy. Gerald O'Hara had
three  years'  crops  of  cotton  stored  under  the shed near the gin house at Tara, but little good it did him. In Liverpool it would bring one
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  but there was no hope of getting it to Liverpool. Gerald had changed from a wealthy man to a man who was
wondering how he would feed his family and his negroes through the winter.

Throughout  the  South,  most of the cotton planters were in the same fix. With the blockade closing tighter and tighter, there was no way to get
the  South's  money  crop  to  its market in England, no way to bring in the necessaries which cotton money had brought in years gone by. And the
agricultural  South,  waging  war  with  the  industrial North, was needing so many things now, things it had never thought of buying in times of
peace.

It  was  a  situation  made  to order for speculators and profiteers, and men were not lacking to take advantage of it. As food and clothing grew
scarcer  and prices rose higher and higher, the public outcry against the speculators grew louder and more venomous. In those early days of 1864,
no  newspaper  could be opened that did not carry scathing editorials denouncing the speculators as vultures and bloodsucking leeches and calling
upon  the  government  to  put  them  down with a hard hand. The government did its best, but the efforts came to nothing, for the government was
harried by many things.

Against no one was feeling more bitter than against Rhett Butler. He had sold his boats when blockading grew too hazardous, and he was now openly
engaged  in  food  speculation.  The  stories about him that came back to Atlanta from Richmond and Wilmington made those who had received him in
other days writhe with shame.

In  spite  of  all  these  trials  and  tribulations,  Atlanta's ten thousand population had grown to double that number during the war. Even the
blockade  had  added  to  Atlanta's prestige. From time immemorial, the coast cities had dominated the South, commercially and otherwise. But now
with the ports closed and many of the port cities captured or besieged, the South's salvation depended upon itself. The interior section was what
counted,  if  the  South  was  going  to  win  the war, and Atlanta was now the center of things. The people of the town were suffering hardship,
privation,  sickness  and death as severely as the rest of the Confederacy; but Atlanta, the city, had gained rather than lost as a result of the
war.  Atlanta,  the  heart  of the Confederacy, was still beating full and strong, the railroads that were its arteries throbbing with the never-
ending flow of men, munitions and supplies.



In  other  days,  Scarlett  would  have  been  bitter about her shabby dresses and patched shoes but now she did not care, for the one person who
mattered  was  not  there  to see her. She was happy those two months, happier than she had been in years. Had she not felt the start of Ashley's
heart  when  her  arms went round his neck? seen that despairing look on his face which was more open an avowal than any words could be? He loved
her. She was sure of that now, and this conviction was so pleasant she could even be kinder to Melanie. She could be sorry for Melanie now, sorry
with a faint contempt for her blindness, her stupidity.

"When the war is over!" she thought. "When it's over--then . . ."

Sometimes  she  thought with a small dart of fear: "What then?" But she put the thought from her mind. When the war was over, everything would be
settled, somehow. If Ashley loved her, he simply couldn't go on living with Melanie.

But  then,  a divorce was unthinkable; and Ellen and Gerald, staunch Catholics that they were, would never permit her to marry a divorced man. It
would  mean  leaving  the  Church! Scarlett thought it over and decided that, in a choice between the Church and Ashley, she would choose Ashley.
But, oh, it would make such a scandal! Divorced people were under the ban not only of the Church but of society. No divorced person was received.
However, she would dare even that for Ashley. She would sacrifice anything for Ashley.

Somehow  it  would  come  out  all right when the war was over. If Ashley loved her so much, he'd find a way. She'd make him find a way. And with
every  day  that  passed,  she  became  more  sure in her own mind of his devotion, more certain he would arrange matters satisfactorily when the
Yankees  were  finally  beaten.  Of course, he had said the Yankees "had" them. Scarlett thought that was just foolishness. He had been tired and
upset  when  he  said  it. But she hardly cared whether the Yankees won or not. The thing that mattered was for the war to finish quickly and for
Ashley to come home.

Then,  when  the  sleets  of March were keeping everyone indoors, the hideous blow fell. Melanie, her eyes shining with joy, her head ducked with
embarrassed pride, told her she was going to have a baby.

"Dr.  Meade  says  it  will  be  here in late August or September," she said. "I've thought--but I wasn't sure till today. Oh, Scarlett, isn't it
wonderful?  I've  so  envied you Wade and so wanted a baby. And I was so afraid that maybe I wasn't ever going to have one and, darling, I want a
dozen!"

Scarlett had been combing her hair, preparing for bed, when Melanie spoke and she stopped, the comb in mid-air.

"Dear God!" she said and, for a moment, realization did not come. Then there suddenly leaped to her mind the closed door of Melanie's bedroom and
a  knifelike  pain  went through her, a pain as fierce as though Ashley had been her own husband and had been unfaithful to her. A baby. Ashley's
baby. Oh, how could he, when he loved her and not Melanie?

"I  know  you're  surprised,"  Melanie  rattled  on, breathlessly. "And isn't it too wonderful? Oh, Scarlett, I don't know how I shall ever write
Ashley! It wouldn't be so embarrassing if I could tell him or--or--well, not say anything and just let him notice gradually, you know--"

"Dear God!" said Scarlett, almost sobbing, as she dropped the comb and caught at the marble top of the dresser for support.

"Darling,  don't  look like that! You know having a baby isn't so bad. You said so yourself. And you mustn't worry about me, though you are sweet
to  be  so  upset.  Of  course,  Dr.  Meade  said I was--was," Melanie blushed, "quite narrow but that perhaps I shouldn't have any trouble and--
Scarlett, did you write Charlie and tell him when you found out about Wade, or did your mother do it or maybe Mr. O'Hara? Oh, dear, if I only had
a mother to do it! I just don't see how--"

"Hush!" said Scarlett, violently. "Hush!"

"Oh, Scarlett, I'm so stupid! I'm sorry. I guess all happy people are selfish. I forgot about Charlie, just for the moment--"

"Hush!" said Scarlett again, fighting to control her face and make her emotions quiet. Never, never must Melanie see or suspect how she felt.

Melanie,  the  most tactful of women, had tears in her eyes at her own cruelty. How could she have brought back to Scarlett the terrible memories
of Wade being born months after poor Charlie was dead? How could she have been so thoughtless?

"Let me help you undress, dearest," she said humbly. "And I'll rub your head for you."

"You  leave me alone," said Scarlett, her face like stone. And Melanie, bursting into tears of self-condemnation, fled the room, leaving Scarlett
to a tearless bed, with wounded pride, disillusionment and jealousy for bedfellows.

She  thought  that she could not live any longer in the same house with the woman who was carrying Ashley's child, thought that she would go home
to  Tara,  home,  where  she belonged. She did not see how she could ever look at Melanie again and not have her secret read in her face. And she
arose  the next morning with the fixed intention of packing her trunk immediately after breakfast. But, as they sat at the table, Scarlett silent
and gloomy, Pitty bewildered and Melanie miserable, a telegram came.

It was to Melanie from Ashley's body servant, Mose.

"I have looked everywhere and I can't find him. Must I come home?"

No  one knew what it meant but the eyes of the three women went to one another, wide with terror, and Scarlett forgot all thoughts of going home.
Without  finishing their breakfasts they drove down to telegraph Ashley's colonel, but even as they entered the office, there was a telegram from
him.

"Regret to inform you Major Wilkes missing since scouting expedition three days ago. Will keep you informed."

It  was  a  ghastly trip home, with Aunt Pitty crying into her handkerchief, Melanie sitting erect and white and Scarlett slumped, stunned in the
corner  of  the  carriage. Once in the house, Scarlett stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom and, clutching her Rosary from the table, dropped to
her  knees and tried to pray. But the prayers would not come. There only fell on her an abysmal fear, a certain knowledge that God had turned His
face  from  her for her sin. She had loved a married man and tried to take him from his wife, and God had punished her by killing him. She wanted
to pray but she could not raise her eyes to Heaven. She wanted to cry but the tears would not come. They seemed to flood her chest, and they were
hot tears that burned under her bosom, but they would not flow.

Her  door  opened  and  Melanie  entered. Her face was like a heart cut from white paper, framed against black hair, and her eyes were wide, like
those of a frightened child lost in the dark.

"Scarlett,"  she  said, putting out her hands. "You must forgive me for what I said yesterday, for you're--all I've got now. Oh, Scarlett, I know
my darling is dead!"

Somehow,  she  was in Scarlett's arms, her small breasts heaving with sobs, and somehow they were lying on the bed, holding each other close, and
Scarlett  was  crying  too,  crying  with  her face pressed close against Melanie's, the tears of one wetting the cheeks of the other. It hurt so
terribly  to  cry,  but  not so much as not being able to cry. Ashley is dead--dead, she thought, and I have killed him by loving him! Fresh sobs
broke from her, and Melanie somehow feeling comfort in her tears tightened her arms about her neck.

"At least," she whispered, "at least--I've got his baby."

"And  I,"  thought  Scarlett, too stricken now for anything so petty as jealousy, "I've got nothing--nothing--nothing except the look on his face
when he told me good-by."



The  first reports were "Missing--believed killed" and so they appeared on the casualty list. Melanie telegraphed Colonel Sloan a dozen times and
finally  a  letter  arrived,  full  of sympathy, explaining that Ashley and a squad had ridden out on a scouting expedition and had not returned.
There  had been reports of a slight skirmish within the Yankee lines and Mose, frantic with grief, had risked his own life to search for Ashley's
body but had found nothing. Melanie, strangely calm now, telegraphed him money and instructions to come home.

When "Missing--believed captured" appeared on the casualty lists, joy and hope reanimated the sad household. Melanie could hardly be dragged away
from the telegraph office and she met every train hoping for letters. She was sick now, her pregnancy making itself felt in many unpleasant ways,
but  she refused to obey Dr. Meade's commands and stay in bed. A feverish energy possessed her and would not let her be still; and at night, long
after Scarlett had gone to bed, she could hear her walking the floor in the next room.

One  afternoon,  she  came  home  from town, driven by the frightened Uncle Peter and supported by Rhett Butler. She had fainted at the telegraph
office  and  Rhett,  passing  by  and  observing the excitement, had escorted her home. He carried her up the stairs to her bedroom and while the
alarmed household fled hither and yon for hot bricks, blankets and whisky, he propped her on the pillows of her bed.

"Mrs. Wilkes," he questioned abruptly, "you are going to have a baby, are you not?"

Had  Melanie  not  been so faint, so sick, so heartsore, she would have collapsed at his question. Even with women friends she was embarrassed by
any  mention  of  her  condition,  while  visits  to  Dr. Meade were agonizing experiences. And for a man, especially Rhett Butler, to ask such a
question  was  unthinkable.  But lying weak and forlorn in the bed, she could only nod. After she had nodded, it did not seem so dreadful, for he
looked so kind and so concerned.

"Then  you  must take better care of yourself. All this running about and worry won't help you and may harm the baby. If you will permit me, Mrs.
Wilkes, I will use what influence I have in Washington to learn about Mr. Wilkes' fate. If he is a prisoner, he will be on the Federal lists, and
if  he  isn't--well,  there's  nothing worse than uncertainty. But I must have your promise. Take care of yourself or, before God, I won't turn a
hand."

"Oh,  you  are so kind," cried Melanie. "How can people say such dreadful things about you?" Then overcome with the knowledge of her tactlessness
and  also  with horror at having discussed her condition with a man, she began to cry weakly. And Scarlett, flying up the stairs with a hot brick
wrapped in flannel, found Rhett patting her hand.

He  was  as  good  as  his word. They never knew what wires he pulled. They feared to ask, knowing it might involve an admission of his too close
affiliations  with  the  Yankees.  It  was  a  month before he had news, news that raised them to the heights when they first heard it, but later
created a gnawing anxiety in their hearts.

Ashley  was  not  dead!  He had been wounded and taken prisoner, and the records showed that he was at Rock Island, a prison camp in Illinois. In
their  first  joy,  they could think of nothing except that he was alive. But, when calmness began to return, they looked at one another and said
"Rock Island!" in the same voice they would have said "In Hell!" For even as Andersonville was a name that stank in the North, so was Rock Island
one to bring terror to the heart of any Southerner who had relatives imprisoned there.

When  Lincoln refused to exchange prisoners, believing it would hasten the end of the war to burden the Confederacy with the feeding and guarding
of  Union  prisoners, there were thousands of bluecoats at Andersonville, Georgia. The Confederates were on scant rations and practically without
drugs  or  bandages for their own sick and wounded. They had little to share with the prisoners. They fed their prisoners on what the soldiers in
the field were eating, fat pork and dried peas, and on this diet the Yankees died like flies, sometimes a hundred a day. Inflamed by the reports,
the  North resorted to harsher treatment of Confederate prisoners and at no place were conditions worse than at Rock Island. Food was scanty, one
blanket  for  three men, and the ravages of smallpox, pneumonia and typhoid gave the place the name of a pest-house. Three-fourths of all the men
sent there never came out alive.

And  Ashley was in that horrible place! Ashley was alive but he was wounded and at Rock Island, and the snow must have been deep in Illinois when
he was taken there. Had he died of his wound, since Rhett had learned his news? Had he fallen victim to smallpox? Was he delirious with pneumonia
and no blanket to cover him?

"Oh, Captain Butler, isn't there some way-- Can't you use your influence and have him exchanged?" cried Melanie.

"Mr.  Lincoln,  the merciful and just, who cries large tears over Mrs. Bixby's five boys, hasn't any tears to shed about the thousands of Yankees
dying  at  Andersonville," said Rhett, his mouth twisting. "He doesn't care if they all die. The order is out. No exchanges. I--I hadn't told you
before, Mrs. Wilkes, but your husband had a chance to get out and refused it."

"Oh, no!" cried Melanie in disbelief.

"Yes,  indeed.  The  Yankees  are recruiting men for frontier service to fight the Indians, recruiting them from among Confederate prisoners. Any
prisoner who will take the oath of allegiance and enlist for Indian service for two years will be released and sent West. Mr. Wilkes refused."

"Oh, how could he?" cried Scarlett. "Why didn't he take the oath and then desert and come home as soon as he got out of jail?"

Melanie turned on her like a small fury.

"How  can  you  even  suggest  that he would do such a thing? Betray his own Confederacy by taking that vile oath and then betray his word to the
Yankees! I would rather know he was dead at Rock Island than hear he had taken that oath. I'd be proud of him if he died in prison. But if he did
THAT, I would never look on his face again. Never! Of course, he refused."

When  Scarlett  was  seeing Rhett to the door, she asked indignantly: "If it were you, wouldn't you enlist with the Yankees to keep from dying in
that place and then desert?"

"Of course," said Rhett, his teeth showing beneath his mustache.

"Then why didn't Ashley do it?"

"He's a gentleman," said Rhett, and Scarlett wondered how it was possible to convey such cynicism and contempt in that one honorable word.




Part Three



CHAPTER XVII


May  of  1864 came--a hot dry May that wilted the flowers in the buds--and the Yankees under General Sherman were in Georgia again, above Dalton,
one hundred miles northwest of Atlanta. Rumor had it that there would be heavy fighting up there near the boundary between Georgia and Tennessee.
The  Yankees  were  massing for an attack on the Western and Atlantic Railroad, the line which connected Atlanta with Tennessee and the West, the
same line over which the Southern troops had been rushed last fall to win the victory at Chickamauga.

But,  for  the  most  part, Atlanta was not disturbed by the prospect of fighting near Dalton. The place where the Yankees were concentrating was
only  a  few miles southeast of the battle field of Chickamauga. They had been driven back once when they had tried to break through the mountain
passes of that region, and they would be driven back again.

Atlanta--and  all  of  Georgia--knew  that  the state was far too important to the Confederacy for General Joe Johnston to let the Yankees remain
inside  the  state's  borders  for  long.  Old  Joe  and his army would not let even one Yankee get south of Dalton, for too much depended on the
undisturbed functioning of Georgia. The unravaged state was a vast granary, machine shop and storehouse for the Confederacy. It manufactured much
of  the  powder and arms used by the army and most of the cotton and woolen goods. Lying between Atlanta and Dalton was the city of Rome with its
cannon  foundry  and  its other industries, and Etowah and Allatoona with the largest ironworks south of Richmond. And, in Atlanta, were not only
the  factories  for  making  pistols  and saddles, tents and ammunition, but also the most extensive rolling mills in the South, the shops of the
principal  railroads  and the enormous hospitals. And in Atlanta was the junction of the four railroads on which the very life of the Confederacy
depended.

So  no one worried particularly. After all, Dalton was a long way off, up near the Tennessee line. There had been fighting in Tennessee for three
years  and  people  were  accustomed  to  the thought of that state as a far-away battle field, almost as far away as Virginia or the Mississippi
River.  Moreover,  Old  Joe  and  his men were between the Yankees and Atlanta, and everyone knew that, next to General Lee himself, there was no
greater general than Johnston, now that Stonewall Jackson was dead.

Dr.  Meade  summed  up  the  civilian  point  of view on the matter, one warm May evening on the veranda of Aunt Pitty's house, when he said that
Atlanta  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  General  Johnston  was standing in the mountains like an iron rampart. His audience heard him with varying
emotions,  for  all who sat there rocking quietly in the fading twilight, watching the first fireflies of the season moving magically through the
dusk, had weighty matters on their minds. Mrs. Meade, her hand upon Phil's arm, was hoping the doctor was right. If the war came closer, she knew
that Phil would have to go. He was sixteen now and in the Home Guard. Fanny Elsing, pale and hollow eyed since Gettysburg, was trying to keep her
mind  from the torturing picture which had worn a groove in her tired mind these past several months--Lieutenant Dallas McLure dying in a jolting
ox cart in the rain on the long, terrible retreat into Maryland.

Captain  Carey  Ashburn's  useless arm was hurting him again and moreover he was depressed by the thought that his courtship of Scarlett was at a
standstill. That had been the situation ever since the news of Ashley Wilkes' capture, though the connection between the two events did not occur
to  him.  Scarlett  and Melanie both were thinking of Ashley, as they always did when urgent tasks or the necessity of carrying on a conversation
did not divert them. Scarlett was thinking bitterly, sorrowfully: He must be dead or else we would have heard. Melanie, stemming the tide of fear
again  and  again, through endless hours, was telling herself: "He can't be dead. I'd know it--I'd feel it if he were dead." Rhett Butler lounged
in  the shadows, his long legs in their elegant boots crossed negligently, his dark face an unreadable blank. In his arms Wade slept contentedly,
a  cleanly  picked  wishbone in his small hand. Scarlett always permitted Wade to sit up late when Rhett called because the shy child was fond of
him,  and  Rhett  oddly enough seemed to be fond of Wade. Generally Scarlett was annoyed by the child's presence, but he always behaved nicely in
Rhett's arms. As for Aunt Pitty, she was nervously trying to stifle a belch, for the rooster they had had for supper was a tough old bird.

That  morning  Aunt  Pitty had reached the regretful decision that she had better kill the patriarch before he died of old age and pining for his
harem  which  had long since been eaten. For days he had drooped about the empty chicken run, too dispirited to crow. After Uncle Peter had wrung
his  neck, Aunt Pitty had been beset by conscience at the thought of enjoying him, en famille, when so many of her friends had not tasted chicken
for weeks, so she suggested company for dinner. Melanie, who was now in her fifth month, had not been out in public or received guests for weeks,
and  she  was  appalled  at the idea. But Aunt Pitty, for once, was firm. It would be selfish to eat the rooster alone, and if Melanie would only
move her top hoop a little higher no one would notice anything and she was so flat in the bust anyway.

"Oh, but Auntie I don't want to see people when Ashley--"

"It isn't as if Ashley were--had passed away," said Aunt Pitty, her voice quavering, for in her heart she was certain Ashley was dead. "He's just
as  much  alive  as  you  are and it will do you good to have company. And I'm going to ask Fanny Elsing, too. Mrs. Elsing begged me to try to do
something to arouse her and make her see people--"

"Oh, but Auntie, it's cruel to force her when poor Dallas has only been dead--"

"Now, Melly, I shall cry with vexation if you argue with me. I guess I'm your auntie and I know what's what. And I want a party."

So  Aunt  Pitty  had her party, and, at the last minute, a guest she did not expect, or desire, arrived. Just when the smell of roast rooster was
filling  the  house,  Rhett  Butler, back from one of his mysterious trips, knocked at the door, with a large box of bonbons packed in paper lace
under  his  arm and a mouthful of two-edged compliments for her. There was nothing to do but invite him to stay, although Aunt Pitty knew how the
doctor  and  Mrs.  Meade  felt  about  him and how bitter Fanny was against any man not in uniform. Neither the Meades nor the Elsings would have
spoken  to  him  on the street, but in a friend's home they would, of course, have to be polite to him. Besides, he was now more firmly than ever
under  the  protection  of the fragile Melanie. After he had intervened for her to get the news about Ashley, she had announced publicly that her
home was open to him as long as he lived and no matter what other people might say about him.

Aunt  Pitty's apprehensions quieted when she saw that Rhett was on his best behavior. He devoted himself to Fanny with such sympathetic deference
she  even  smiled  at  him,  and  the  meal went well. It was a princely feast. Carey Ashburn had brought a little tea, which he had found in the
tobacco  pouch  of  a captured Yankee en route to Andersonville, and everyone had a cup, faintly flavored with tobacco. There was a nibble of the
tough  old bird for each, an adequate amount of dressing made of corn meal and seasoned with onions, a bowl of dried peas, and plenty of rice and
gravy, the latter somewhat watery, for there was no flour with which to thicken it. For dessert, there was a sweet potato pie followed by Rhett's
bonbons, and when Rhett produced real Havana cigars for the gentlemen to enjoy over their glass of blackberry wine, everyone agreed it was indeed
a Lucullan banquet.

When  the  gentlemen  joined the ladies on the front porch, the talk turned to war. Talk always turned to war now, all conversations on any topic
led  from  war  or  back  to  war--sometimes  sad,  often  gay, but always war. War romances, war weddings, deaths in hospitals and on the field,
incidents  of  camp  and  battle  and march, gallantry, cowardice, humor, sadness, deprivation and hope. Always, always hope. Hope firm, unshaken
despite the defeats of the summer before.

When  Captain  Ashburn announced he had applied for and been granted transfer from Atlanta to the army at Dalton, the ladies kissed his stiffened
arm with their eyes and covered their emotions of pride by declaring he couldn't go, for then who would beau them about?

Young  Carey looked confused and pleased at hearing such statements from settled matrons and spinsters like Mrs. Meade and Melanie and Aunt Pitty
and Fanny, and tried to hope that Scarlett really meant it.

"Why,  he'll  be  back  in no time," said the doctor, throwing an arm over Carey's shoulder. "There'll be just one brief skirmish and the Yankees
will  skedaddle  back  into  Tennessee.  And when they get there, General Forrest will take care of them. You ladies need have no alarm about the
proximity  of  the  Yankees,  for  General  Johnston  and  his army stands there in the mountains like an iron rampart. Yes, an iron rampart," he
repeated, relishing his phrase. "Sherman will never pass. He'll never dislodge Old Joe."

The  ladies  smiled  approvingly, for his lightest utterance was regarded as incontrovertible truth. After all, men understood these matters much
better than women, and if he said General Johnston was an iron rampart, he must be one. Only Rhett spoke. He had been silent since supper and had
sat in the twilight listening to the war talk with a down-twisted mouth, holding the sleeping child against his shoulder.

"I believe that rumor has it that Sherman has over one hundred thousand men, now that his reinforcements have come up?"

The  doctor  answered  him shortly. He had been under considerable strain ever since he first arrived and found that one of his fellow diners was
this  man  whom  he  disliked  so heartily. Only the respect due Miss Pittypat and his presence under her roof as a guest had restrained him from
showing his feelings more obviously.

"Well, sir?" the doctor barked in reply.

"I  believe Captain Ashburn said just a while ago that General Johnston had only about forty thousand, counting the deserters who were encouraged
to come back to the colors by the last victory."

"Sir," said Mrs. Meade indignantly. "There are no deserters in the Confederate army."

"I  beg your pardon," said Rhett with mock humility. "I meant those thousands on furlough who forgot to rejoin their regiments and those who have
been over their wounds for six months but who remain at home, going about their usual business or doing the spring plowing."

His eyes gleamed and Mrs. Meade bit her lip in a huff. Scarlett wanted to giggle at her discomfiture, for Rhett had caught her fairly. There were
hundreds  of  men  skulking  in  the  swamps  and  the mountains, defying the provost guard to drag them back to the army. They were the ones who
declared  it  was  a  "rich  man's  war and a poor man's fight" and they had had enough of it. But outnumbering these by far were men who, though
carried  on  company  rolls  as  deserters,  had no intention of deserting permanently. They were the ones who had waited three years in vain for
furloughs  and while they waited received ill-spelled letters from home: "We air hungry" "There won't be no crop this year--there ain't nobody to
plow." "We air hungry." "The commissary took the shoats, and we ain't had no money from you in months. We air livin' on dried peas."

Always  the  rising  chorus  swelled: "We are hungry, your wife, your babies, your parents. When will it be over? When will you come home? We are
hungry,  hungry."  When furloughs from the rapidly thinning army were denied, these soldiers went home without them, to plow their land and plant
their  crops,  repair their houses and build up their fences. When regimental officers, understanding the situation, saw a hard fight ahead, they
wrote  these  men,  telling them to rejoin their companies and no questions would be asked. Usually the men returned when they saw that hunger at
home would be held at bay for a few months longer. "Plow furloughs" were not looked upon in the same light as desertion in the face of the enemy,
but they weakened the army just the same.

Dr. Meade hastily bridged over the uncomfortable pause, his voice cold: "Captain Butler, the numerical difference between our troops and those of
the Yankees has never mattered. One Confederate is worth a dozen Yankees."

The ladies nodded. Everyone knew that.

"That was true at the first of the war," said Rhett. "Perhaps it's still true, provided the Confederate soldier has bullets for his gun and shoes
on his feet and food in his stomach. Eh, Captain Ashburn?"

His  voice  was  still  soft  and  filled  with  specious humility. Carey Ashburn looked unhappy, for it was obvious that he, too, disliked Rhett
intensely.  He  gladly  would  have  sided with the doctor but he could not lie. The reason he had applied for transfer to the front, despite his
useless  arm,  was that he realized, as the civilian population did not, the seriousness of the situation. There were many other men, stumping on
wooden  pegs,  blind in one eye, fingers blown away, one arm gone, who were quietly transferring from the commissariat, hospital duties, mail and
railroad service back to their old fighting units. They knew Old Joe needed every man.

He  did  not  speak and Dr. Meade thundered, losing his temper: "Our men have fought without shoes before and without food and won victories. And
they  will  fight  again  and  win!  I tell you General Johnston cannot be dislodged! The mountain fastnesses have always been the refuge and the
strong forts of invaded peoples from ancient times. Think of--think of Thermopylae!"

Scarlett thought hard but Thermopylae meant nothing to her.

"They died to the last man at Thermopylae, didn't they, Doctor?" Rhett asked, and his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

"Are you being insulting, young man?"

"Doctor! I beg of you! You misunderstood me! I merely asked for information. My memory of ancient history is poor."

"If  need be, our army will die to the last man before they permit the Yankees to advance farther into Georgia," snapped the doctor. "But it will
not be. They will drive them out of Georgia in one skirmish."

Aunt  Pittypat rose hastily and asked Scarlett to favor them with a piano selection and a song. She saw that the conversation was rapidly getting
into  deep  and stormy water. She had known very well there would be trouble if she invited Rhett to supper. There was always trouble when he was
present. Just how he started it, she never exactly understood. Dear! Dear! What did Scarlett see in the man? And how could dear Melly defend him?

As  Scarlett  went  obediently into the parlor, a silence fell on the porch, a silence that pulsed with resentment toward Rhett. How could anyone
not  believe  with  heart  and  soul  in  the  invincibility  of General Johnston and his men? Believing was a sacred duty. And those who were so
traitorous as not to believe should, at least, have the decency to keep their mouths shut.

Scarlett struck a few chords and her voice floated out to them from the parlor, sweetly, sadly, in the words of a popular song:


"Into a ward of whitewashed walls Where the dead and dying lay--Wounded with bayonets, shells and balls--Somebody's darling was borne one day.

"Somebody's  darling!  so young and so brave! Wearing still on his pale, sweet face--Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave--The lingering light
of his boyhood's grace."


"Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of gold," mourned Scarlett's faulty soprano, and Fanny half rose and said in a faint, strangled voice: "Sing
something else!"

The  piano  was  suddenly  silent  as Scarlett was overtaken with surprise and embarrassment. Then she hastily blundered into the opening bars of
"Jacket  of  Gray"  and  stopped with a discord as she remembered how heartrending that selection was too. The piano was silent again for she was
utterly at a loss. All the songs had to do with death and parting and sorrow.

Rhett rose swiftly, deposited Wade in Fanny's lap, and went into the parlor.

"Play  'My  Old  Kentucky Home,'" he suggested smoothly, and Scarlett gratefully plunged into it. Her voice was joined by Rhett's excellent bass,
and as they went into the second verse those on the porch breathed more easily, though Heaven knew it was none too cheery a song, either.


"Just  a  few  more days for to tote the weary load! No matter, 'twill never be light! Just a few more days, till we totter in the road! Then, my
old Kentucky home, good night!"



Dr.  Meade's  prediction  was  right--as far as it went. Johnston did stand like an iron rampart in the mountains above Dalton, one hundred miles
away. So firmly did he stand and so bitterly did he contest Sherman's desire to pass down the valley toward Atlanta that finally the Yankees drew
back  and  took counsel with themselves. They could not break the gray lines by direct assault and so, under cover of night, they marched through
the mountain passes in a semicircle, hoping to come upon Johnston's rear and cut the railroad behind him at Resaca, fifteen miles below Dalton.

With  those  precious  twin lines of iron in danger, the Confederates left their desperately defended rifle pits and, under the starlight, made a
forced  march  to Resaca by the short, direct road. When the Yankees, swarming out of the hills, came upon them, the Southern troops were waiting
for them, entrenched behind breastworks, batteries planted, bayonets gleaming, even as they had been at Dalton.

When  the wounded from Dalton brought in garbled accounts of Old Joe's retreat to Resaca, Atlanta was surprised and a little disturbed. It was as
though  a  small,  dark  cloud had appeared in the northwest, the first cloud of a summer storm. What was the General thinking about, letting the
Yankees penetrate eighteen miles farther into Georgia? The mountains were natural fortresses, even as Dr. Meade had said. Why hadn't Old Joe held
the Yankees there?

Johnston  fought  desperately at Resaca and repulsed the Yankees again, but Sherman, employing the same flanking movement, swung his vast army in
another  semicircle,  crossed  the  Oostanaula River and again struck at the railroad in the Confederate rear. Again the gray lines were summoned
swiftly  from  their  red  ditches to defend the railroad, and, weary for sleep, exhausted from marching and fighting, and hungry, always hungry,
they  made another rapid march down the valley. They reached the little town of Calhoun, six miles below Resaca, ahead of the Yankees, entrenched
and  were  again  ready  for the attack when the Yankees came up. The attack came, there was fierce skirmishing and the Yankees were beaten back.
Wearily  the  Confederates  lay  on their arms and prayed for respite and rest. But there was no rest. Sherman inexorably advanced, step by step,
swinging his army about them in a wide curve, forcing another retreat to defend the railroad at their back.

The Confederates marched in their sleep, too tired to think for the most part. But when they did think, they trusted old Joe. They knew they were
retreating  but  they  knew  they had not been beaten. They just didn't have enough men to hold their entrenchments and defeat Sherman's flanking
movements, too. They could and did lick the Yankees every time the Yankees would stand and fight. What would be the end of this retreat, they did
not  know.  But  Old Joe knew what he was doing and that was enough for them. He had conducted the retreat in masterly fashion, for they had lost
few  men  and  the Yankees killed and captured ran high. They hadn't lost a single wagon and only four guns. And they hadn't lost the railroad at
their back, either. Sherman hadn't laid a finger on it for all his frontal attacks, cavalry dashes and flank movements.

The railroad. It was still theirs, that slender iron line winding through the sunny valley toward Atlanta. Men lay down to sleep where they could
see the rails gleaming faintly in the starlight. Men lay down to die, and the last sight that met their puzzled eyes was the rails shining in the
merciless sun, heat shimmering along them.

As  they  fell  back down the valley, an army of refugees fell back before them. Planters and Crackers, rich and poor, black and white, women and
children,  the  old,  the  dying,  the  crippled,  the wounded, the women far gone in pregnancy, crowded the road to Atlanta on trains, afoot, on
horseback, in carriages and wagons piled high with trunks and household goods. Five miles ahead of the retreating army went the refugees, halting
at  Resaca,  at  Calhoun, at Kingston, hoping at each stop to hear that the Yankees had been driven back so they could return to their homes. But
there  was  no retracing that sunny road. The gray troops passed by empty mansions, deserted farms, lonely cabins with doors ajar. Here and there
some  lone  woman  remained with a few frightened slaves, and they came to the road to cheer the soldiers, to bring buckets of well water for the
thirsty  men,  to  bind up the wounds and bury the dead in their own family burying grounds. But for the most part the sunny valley was abandoned
and desolate and the untended crops stood in parching fields.

Flanked  again  at  Calhoun, Johnston fell back to Adairsville, where there was sharp skirmishing, then to Cassville, then south of Cartersville.
And the enemy had now advanced fifty-five miles from Dalton. At New Hope Church, fifteen miles farther along the hotly fought way, the gray ranks
dug  in  for  a determined stand. On came the blue lines, relentlessly, like a monster serpent, coiling, striking venomously, drawing its injured
lengths  back,  but always striking again. There was desperate fighting at New Hope Church, eleven days of continuous fighting, with every Yankee
assault bloodily repulsed. Then Johnston, flanked again, withdrew his thinning lines a few miles farther.

The  Confederate  dead and wounded at New Hope Church ran high. The wounded flooded Atlanta in train-loads and the town was appalled. Never, even
after  the  battle  of Chickamauga, had the town seen so many wounded. The hospitals overflowed and wounded lay on the floors of empty stores and
upon  cotton  bales  in  the  warehouses. Every hotel, boarding house and private residence was crowded with sufferers. Aunt Pitty had her share,
although  she  protested  that it was most unbecoming to have strange men in the house when Melanie was in a delicate condition and when gruesome
sights  might  bring on premature birth. But Melanie reefed up her top hoop a little higher to hide her thickening figure and the wounded invaded
the brick house. There was endless cooking and lifting and turning and fanning, endless hours of washing and rerolling bandages and picking lint,
and  endless  warm nights made sleepless by the babbling delirium of men in the next room. Finally the choked town could take care of no more and
the overflow of wounded was sent on to the hospitals at Macon and Augusta.

With this backwash of wounded bearing conflicting reports and the increase of frightened refugees crowding into the already crowded town, Atlanta
was  in  an  uproar.  The small cloud on the horizon had blown up swiftly into a large, sullen storm cloud and it was as though a faint, chilling
wind blew from it.

No one had lost faith in the invincibility of the troops but everyone, the civilians at least, had lost faith in the General. New Hope Church was
only  thirty-five  miles  from  Atlanta!  The  General  had let the Yankees push him back sixty-five miles in three weeks! Why didn't he hold the
Yankees  instead of everlastingly retreating? He was a fool and worse than a fool. Graybeards in the Home Guard and members of the state militia,
safe  in Atlanta, insisted they could have managed the campaign better and drew maps on tablecloths to prove their contentions. As his lines grew
thinner and he was forced back farther, the General called desperately on Governor Brown for these very men, but the state troops felt reasonably
safe. After all, the Governor had defied Jeff Davis' demand for them. Why should he accede to General Johnston?

Fight  and  fall  back! Fight and fall back! For seventy miles and twenty-five days the Confederates had fought almost daily. New Hope Church was
behind  the  gray  troops now, a memory in a mad haze of like memories, heat, dust, hunger, weariness, tramp-tramp on the red rutted roads, slop-
slop  through  the  red  mud,  retreat, entrench, fight--retreat, entrench, fight. New Hope Church was a nightmare of another life and so was Big
Shanty,  where they turned and fought the Yankees like demons. But, fight the Yankees till the fields were blue with dead, there were always more
Yankees,  fresh Yankees; there was always that sinister southeast curving of the blue lines toward the Confederate rear, toward the railroad--and
toward Atlanta!

From  Big  Shanty, the weary sleepless lines retreated down the road to Kennesaw Mountain, near the little town of Marietta, and here they spread
their  lines  in  a  ten-mile  curve. On the steep sides of the mountain they dug their rifle pits and on the towering heights they planted their
batteries.  Swearing, sweating men hauled the heavy guns up the precipitous slopes, for mules could not climb the hillsides. Couriers and wounded
coming  into  Atlanta  gave reassuring reports to the frightened townspeople. The heights of Kennesaw were impregnable. So were Pine Mountain and
Lost  Mountain  near  by  which  were  also  fortified.  The Yankees couldn't dislodge Old Joe's men and they could hardly flank them now for the
batteries on the mountain tops commanded all the roads for miles. Atlanta breathed more easily, but--

But Kennesaw Mountain was only twenty-two miles away!

On  the day when the first wounded from Kennesaw Mountain were coming in, Mrs. Merriwether's carriage was at Aunt Pitty's house at the unheard-of
hour  of  seven in the morning, and black Uncle Levi sent up word that Scarlett must dress immediately and come to the hospital. Fanny Elsing and
the  Bonnell  girls, roused early from slumber, were yawning on the back seat and the Elsings' mammy sat grumpily on the box, a basket of freshly
laundered  bandages  on  her  lap. Off Scarlett went, unwillingly for she had danced till dawn the night before at the Home Guard's party and her
feet  were tired. She silently cursed the efficient and indefatigable Mrs. Merriwether, the wounded and the whole Southern Confederacy, as Prissy
buttoned  her  in  her oldest and raggedest calico frock which she used for hospital work. Gulping down the bitter brew of parched corn and dried
sweet potatoes that passed for coffee, she went out to join the girls.

She  was  sick  of all this nursing. This very day she would tell Mrs. Merriwether that Ellen had written her to come home for a visit. Much good
this  did her, for that worthy matron, her sleeves rolled up, her stout figure swathed in a large apron, gave her one sharp look and said: "Don't
let  me  hear  any  more such foolishness, Scarlett Hamilton. I'll write your mother today and tell her how much we need you, and I'm sure she'll
understand and let you stay. Now, put on your apron and trot over to Dr. Meade. He needs someone to help with the dressings."

"Oh, God," thought Scarlett drearily, "that's just the trouble. Mother will make me stay here and I shall die if I have to smell these stinks any
longer!  I  wish  I was an old lady so I could bully the young ones, instead of getting bullied--and tell old cats like Mrs. Merriwether to go to
Halifax!"

Yes,  she  was sick of the hospital, the foul smells, the lice, the aching, unwashed bodies. If there had ever been any novelty and romance about
nursing, that had worn off a year ago. Besides, these men wounded in the retreat were not so attractive as the earlier ones had been. They didn't
show  the  slightest  interest  in her and they had very little to say beyond: "How's the fightin' goin'? What's Old Joe doin' now? Mighty clever
fellow, Old Joe." She didn't think Old Joe a mighty clever fellow. All he had done was let the Yankees penetrate eighty-eight miles into Georgia.
No,  they were not an attractive lot. Moreover, many of them were dying, dying swiftly, silently, having little strength left to combat the blood
poisoning, gangrene, typhoid and pneumonia which had set in before they could reach Atlanta and a doctor.

The day was hot and the flies came in the open windows in swarms, fat lazy flies that broke the spirits of the men as pain could not. The tide of
smells  and  pain rose and rose about her. Perspiration soaked through her freshly starched dress as she followed Dr. Meade about, a basin in her
hand.

Oh,  the nausea of standing by the doctor, trying not to vomit when his bright knife cut into mortifying flesh! And oh, the horror of hearing the
screams  from  the  operating  ward  where  amputations were going on! And the sick, helpless sense of pity at the sight of tense, white faces of
mangled  men  waiting  for the doctor to get to them, men whose ears were filled with screams, men waiting for the dreadful words: "I'm sorry, my
boy, but that hand will have to come off. Yes, yes, I know; but look, see those red streaks? It'll have to come off."

Chloroform  was so scarce now it was used only for the worst amputations and opium was a precious thing, used only to ease the dying out of life,
not  the  living  out of pain. There was no quinine and no iodine at all. Yes, Scarlett was sick of it all, and that morning she wished that she,
like Melanie, had the excuse of pregnancy to offer. That was about the only excuse that was socially acceptable for not nursing these days.

When  noon  came,  she  put  off  her  apron  and sneaked away from the hospital while Mrs. Merriwether was busy writing a letter for a gangling,
illiterate  mountaineer.  Scarlett felt that she could stand it no longer. It was an imposition on her and she knew that when the wounded came in
on the noon train there would be enough work to keep her busy until night-fall--and probably without anything to eat.

She  went  hastily  up  the  two  short blocks to Peachtree Street, breathing the unfouled air in as deep gulps as her tightly laced corset would
permit.  She was standing on the corner, uncertain as to what she would do next, ashamed to go home to Aunt Pitty's but determined not to go back
to the hospital, when Rhett Butler drove by.

"You  look like the ragpicker's child," he observed, his eyes taking in the mended lavender calico, streaked with perspiration and splotched here
and  there with water which had slopped from the basin. Scarlett was furious with embarrassment and indignation. Why did he always notice women's
clothing and why was he so rude as to remark upon her present untidiness?

"I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word out of you. You get out and help me in and drive me somewhere where nobody will see me. I won't go back to the
hospital if they hang me! My goodness, I didn't start this war and I don't see any reason why I should be worked to death and--"

"A traitor to Our Glorious Cause!"

"The pot's calling the kettle black. You help me in. I don't care where you were going. You're going to take me riding now."

He swung himself out of the carriage to the ground and she suddenly thought how nice it was to see a man who was whole, who was not minus eyes or
limbs,  or  white  with  pain or yellow with malaria, and who looked well fed and healthy. He was so well dressed too. His coat and trousers were
actually  of  the  same  material and they fitted him, instead of hanging in folds or being almost too tight for movement. And they were new, not
ragged,  with  dirty  bare  flesh and hairy legs showing through. He looked as if he had not a care in the world and that in itself was startling
these  days,  when  other  men  wore  such  worried,  preoccupied, grim looks. His brown face was bland and his mouth, red lipped, clear cut as a
woman's, frankly sensual, smiled carelessly as he lifted her into the carriage.

The  muscles  of his big body rippled against his well-tailored clothes, as he got in beside her, and, as always, the sense of his great physical
power  struck her like a blow. She watched the swell of his powerful shoulders against the cloth with a fascination that was disturbing, a little
frightening.  His  body  seemed so tough and hard, as tough and hard as his keen mind. His was such an easy, graceful strength, lazy as a panther
stretching in the sun, alert as a panther to spring and strike.

"You  little  fraud,"  he  said,  clucking to the horse. "You dance all night with the soldiers and give them roses and ribbons and tell them how
you'd die for the Cause, and when it comes to bandaging a few wounds and picking off a few lice, you decamp hastily."

"Can't  you  talk about something else and drive faster? It would be just my luck for Grandpa Merriwether to come out of his store and see me and
tell old lady--I mean, Mrs. Merriwether."

He  touched  up  the  mare  with the whip and she trotted briskly across Five Points and across the railroad tracks that cut the town in two. The
train  bearing  the  wounded had already come in and the litter bearers were working swiftly in the hot sun, transferring wounded into ambulances
and  covered  ordnance  wagons.  Scarlett  had no qualm of conscience as she watched them but only a feeling of vast relief that she had made her
escape.

"I'm just sick and tired of that old hospital," she said, settling her billowing skirts and tying her bonnet bow more firmly under her chin. "And
every day more and more wounded come in. It's all General Johnston's fault. If he'd just stood up to the Yankees at Dalton, they'd have--"

"But  he  did  stand  up  to  the Yankees, you ignorant child. And if he'd kept on standing there, Sherman would have flanked him and crushed him
between the two wings of his army. And he'd have lost the railroad and the railroad is what Johnston is fighting for."

"Oh,  well,"  said  Scarlett,  on whom military strategy was utterly lost. "It's his fault anyway. He ought to have done something about it and I
think he ought to be removed. Why doesn't he stand and fight instead of retreating?"

"You  are  like  everyone else, screaming 'Off with his head' because he can't do the impossible. He was Jesus the Savior at Dalton, and now he's
Judas  the  Betrayer  at  Kennesaw Mountain, all in six weeks. Yet, just let him drive the Yankees back twenty miles and he'll be Jesus again. My
child,  Sherman  has  twice  as  many men as Johnston, and he can afford to lose two men for every one of our gallant laddies. And Johnston can't
afford to lose a single man. He needs reinforcements badly and what is he getting? 'Joe Brown's Pets.' What a help they'll be!"

"Is the militia really going to be called out? The Home Guard, too? I hadn't heard. How do you know?"

"There's  a  rumor  floating  about to that effect. The rumor arrived on the train from Milledgeville this morning. Both the militia and the Home
Guards  are  going  to be sent in to reinforce General Johnston. Yes, Governor Brown's darlings are likely to smell powder at last, and I imagine
most  of  them  will  be  much surprised. Certainly they never expected to see action. The Governor as good as promised them they wouldn't. Well,
that's  a  good  joke  on  them.  They  thought they had bomb proofs because the Governor stood up to even Jeff Davis and refused to send them to
Virginia.  Said  they  were  needed  for the defense of their state. Who'd have ever thought the war would come to their own back yard and they'd
really have to defend their state?"

"Oh, how can you laugh, you cruel thing! Think of the old gentlemen and the little boys in the Home Guard! Why, little Phil Meade will have to go
and Grandpa Merriwether and Uncle Henry Hamilton."

"I'm not talking about the little boys and the Mexican War veterans. I'm talking about brave young men like Willie Guinan who like to wear pretty
uniforms and wave swords--"

"And yourself!"

"My  dear, that didn't hurt a bit! I wear no uniform and wave no sword and the fortunes of the Confederacy mean nothing at all to me. Moreover, I
wouldn't  be caught dead in the Home Guard or in any army, for that matter. I had enough of things military at West Point to do me the rest of my
life.  .  . . Well, I wish Old Joe luck. General Lee can't send him any help because the Yankees are keeping him busy in Virginia. So the Georgia
state  troops  are  the  only  reinforcements  Johnston can get. He deserves better, for he's a great strategist. He always manages to get places
before  the Yankees do. But he'll have to keep falling back if he wants to protect the railroad; and mark my words, when they push him out of the
mountains and onto the flatter land around here, he's going to be butchered."

"Around here?" cried Scarlett. "You know mighty well the Yankees will never get this far!"

"Kennesaw is only twenty-two miles away and I'll wager you--"

"Rhett, look, down the street! That crowd of men! They aren't soldiers. What on earth . . . ? Why, they're darkies!"

There  was  a  great  cloud of red dust coming up the street and from the cloud came the sound of the tramping of many feet and a hundred or more
negro  voices, deep throated, careless, singing a hymn. Rhett pulled the carriage over to the curb, and Scarlett looked curiously at the sweating
black  men,  picks  and  shovels  over their shoulders, shepherded along by an officer and a squad of men wearing the insignia of the engineering
corps.

"What on earth . . . ?" she began again.

Then  her  eyes  lighted  on  a  singing  black  buck in the front rank. He stood nearly six and a half feet tall, a giant of a man, ebony black,
stepping  along with the lithe grace of a powerful animal, his white teeth flashing as he led the gang in "Go Down, Moses." Surely there wasn't a
negro  on  earth as tall and loud voiced as this one except Big Sam, the foreman of Tara. But what was Big Sam doing here, so far away from home,
especially now that there was no overseer on the plantation and he was Gerald's right-hand man?

As  she  half  rose  from  her seat to look closer, the giant caught sight of her and his black face split in a grin of delighted recognition. He
halted,  dropped  his  shovel  and started toward her, calling to the negroes nearest him: "Gawdlmighty! It's Miss Scarlett! You, 'Lige! 'Postle!
Prophet! Dar's Miss Scarlett!"

There was confusion in the ranks. The crowd halted uncertainly, grinning, and Big Sam, followed by three other large negroes, ran across the road
to the carriage, closely followed by the harried, shouting officer.

"Get  back  in line, you fellows! Get back, I tell you or I'll--Why it's Mrs. Hamilton. Good morning, Ma'm, and you, too, sir. What are you up to
inciting mutiny and insubordination? God knows, I've had trouble enough with these boys this morning."

"Oh,  Captain  Randall,  don't  scold  them!  They  are our people. This is Big Sam our foreman, and Elijah and Apostle and Prophet from Tara. Of
course, they had to speak to me. How are you, boys?"

She  shook  hands  all  around, her small white hand disappearing into their huge black paws and the four capered with delight at the meeting and
with pride at displaying before their comrades what a pretty Young Miss they had.

"What are you boys doing so far from Tara? You've run away, I'll be bound. Don't you know the patterollers will get you sure?"

They bellowed pleasedly at the badinage.

"Runned  away?" answered Big Sam. "No'm, us ain' runned away. Dey done sont an' tuck us, kase us wuz de fo' bigges' an' stronges' han's at Tara."
His white teeth showed proudly. "Dey specially sont fer me, kase Ah could sing so good. Yas'm, Mist' Frank Kennedy, he come by an' tuck us."

"But why, Big Sam?"

"Lawd, Miss Scarlett! Ain' you heerd? Us is ter dig de ditches fer de wite gempmums ter hide in w'en de Yankees comes."

Captain Randall and the occupants of the carriage smothered smiles at this naive explanation of rifle pits.

"Cose,  Mis'  Gerald  might'  nigh had a fit w'en dey tuck me, an' he say he kain run de place widout me. But Miss Ellen she say: 'Tek him, Mist'
Kennedy.  De  Confedrutsy need Big Sam mo' dan us do.' An' she gib me a dollar an' tell me ter do jes' whut de w'ite gempmums tell me. So hyah us
is."

"What does it all mean, Captain Randall?"

"Oh,  it's  quite  simple. We have to strengthen the fortifications of Atlanta with more miles of rifle pits, and the General can't spare any men
from the front to do it. So we've been impressing the strongest bucks in the countryside for the work."

"But--"

A  cold  little  fear  was  beginning to throb in Scarlett's breast. More miles of rifle pits! Why should they need more? Within the last year, a
series  of  huge earth redoubts with battery emplacements had been built all around Atlanta, one mile from the center of town. These great earth-
works were connected with rifle pits and they ran, mile after mile, completely encircling the city. More rifle pits!

"But--why should we be fortified any more than we are already fortified? We won't need what we've got. Surely, the General won't let--"

"Our  present  fortifications  are  only a mile from town," said Captain Randall shortly. "And that's too close for comfort--or safety. These new
ones are going to be farther away. You see, another retreat may bring our men into Atlanta."

Immediately he regretted his last remark, as her eyes widened with fear.

"But, of course there won't be another retreat," he added hastily. "The lines around Kennesaw Mountain are impregnable. The batteries are planted
all up the mountain sides and they command the roads, and the Yankees can't possibly get by."

But Scarlett saw him drop his eyes before the lazy, penetrating look Rhett gave him, and she was frightened. She remembered Rhett's remark: "When
the Yankees push him out of the mountains and onto the flatter land, he'll be butchered."

"Oh, Captain, do you think--"

"Why,  of  course  not!  Don't  fret your mind one minute. Old Joe just believes in taking precautions. That's the only reason we're digging more
entrenchments. . . . But I must be going now. It's been pleasant, talking to you. . . . Say good-by to your mistress, boys, and let's get going."

"Good-by,  boys. Now, if you get sick or hurt or in trouble, let me know. I live right down Peachtree Street, down there in almost the last house
at  the end of town. Wait a minute--" She fumbled in her reticule. "Oh, dear, I haven't a cent. Rhett, give me a few shinplasters. Here, Big Sam,
buy some tobacco for yourself and the boys. And be good and do what Captain Randall tells you."

The straggling line re-formed, the dust arose again in a red cloud as they moved off and Big Sam started up the singing again.


"Go do-ow, Mos-es! Waaa-ay, do-own, in Eeejup laa-an! An' te-el O-le Faa-ro-o Ter let mah--peee-pul go!"


"Rhett,  Captain Randall was lying to me, just like all the men do--trying to keep the truth from us women for fear we'll faint. Or was he lying?
Oh, Rhett, if there's no danger, why are they digging these new breastworks? Is the army so short of men they've got to use darkies?"

Rhett clucked to the mare.

"The army is damned short of men. Why else would the Home Guard be called out? And as for the entrenchments, well, fortifications are supposed to
be of some value in case of a siege. The General is preparing to make his final stand here."

"A siege! Oh, turn the horse around. I'm going home, back home to Tara, right away."

"What ails you?"

"A siege! Name of God, a siege! I've heard about sieges! Pa was in one or maybe it was his Pa, and Pa told me--"

"What siege?"

"The  siege  at  Drogheda  when Cromwell had the Irish, and they didn't have anything to eat and Pa said they starved and died in the streets and
finally  they  ate all the cats and rats and even things like cockroaches. And he said they ate each other too, before they surrendered, though I
never did know whether to believe that or not. And when Cromwell took the town all the women were-- A siege! Mother of God!"

"You  are  the  most barbarously ignorant young person I ever saw. Drogheda was in sixteen hundred and something and Mr. O'Hara couldn't possibly
have been alive then. Besides, Sherman isn't Cromwell."

"No, but he's worse! They say--"

"And  as  for  the  exotic  viands  the  Irish ate at the siege--personally I'd as soon eat a nice juicy rat as some of the victuals they've been
serving  me  recently at the hotel. I think I shall have to go back to Richmond. They have good food there, if you have the money to pay for it."
His eyes mocked the fear in her face.

Annoyed  that  she  had shown her trepidation, she cried: "I don't see why you've stayed here this long! All you think about is being comfortable
and eating and--and things like that."

"I  know  no more pleasant way to pass the time than in eating and er--things like that," he said. "And as for why I stay here--well, I've read a
good  deal  about sieges, beleaguered cities and the like, but I've never seen one. So I think I'll stay here and watch. I won't get hurt because
I'm a noncombatant and besides I want the experience. Never pass up new experiences, Scarlett. They enrich the mind."

"My mind's rich enough."

"Perhaps  you  know  best  about that, but I should say-- But that would be ungallant. And perhaps, I'm staying here to rescue you when the siege
does come. I've never rescued a maiden in distress. That would be a new experience, too."

She knew he was teasing her but she sensed a seriousness behind his words. She tossed her head.

"I won't need you to rescue me. I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Don't  say  that,  Scarlett!  Think  of  it, if you like, but never, never say it to a man. That's the trouble with Yankee girls. They'd be most
charming  if  they  weren't  always  telling you that they can take care of themselves, thank you. Generally they are telling the truth, God help
them. And so men let them take care of themselves."

"How  you  do run on," she said coldly, for there was no insult worse than being likened to a Yankee girl. "I believe you're lying about a siege.
You know the Yankees will never get to Atlanta."

"I'll bet you they will be here within the month. I'll bet you a box of bonbons against--" His dark eyes wandered to her lips. "Against a kiss."

For  a  last brief moment, fear of a Yankee invasion clutched her heart but at the word "kiss," she forgot about it. This was familiar ground and
far  more  interesting than military operations. With difficulty she restrained a smile of glee. Since the day when he gave her the green bonnet,
Rhett  had made no advances which could in any way be construed as those of a lover. He could never be inveigled into personal conversations, try
though she might, but now with no angling on her part, he was talking about kissing.

"I don't care for such personal conversation," she said coolly and managed a frown. "Besides, I'd just as soon kiss a pig."

"There's  no  accounting for tastes and I've always heard the Irish were partial to pigs--kept them under their beds, in fact. But, Scarlett, you
need  kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. All your beaux have respected you too much, though God knows why, or they have been too afraid
of you to really do right by you. The result is that you are unendurably uppity. You should be kissed and by someone who knows how."

The conversation was not going the way she wanted it. It never did when she was with him. Always, it was a duel in which she was worsted.

"And I suppose you think you are the proper person?" she asked with sarcasm, holding her temper in check with difficulty.

"Oh, yes, if I cared to take the trouble," he said carelessly. "They say I kiss very well."

"Oh,"  she  began, indignant at the slight to her charms. "Why, you . . ." But her eyes fell in sudden confusion. He was smiling, but in the dark
depths of his eyes a tiny light flickered for a brief moment, like a small raw flame.

"Of course, you've probably wondered why I never tried to follow up that chaste peck I gave you, the day I brought you that bonnet--"

"I have never--"

"Then  you  aren't  a nice girl, Scarlett, and I'm sorry to hear it. All really nice girls wonder when men don't try to kiss them. They know they
shouldn't want them to and they know they must act insulted if they do, but just the same, they wish the men would try. . . . Well, my dear, take
heart. Some day, I will kiss you and you will like it. But not now, so I beg you not to be too impatient."

She knew he was teasing but, as always, his teasing maddened her. There was always too much truth in the things he said. Well, this finished him.
If ever, ever he should be so ill bred as to try to take any liberties with her, she would show him.

"Will you kindly turn the horse around, Captain Butler? I wish to go back to the hospital."

"Do  you  indeed,  my ministering angel? Then lice and slops are preferable to my conversation? Well, far be it from me to keep a pair of willing
hands from laboring for Our Glorious Cause." He turned the horse's head and they started back toward Five Points.

"As  to  why  I  have  made  no  further advances," he pursued blandly, as though she had not signified that the conversation was at an end, "I'm
waiting  for  you  to  grow up a little more. You see, it wouldn't be much fun for me to kiss you now and I'm quite selfish about my pleasures. I
never fancied kissing children."

He smothered a grin, as from the corner of his eye he saw her bosom heave with silent wrath.

"And then, too," he continued softly, "I was waiting for the memory of the estimable Ashley Wilkes to fade."

At  the mention of Ashley's name, sudden pain went through her, sudden hot tears stung her lids. Fade? The memory of Ashley would never fade, not
if  he  were  dead  a thousand years. She thought of Ashley wounded, dying in a far-off Yankee prison, with no blankets over him, with no one who
loved  him to hold his hand, and she was filled with hate for the well-fed man who sat beside her, jeers just beneath the surface of his drawling
voice.

She was too angry to speak and they rode along in silence for some while.

"I  understand  practically  everything  about  you and Ashley, now," Rhett resumed. "I began with your inelegant scene at Twelve Oaks and, since
then,  I've picked up many things by keeping my eyes open. What things? Oh, that you still cherish a romantic schoolgirl passion for him which he
reciprocates  as  well  as his honorable nature will permit him. And that Mrs. Wilkes knows nothing and that, between the two of you, you've done
her  a pretty trick. I understand practically everything, except one thing that piques my curiosity. Did the honorable Ashley ever jeopardize his
immortal soul by kissing you?"

A stony silence and an averted head were his answers.

"Ah,  well,  so  he  did  kiss  you. I suppose it was when he was here on furlough. And now that he's probably dead you are cherishing it to your
heart. But I'm sure you'll get over it and when you've forgotten his kiss, I'll--"

She turned in fury.

"You go to--Halifax," she said tensely, her green eyes slits of rage. "And let me out of this carriage before I jump over the wheels. And I don't
ever want to speak to you again."

He  stopped  the  carriage, but before he could alight and assist her she sprang down. Her hoop caught on the wheel and for a moment the crowd at
Five  Points  had  a  flashing view of petticoats and pantalets. Then Rhett leaned over and swiftly released it. She flounced off without a word,
without even a backward look, and he laughed softly and clicked to the horse.



CHAPTER XVIII


For  the  first time since the war began, Atlanta could hear the sound of battle. In the early morning hours before the noises of the town awoke,
the  cannon  at  Kennesaw Mountain could be heard faintly, far away, a low dim booming that might have passed for summer thunder. Occasionally it
was  loud  enough  to  be  heard even above the rattle of traffic at noon. People tried not to listen to it, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on
their  business,  just  as though the Yankees were not there, twenty-two miles away, but always ears were strained for the sound. The town wore a
preoccupied  look,  for  no matter what occupied their hands, all were listening, listening, their hearts leaping suddenly a hundred times a day.
Was the booming louder? Or did they only think it was louder? Would General Johnston hold them this time? Would he?

Panic  lay  just  beneath  the  surface.  Nerves which had been stretched tighter and tighter each day of the retreat began to reach the breaking
point.  No  one spoke of fears. That subject was taboo, but strained nerves found expression in loud criticism of the General. Public feeling was
at fever heat. Sherman was at the very doors of Atlanta. Another retreat might bring the Confederates into the town.

Give us a general who won't retreat! Give us a man who will stand and fight!

With  the  far-off  rumbling of cannon in their ears, the state militia, "Joe Brown's Pets," and the Home Guard marched out of Atlanta, to defend
the  bridges  and ferries of the Chattahoochee River at Johnston's back. It was a gray, overcast day and, as they marched through Five Points and
out  the  Marietta  road, a fine rain began to fall. The whole town had turned out to see them off and they stood, close packed, under the wooden
awnings of the stores on Peachtree Street and tried to cheer.

Scarlett  and  Maybelle Merriwether Picard had been given permission to leave the hospital and watch the men go out, because Uncle Henry Hamilton
and  Grandpa  Merriwether were in the Home Guard, and they stood with Mrs. Meade, pressed in the crowd, tiptoeing to get a better view. Scarlett,
though  filled  with the universal Southern desire to believe only the pleasantest and most reassuring things about the progress of the fighting,
felt  cold  as  she watched the motley ranks go by. Surely, things must be in a desperate pass if this rabble of bombproofers, old men and little
boys  were being called out! To be sure there were young and able-bodied men in the passing lines, tricked out in the bright uniforms of socially
select militia units, plumes waving, sashes dancing. But there were so many old men and young boys, and the sight of them made her heart contract
with  pity  and with fear. There were graybeards older than her father trying to step jauntily along in the needle-fine rain to the rhythm of the
fife  and  drum  corps.  Grandpa Merriwether, with Mrs. Merriwether's best plaid shawl laid across his shoulders to keep out the rain, was in the
first  rank and he saluted the girls with a grin. They waved their handkerchiefs and cried gay good-bys to him; but Maybelle, gripping Scarlett's
arm, whispered: "Oh, the poor old darling! A real good rainstorm will just about finish him! His lumbago--"

Uncle  Henry Hamilton marched in the rank behind Grandpa Merriwether, the collar of his long black coat turned up about his ears, two Mexican War
pistols  in  his  belt  and  a small carpetbag in his hand. Beside him marched his black valet who was nearly as old as Uncle Henry, with an open
umbrella held over them both. Shoulder to shoulder with their elders came the young boys, none of them looking over sixteen. Many of them had run
away from school to join the army, and here and there were clumps of them in the cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers on
their  tight  gray caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps crossing their chests sodden. Phil Meade was among them, proudly wearing his
dead  brother's saber and horse pistols, his hat bravely pinned up on one side. Mrs. Meade managed to smile and wave until he had passed and then
she leaned her head on the back of Scarlett's shoulder for a moment as though her strength had suddenly left her.

Many of the men were totally unarmed, for the Confederacy had neither rifles nor ammunition to issue to them. These men hoped to equip themselves
from  killed and captured Yankees. Many carried bowie knives in their boots and bore in their hands long thick poles with iron-pointed tips known
as "Joe Brown pikes." The lucky ones had old flintlock muskets slung over their shoulders and powder-horns at their belts.

Johnston  had  lost  around  ten thousand men in his retreat. He needed ten thousand more fresh troops. And this, thought Scarlett frightened, is
what he is getting!

As  the artillery rumbled by, splashing mud into the watching crowds, a negro on a mule, riding close to a cannon caught her eye. He was a young,
saddle-colored  negro with a serious face, and when Scarlett saw him she cried: "It's Mose! Ashley's Mose! Whatever is he doing here?" She fought
her way through the crowd to the curb and called: "Mose! Stop!"

The  boy  seeing  her,  drew rein, smiled delightedly and started to dismount. A soaking sergeant, riding behind him, called: "Stay on that mule,
boy, or I'll light a fire under you! We got to git to the mountain some time."

Uncertainly,  Mose looked from the sergeant to Scarlett and she, splashing through the mud, close to the passing wheels, caught at Moses' stirrup
strap.

"Oh, just a minute, Sergeant! Don't get down, Mose. What on earth are you doing here?"

"Ah's off ter de war, agin, Miss Scarlett. Dis time wid Ole Mist' John 'stead ob Mist' Ashley."

"Mr. Wilkes!" Scarlett was stunned. Mr. Wilkes was nearly seventy. "Where is he?"

"Back wid de las' cannon, Miss Scarlett. Back dar!"

"Sorry, lady. Move on, boy!"

Scarlett  stood  for  a moment, ankle deep in mud as the guns lurched by. Oh, no! She thought. It can't be. He's too old. And he doesn't like war
any  more  than Ashley did! She retreated back a few paces toward the curb and scanned each face that passed. Then, as the last cannon and limber
chest came groaning and splashing up, she saw him, slender, erect, his long silver hair wet upon his neck, riding easily upon a little strawberry
mare  that  picked  her  way  as  daintily  through  the mud holes as a lady in a satin dress. Why--that mare was Nellie! Mrs. Tarleton's Nellie!
Beatrice Tarleton's treasured darling!

When he saw her standing in the mud, Mr. Wilkes drew rein with a smile of pleasure and, dismounting, came toward her.

"I  had  hoped to see you, Scarlett. I was charged with so many messages from your people. But there was no time. We just got in this morning and
they are rushing us out immediately, as you see."

"Oh, Mr. Wilkes," she cried desperately, holding his hand. "Don't go! Why must you go?"

"Ah,  so you think I'm too old!" he smiled, and it was Ashley's smile in an older face. "Perhaps I am too old to march but not to ride and shoot.
And  Mrs.  Tarleton  so  kindly  lent me Nellie, so I am well mounted. I hope nothing happens to Nellie, for if something should happen to her, I
could  never  go  home and face Mrs. Tarleton. Nellie was the last horse she had left." He was laughing now, turning away her fears. "Your mother
and father and the girls are well and they sent you their love. Your father nearly came up with us today!"

"Oh, not Pa!" cried Scarlett in terror. "Not Pa! He isn't going to the war, is he?"

"No,  but  he was. Of course, he can't walk far with his stiff knee, but he was all for riding away with us. Your mother agreed, providing he was
able  to jump the pasture fence, for, she said, there would be a lot of rough riding to be done in the army. Your father thought that easy, but--
would  you  believe  it?  When his horse came to the fence, he stopped dead and over his head went your father! It's a wonder it didn't break his
neck!  You  know  how  obstinate  he  is. He got right up and tried it again. Well, Scarlett, he came off three times before Mrs. O'Hara and Pork
assisted  him  to  bed.  He  was  in a taking about it, swearing that your mother had 'spoken a wee word in the beast's ear.' He just isn't up to
active service, Scarlett. You need have no shame about it. After all, someone must stay home and raise crops for the army."

Scarlett had no shame at all, only an active feeling of relief.

"I've sent India and Honey to Macon to stay with the Burrs and Mr. O'Hara is looking after Twelve Oaks as well as Tara. . . . I must go, my dear.
Let me kiss your pretty face."

Scarlett  turned  up  her lips and there was a choking pain in her throat. She was so fond of Mr. Wilkes. Once, long ago, she had hoped to be his
daughter-in-law.

"And you must deliver this kiss to Pittypat and this to Melanie," he said, kissing her lightly two more times. "And how is Melanie?"

"She is well."

"Ah!"  His  eyes looked at her but through her, past her as Ashley's had done, remote gray eyes looking on another world. "I should have liked to
see my first grandchild. Good-by, my dear."

He  swung  onto  Nellie  and  cantered  off, his hat in his hand, his silver hair bare to the rain. Scarlett had rejoined Maybelle and Mrs. Meade
before  the import of his last words broke upon her. Then in superstitious terror she crossed herself and tried to say a prayer. He had spoken of
death,  just  as  Ashley  had done, and now Ashley-- No one should ever speak of death! It was tempting Providence to mention death. As the three
women started silently back to the hospital in the rain, Scarlett was praying: "Not him, too, God. Not him and Ashley, too!"

The  retreat from Dalton to Kennesaw Mountain had taken from early May to mid-June and as the hot rainy days of June passed and Sherman failed to
dislodge  the  Confederates  from  the  steep  slippery  slopes, hope again raised its head. Everyone grew more cheerful and spoke more kindly of
General Johnston. As wet June days passed into a wetter July and the Confederates, fighting desperately around the entrenched heights, still held
Sherman  at  bay, a wild gaiety took hold of Atlanta. Hope went to their heads like champagne. Hurrah! Hurrah! We're holding them! An epidemic of
parties  and  dances  broke  out. Whenever groups of men from the fighting were in town for the night, dinners were given for them and afterwards
there was dancing and the girls, outnumbering the men ten to one, made much of them and fought to dance with them.

Atlanta was crowded with visitors, refugees, families of wounded men in the hospitals, wives and mothers of soldiers fighting at the mountain who
wished to be near them in case of wounds. In addition, bevies of belles from the country districts, where all remaining men were under sixteen or
over  sixty,  descended  upon  the  town. Aunt Pitty disapproved highly of these last, for she felt they had come to Atlanta for no reason at all
except  to  catch husbands, and the shamelessness of it made her wonder what the world was coming to. Scarlett disapproved, too. She did not care
for  the  eager competition furnished by the sixteen-year-olds whose fresh cheeks and bright smiles made one forget their twice-turned frocks and
patched shoes. Her own clothes were prettier and newer than most, thanks to the material Rhett Butler had brought her on the last boat he ran in,
but, after all, she was nineteen and getting along and men had a way of chasing silly young things.

A  widow  with  a  child was at a disadvantage with these pretty minxes, she thought. But in these exciting days her widowhood and her motherhood
weighed less heavily upon her than ever before. Between hospital duties in the day time and parties at night, she hardly ever saw Wade. Sometimes
she actually forgot, for long stretches, that she had a child.

In  the  warm  wet  summer  nights,  Atlanta's  homes  stood open to the soldiers, the town's defenders. The big houses from Washington Street to
Peachtree  Street  blazed  with  lights, as the muddy fighters in from the rifle pits were entertained, and the sound of banjo and fiddle and the
scrape  of  dancing  feet and light laughter carried far on the night air. Groups hung over pianos and voices sang lustily the sad words of "Your
Letter Came but Came Too Late" while ragged gallants looked meaningly at girls who laughed from behind turkey-tail fans, begging them not to wait
until it was too late. None of the girls waited, if they could help it. With the tide of hysterical gaiety and excitement flooding the city, they
rushed  into  matrimony.  There  were  so many marriages that month while Johnston was holding the enemy at Kennesaw Mountain, marriages with the
bride  turned  out in blushing happiness and the hastily borrowed finery of a dozen friends and the groom with saber banging at patched knees. So
much excitement, so many parties, so many thrills! Hurrah! Johnston is holding the Yanks twenty-two miles away!



Yes, the lines around Kennesaw Mountain were impregnable. After twenty-five days of fighting, even General Sherman was convinced of this, for his
losses  were  enormous.  Instead  of  continuing  the  direct  assault,  he  swung  his army in a wide circle again and tried to come between the
Confederates  and  Atlanta.  Again,  the strategy worked. Johnston was forced to abandon the heights he had held so well, in order to protect his
rear. He had lost a third of his men in that fight and the remainder slogged tiredly through the rain across the country toward the Chattahoochee
River.  The Confederates could expect no more reinforcements, whereas the railroad, which the Yankees now held from Tennessee south to the battle
line, brought Sherman fresh troops and supplies daily. So the gray lines went back through the muddy fields, back toward Atlanta.

With  the  loss  of  the supposedly unconquerable position, a fresh wave of terror swept the town. For twenty-five wild, happy days, everyone had
assured everyone else that this could not possibly happen. And now it had happened! But surely the General would hold the Yankees on the opposite
bank of the river. Though God knows the river was close enough, only seven miles away!

But  Sherman  flanked them again, crossing the stream above them, and the weary gray files were forced to hurry across the yellow water and throw
themselves again between the invaders and Atlanta. They dug in hastily in shallow pits to the north of the town in the valley of Peachtree Creek.
Atlanta was in agony and panic.

Fight  and  fall  back!  Fight  and fall back! And every retreat was bringing the Yankees closer to the town. Peachtree Creek was only five miles
away! What was the General thinking about?

The cries of "Give us a man who will stand and fight!" penetrated even to Richmond. Richmond knew that if Atlanta was lost, the war was lost, and
after the army had crossed the Chattahoochee, General Johnston was removed from command. General Hood, one of his corps commanders, took over the
army, and the town breathed a little easier. Hood wouldn't retreat. Not that tall Kentuckian, with his flowing beard and flashing eye! He had the
reputation  of a bulldog. He'd drive the Yankees back from the creek, yes, back across the river and on up the road every step of the way back to
Dalton.  But  the  army  cried:  "Give  us  back  Old  Joe!" for they had been with Old Joe all the weary miles from Dalton and they knew, as the
civilians could not know, the odds that had opposed them.

Sherman did not wait for Hood to get himself in readiness to attack. On the day after the change in command, the Yankee general struck swiftly at
the  little  town  of  Decatur,  six  miles beyond Atlanta, captured it and cut the railroad there. This was the railroad connecting Atlanta with
Augusta,  with  Charleston,  and  Wilmington and with Virginia. Sherman had dealt the Confederacy a crippling blow. The time had come for action!
Atlanta screamed for action!

Then,  on  a July afternoon of steaming heat, Atlanta had its wish. General Hood did more than stand and fight. He assaulted the Yankees fiercely
at Peachtree Creek, hurling his men from their rifle pits against the blue lines where Sherman's men outnumbered him more than two to one.

Frightened,  praying  that  Hood's  attack  would  drive  the Yankees back, everyone listened to the sound of booming cannon and the crackling of
thousands  of rifles which, though five miles away from the center of town, were so loud as to seem almost in the next block. They could hear the
rumblings  of  the  batteries,  see  the smoke which rolled like low-hanging clouds above the trees, but for hours no one knew how the battle was
going.

By  late  afternoon the first news came, but it was uncertain, contradictory, frightening, brought as it was by men wounded in the early hours of
the  battle.  These  men  began straggling in, singly and in groups, the less seriously wounded supporting those who limped and staggered. Soon a
steady stream of them was established, making their painful way into town toward the hospitals, their faces black as negroes' from powder stains,
dust and sweat, their wounds unbandaged, blood drying, flies swarming about them.

Aunt  Pitty's  was one of the first houses which the wounded reached as they struggled in from the north of the town, and one after another, they
tottered to the gate, sank down on the green lawn and croaked:

"Water!"

All  that  burning  afternoon,  Aunt  Pitty and her family, black and white, stood in the sun with buckets of water and bandages, ladling drinks,
binding  wounds  until  the  bandages gave out and even the torn sheets and towels were exhausted. Aunt Pitty completely forgot that the sight of
blood  always made her faint and she worked until her little feet in their too small shoes swelled and would no longer support her. Even Melanie,
now  great  with  child,  forgot her modesty and worked feverishly side by side with Prissy, Cookie and Scarlett, her face as tense as any of the
wounded.  When  at  last  she  fainted,  there was no place to lay her except on the kitchen table, as every bed, chair and sofa in the house was
filled with wounded.

Forgotten in the tumult, little Wade crouched behind the banisters on the front porch, peering out onto the lawn like a caged, frightened rabbit,
his  eyes wide with terror, sucking his thumb and hiccoughing. Once Scarlett saw him and cried sharply: "Go play in the back yard, Wade Hampton!"
but he was too terrified, too fascinated by the mad scene before him to obey.

The  lawn was covered with prostrate men, too tired to walk farther, too weak from wounds to move. These Uncle Peter loaded into the carriage and
drove  to  the  hospital, making trip after trip until the old horse was lathered. Mrs. Meade and Mrs. Merriwether sent their carriages and they,
too, drove off, springs sagging beneath the weight of the wounded.

Later,  in  the  long,  hot summer twilight, the ambulances came rumbling down the road from the battle field and commissary wagons, covered with
muddy  canvas.  Then  farm wagons, ox carts and even private carriages commandeered by the medical corps. They passed Aunt Pitty's house, jolting
over the bumpy road, packed with wounded and dying men, dripping blood into the red dust. At the sight of the women with buckets and dippers, the
conveyances halted and the chorus went up in cries, in whispers:

"Water!"

Scarlett held wobbling heads that parched lips might drink, poured buckets of water over dusty, feverish bodies and into open wounds that the men
might  enjoy a brief moment's relief. She tiptoed to hand dippers to ambulance drivers and of each she questioned, her heart in her throat: "What
news? What news?"

From all came back the answer: "Don't know fer sartin, lady. It's too soon to tell."

Night  came and it was sultry. No air moved and the flaring pine knots the negroes held made the air hotter. Dust clogged Scarlett's nostrils and
dried  her  lips. Her lavender calico dress, so freshly clean and starched that morning, was streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. This, then, was
what Ashley had meant when he wrote that war was not glory but dirt and misery.

Fatigue gave an unreal, nightmarish cast to the whole scene. It couldn't be real--or it was real, then the world had gone mad. If not, why should
she  be  standing  here  in  Aunt Pitty's peaceful front yard, amid wavering lights, pouring water over dying beaux? For so many of them were her
beaux  and  they  tried  to smile when they saw her. There were so many men jolting down this dark, dusty road whom she knew so well, so many men
dying  here  before her eyes, mosquitoes and gnats swarming their bloody faces, men with whom she had danced and laughed, for whom she had played
music and sung songs, teased, comforted and loved--a little.

She  found  Carey Ashburn on the bottom layer of wounded in an ox cart, barely alive from a bullet wound in his head. But she could not extricate
him  without disturbing six other wounded men, so she let him go on to the hospital. Later she heard he had died before a doctor ever saw him and
was  buried  somewhere,  no one knew exactly. So many men had been buried that month, in shallow, hastily dug graves at Oakland Cemetery. Melanie
felt it keenly that they had not been able to get a lock of Carey's hair to send to his mother in Alabama.

As  the  hot  night wore on and their backs were aching and their knees buckling from weariness, Scarlett and Pitty cried to man after man: "What
news? What news?"

And as the long hours dragged past, they had their answer, an answer that made them look whitely into each other's eyes.

"We're  falling  back." "We've got to fall back." "They outnumber us by thousands." "The Yankees have got Wheeler's cavalry cut off near Decatur.
We got to reenforce them." "Our boys will all be in town soon."

Scarlett and Pitty clutched each other's arms for support.

"Are--are the Yankees coming?"

"Yes'm,  they're  comin'  all  right  but  they  ain't goin' ter git fer, lady." "Don't fret, Miss, they can't take Atlanta." "No, Ma'm, we got a
million miles of breastworks 'round this town." "I heard Old Joe say it myself: 'I can hold Atlanta forever.'" "But we ain't got Old Joe. We got-
-"  "Shut  up,  you  fool!  Do  you want to scare the ladies?" "The Yankees will never take this place, Ma'm." "Whyn't you ladies go ter Macon or
somewheres  that's  safer? Ain't you got no kinfolks there?" "The Yankees ain't goin' ter take Atlanta but still it ain't goin' ter be so healthy
for ladies whilst they're tryin' it." "There's goin' ter be a powerful lot of shellin'."

In  a  warm  steaming  rain  the  next  day, the defeated army poured though Atlanta by thousands, exhausted by hunger and weariness, depleted by
seventy-six  days  of  battle  and  retreat,  their horses starved scarecrows, their cannon and caissons harnessed with odds and ends of rope and
strips of rawhide. But they did not come in as disorderly rabble, in full rout. They marched in good order, jaunty for all their rags, their torn
red  battle  flags  flying  in the rain. They had learned retreating under Old Joe, who had made it as great a feat of strategy as advancing. The
bearded,  shabby  files swung down Peachtree Street to the tune of "Maryland! My Maryland!" and all the town turned out to cheer them. In victory
or defeat, they were their boys.

The  state  militia who had gone out so short a time before, resplendent in new uniforms, could hardly be distinguished from the seasoned troops,
so  dirty and unkempt were they. There was a new look in their eyes. Three years of apologizing, of explaining why they were not at the front was
behind  them  now.  They  had  traded security behind the lines for the hardships of battle. Many of their number had traded easy living for hard
death.  They  were veterans now, veterans of brief service, but veterans just the same, and they had acquitted themselves well. They searched out
the faces of friends in the crowd and stared at them proudly, defiantly. They could hold up their heads now.

The  old  men  and  boys  of  the  Home Guard marched by, the graybeards almost too weary to lift their feet, the boys wearing the faces of tired
children,  confronted  too  early  with adult problems. Scarlett caught sight of Phil Meade and hardly recognized him, so black was his face with
powder  and  grime, so taut with strain and weariness. Uncle Henry went limping by, hatless in the rain, his head stuck through a hole in a piece
of  old oilcloth. Grandpa Merriwether rode in on a gun carriage, his bare feet tied in quilt scraps. But search though she might, she saw no sign
of John Wilkes.

Johnston's  veterans,  however, went by with the tireless, careless step which had carried them for three years, and they still had the energy to
grin  and wave at pretty girls and to call rude gibes to men not in uniform. They were on their way to the entrenchments that ringed the town--no
shallow,  hastily  dug  trenches, these, but earthworks, breast high, reinforced with sandbags and tipped with sharpened staves of wood. For mile
after mile the trenches encircled the town, red gashes surmounted by red mounds, waiting for the men who would fill them.

The  crowd  cheered  the  troops as they would have cheered them in victory. There was fear in every heart but, now that they knew the truth, now
that the worst had happened, now that the war was in their front yard, a change came over the town. There was no panic now, no hysteria. Whatever
lay  in  hearts  did not show on faces. Everyone looked cheerful even if the cheer was strained. Everyone tried to show brave, confident faces to
the troops. Everyone repeated what Old Joe had said, just before he was relieved of command: "I can hold Atlanta forever."

Now  that  Hood  had  had  to retreat, quite a number wished, with the soldiers, that they had Old Joe back, but they forebore saying it and took
courage from Old Joe's remark:

"I can hold Atlanta forever!"



Not  for Hood the cautious tactics of General Johnston. He assaulted the Yankees on the east, he assaulted them on the west. Sherman was circling
the  town  like  a  wrestler seeking a fresh hold on an opponent's body, and Hood did not remain behind his rifle pits waiting for the Yankees to
attack.  He  went  out  boldly to meet them and savagely fell upon them. Within the space of a few days the battles of Atlanta and of Ezra Church
were fought, and both of them were major engagements which made Peachtree Creek seem like a skirmish.

But the Yankees kept coming back for more. They had suffered heavy losses but they could afford to lose. And all the while their batteries poured
shells  into Atlanta, killing people in their homes, ripping roofs off buildings, tearing huge craters in the streets. The townsfolk sheltered as
best they could in cellars, in holes in the ground and in shallow tunnels dug in railroad cuts. Atlanta was under siege.

Within  eleven  days after he had taken command, General Hood had lost almost as many men as Johnston had lost in seventy-four days of battle and
retreat, and Atlanta was hemmed in on three sides.

The  railroad  from  Atlanta to Tennessee was now in Sherman's hands for its full length. His army was across the railroad to the east and he had
cut  the  railroad  running southwest to Alabama. Only the one railroad to the south, to Macon and Savannah, was still open. The town was crowded
with  soldiers,  swamped  with  wounded, jammed with refugees, and this one line was inadequate for the crying needs of the stricken city. But as
long as this railroad could be held, Atlanta could still stand.

Scarlett  was  terrified  when she realized how important this line had become, how fiercely Sherman would fight to take it, how desperately Hood
would fight to defend it. For this was the railroad which ran through the County, through Jonesboro. And Tara was only five miles from Jonesboro!
Tara seemed like a haven of refuge by comparison with the screaming hell of Atlanta, but Tara was only five miles from Jonesboro!



Scarlett  and many other ladies sat on the flat roofs of stores, shaded by their tiny parasols, and watched the fighting on the day of the battle
of  Atlanta.  But  when  shells  began  falling  in the streets for the first time, they fled to the cellars, and that night the exodus of women,
children  and  old  people  from the city began. Macon was their destination and many of those who took the train that night had already refugeed
five  and  six  times  before, as Johnston fell back from Dalton. They were traveling lighter now than when they arrived in Atlanta. Most of them
carried  only  a  carpetbag  and  a  scanty lunch done up in a bandana handkerchief. Here and there, frightened servants carried silver pitchers,
knives and forks and a family portrait or two which had been salvaged in the first fight.

Mrs.  Merriwether  and Mrs. Elsing refused to leave. They were needed at the hospital and furthermore, they said proudly, they weren't afraid and
no  Yankees  were  going to run them out of their homes. But Maybelle and her baby and Fanny Elsing went to Macon. Mrs. Meade was disobedient for
the  first time in her married life and flatly refused to yield to the doctor's command that she take the train to safety. The doctor needed her,
she said. Moreover, Phil was somewhere in the trenches and she wanted to be near by in case . . .

But  Mrs.  Whiting  went  and  many  other  ladies of Scarlett's circle. Aunt Pitty, who had been the first to denounce Old Joe for his policy of
retreat,  was among the first to pack her trunks. Her nerves, she said, were delicate and she could not endure noises. She feared she might faint
at an explosion and not be able to reach the cellar. No, she was not afraid. Her baby mouth tried to set in martial lines but failed. She'd go to
Macon and stay with her cousin, old Mrs. Burr, and the girls should come with her.

Scarlett  did not want to go to Macon. Frightened as she was of the shells, she'd rather stay in Atlanta than go to Macon, for she hated old Mrs.
Burr  cordially.  Years ago, Mrs. Burr had said she was "fast" after catching her kissing her son Willie at one of the Wilkes' house parties. No,
she told Aunt Pitty, I'll go home to Tara and Melly can go to Macon with you.

At  this  Melanie  began  to cry in a frightened, heartbroken way. When Aunt Pitty fled to get Dr. Meade, Melanie caught Scarlett's hand in hers,
pleading:

"Dear,  don't go to Tara and leave me! I'll be so lonely without you. Oh, Scarlett, I'd just die if you weren't with me when the baby came! Yes--
Yes,  I  know  I've got Aunt Pitty and she is sweet. But after all, she's never had a baby, and sometimes she makes me so nervous I could scream.
Don't  desert  me,  darling. You've been just like a sister to me, and besides," she smiled wanly, "you promised Ashley you'd take care of me. He
told me he was going to ask you."

Scarlett stared down at her in wonderment. With her own dislike of this woman so strong she could barely conceal it, how could Melly love her so?
How  could Melly be so stupid as not to guess the secret of her love of Ashley? She had given herself away a hundred times during these months of
torment,  waiting  for  news  of  him.  But  Melanie  saw nothing, Melanie who could see nothing but good in anyone she loved. . . . Yes, she had
promised  Ashley  she  would look out for Melanie. Oh, Ashley! Ashley! you must be dead, dead these many months! And now your promise reaches out
and clutches me!

"Well,"  she  said  shortly, "I did promise him that and I don't go back on my promises. But I won't go to Macon and stay with that old Burr cat.
I'd claw her eyes out in five minutes. I'm going home to Tara and you can come with me. Mother would love to have you."

"Oh, I'd like that! Your mother is so sweet. But you know Auntie would just die if she wasn't with me when the baby came, and I know she won't go
to Tara. It's too close to the fighting, and Auntie wants to be safe."

Dr.  Meade,  who had arrived out of breath, expecting to find Melanie in premature labor at least, judging by Aunt Pitty's alarmed summoning, was
indignant and said as much. And upon learning the cause of the upset, he settled the matter with words that left no room for argument.

"It's  out  of  the question for you to go to Macon, Miss Melly. I won't answer for you if you move. The trains are crowded and uncertain and the
passengers are liable to be put off in the woods at any time, if the trains are needed for the wounded or troops and supplies. In your condition-
-"

"But if I went to Tara with Scarlett--"

"I  tell  you  I won't have you moved. The train to Tara is the train to Macon and the same conditions prevail. Moreover, no one knows just where
the  Yankees are now, but they are all over everywhere. Your train might even be captured. And even if you reached Jonesboro safely, there'd be a
five-mile ride over a rough road before you ever reached Tara. It's no trip for a woman in a delicate condition. Besides, there's not a doctor in
the County since old Dr. Fontaine joined the army."

"But there are midwives--"

"I said a doctor," he answered brusquely and his eyes unconsciously went over her tiny frame. "I won't have you moved. It might be dangerous. You
don't want to have the baby on the train or in a buggy, do you?"

This medical frankness reduced the ladies to embarrassed blushes and silence.

"You've  got to stay right here where I can watch you, and you must stay in bed. No running up and down stairs to cellars. No, not even if shells
come  right  in the window. After all, there's not so much danger here. We'll have the Yankees beaten back in no time. . . . Now, Miss Pitty, you
go right on to Macon and leave the young ladies here."

"Unchaperoned?" she cried, aghast.

"They  are  matrons," said the doctor testily. "And Mrs. Meade is just two houses away. They won't be receiving any male company anyway with Miss
Melly in her condition. Good Heavens, Miss Pitty! This is war time. We can't think of the proprieties now. We must think of Miss Melly."

He stamped out of the room and waited on the front porch until Scarlett joined him.

"I  shall  talk  frankly  to you, Miss Scarlett," he began, jerking at his gray beard. "You seem to be a young woman of common sense, so spare me
your  blushes.  I  do not want to hear any further talk about Miss Melly being moved. I doubt if she could stand the trip. She is going to have a
difficult  time,  even  in the best of circumstances--very narrow in the hips, as you know, and probably will need forceps for her delivery, so I
don't want any ignorant darky midwife meddling with her. Women like her should never have children, but-- Anyway, you pack Miss Pitty's trunk and
send  her  to  Macon. She's so scared she'll upset Miss Melly and that won't do any good. And now, Miss," he fixed her with a piercing glance, "I
don't want to hear about you going home, either. You stay with Miss Melly till the baby comes. Not afraid, are you?"

"Oh, no!" lied Scarlett, stoutly.

"That's a brave girl. Mrs. Meade will give you whatever chaperonage you need and I'll send over old Betsy to cook for you, if Miss Pitty wants to
take  her  servants with her. It won't be for long. The baby ought to be here in another five weeks, but you never can tell with first babies and
all this shelling going on. It may come any day."

So Aunt Pittypat went to Macon, in floods of tears, taking Uncle Peter and Cookie with her. The carriage and horse she donated to the hospital in
a  burst  of  patriotism  which  she immediately regretted and that brought on more tears. And Scarlett and Melanie were left alone with Wade and
Prissy in a house that was much quieter, even though the cannonading continued.



CHAPTER XIX


In  those  first  days  of the siege, when the Yankees crashed here and there against the defenses of the city, Scarlett was so frightened by the
bursting  shells  she  could only cower helplessly, her hands over her ears, expecting every moment to be blown into eternity. When she heard the
whistling  screams  that heralded their approach, she rushed to Melanie's room and flung herself on the bed beside her, and the two clutched each
other,  screaming  "Oh!  Oh!"  as  they  buried their heads in the pillows. Prissy and Wade scurried for the cellar and crouched in the cobwebbed
darkness, Prissy squalling at the top of her voice and Wade sobbing and hiccoughing.

Suffocating  under  feather  pillows while death screamed overhead, Scarlett silently cursed Melanie for keeping her from the safer regions below
stairs.  But  the  doctor  had  forbidden Melanie to walk and Scarlett had to stay with her. Added to her terror of being blown to pieces was her
equally  active  terror  that  Melanie's baby might arrive at any moment. Sweat broke out on Scarlett with clammy dampness, whenever this thought
entered  her mind. What would she do if the baby started coming? She knew she'd rather let Melanie die than go out on the streets to hunt for the
doctor  when the shells were falling like April rain. And she knew Prissy could be beaten to death before she would venture forth. What would she
do if the baby came?

These  matters she discussed with Prissy in whispers one evening, as they prepared Melanie's supper tray, and Prissy, surprisingly enough, calmed
her fears.

"Miss Scarlett, effen we kain git de doctah w'en Miss Melly's time come, doan you bodder. Ah kin manage. Ah knows all 'bout birthin'. Ain' mah ma
a midwife? Ain' she raise me ter be a midwife, too? Jes' you leave it ter me."

Scarlett  breathed  more easily knowing that experienced hands were near, but she nevertheless yearned to have the ordeal over and done with. Mad
to  be away from exploding shells, desperate to get home to the quiet of Tara, she prayed every night that the baby would arrive the next day, so
she would be released from her promise and could leave Atlanta. Tara seemed so safe, so far away from all this misery.

Scarlett longed for home and her mother as she had never longed for anything in all her life. If she were just near Ellen she wouldn't be afraid,
no  matter what happened. Every night after a day of screeching ear-splitting shells, she went to bed determined to tell Melanie the next morning
that she could not stand Atlanta another day, that she would have to go home and Melanie would have to go to Mrs. Meade's. But, as she lay on her
pillow, there always rose the memory of Ashley's face as it had looked when she last saw him, drawn as with an inner pain but with a little smile
on  his  lips:  "You'll  take  care of Melanie, won't you? You're so strong. . . . Promise me." And she had promised. Somewhere, Ashley lay dead.
Wherever  he  was,  he  was  watching  her,  holding her to that promise. Living or dead, she could not fail him, no matter what the cost. So she
remained day after day.

In  response  to Ellen's letters, pleading with her to come home, she wrote minimizing the dangers of the siege, explaining Melanie's predicament
and  promising  to  come  as  soon  as the baby was born. Ellen, sensitive to the bonds of kin, be they blood or marriage, wrote back reluctantly
agreeing that she must stay but demanding Wade and Prissy be sent home immediately. This suggestion met with the complete approval of Prissy, who
was  now  reduced  to teeth-chattering idiocy at every unexpected sound. She spent so much time crouching in the cellar that the girls would have
fared badly but for Mrs. Meade's stolid old Betsy.

Scarlett  was as anxious as her mother to have Wade out of Atlanta, not only for the child's safety, but because his constant fear irritated her.
Wade was terrified to speechlessness by the shelling, and even when lulls came he clung to Scarlett's skirts, too terrified to cry. He was afraid
to go to bed at night, afraid of the dark, afraid to sleep lest the Yankees should come and get him, and the sound of his soft nervous whimpering
in  the  night  grated  unendurably  on  her nerves. Secretly she was just as frightened as he was, but it angered her to be reminded of it every
minute  by  his  tense,  drawn face. Yes, Tara was the place for Wade. Prissy should take him there and return immediately to be present when the
baby came.

But  before  Scarlett could start the two on their homeward journey, news came that the Yankees had swung to the south and were skirmishing along
the  railroad  between  Atlanta  and  Jonesboro.  Suppose the Yankees should capture the train on which Wade and Prissy were riding--Scarlett and
Melanie  turned  pale at the thought, for everyone knew that Yankee atrocities on helpless children were even more dreadful than on women. So she
feared  to  send him home and he remained in Atlanta, a frightened, silent little ghost, pattering about desperately after his mother, fearing to
have her skirt out of his hand for even a minute.

The  siege  went  on  through  the  hot days of July, thundering days following nights of sullen, ominous stillness, and the town began to adjust
itself.  It  was as though, the worst having happened, they had nothing more to fear. They had feared a siege and now they had a siege and, after
all,  it  wasn't so bad. Life could and did go on almost as usual. They knew they were sitting on a volcano, but until that volcano erupted there
was  nothing they could do. So why worry now? And probably it wouldn't erupt anyway. Just look how General Hood is holding the Yankees out of the
city! And see how the cavalry is holding the railroad to Macon! Sherman will never take it!

But  for all their apparent insouciance in the face of falling shells and shorter rations, for all their ignoring the Yankees, barely half a mile
away,  and  for  all their boundless confidence in the ragged line of gray men in the rifle pits, there pulsed, just below the skin of Atlanta, a
wild  uncertainty over what the next day would bring. Suspense, worry, sorrow, hunger and the torment of rising, falling, rising hope was wearing
that skin thin.

Gradually,  Scarlett  drew  courage  from  the brave faces of her friends and from the merciful adjustment which nature makes when what cannot be
cured  must  be endured. To be sure, she still jumped at the sound of explosions but she did not run screaming to burrow her head under Melanie's
pillow. She could now gulp and say weakly: "That was close, wasn't it?"

She  was  less  frightened  also  because life had taken on the quality of a dream, a dream too terrible to be real. It wasn't possible that she,
Scarlett  O'Hara, should be in such a predicament, with the danger of death about her every hour, every minute. It wasn't possible that the quiet
tenor of life could have changed so completely in so short a time.

It  was  unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned so tenderly blue could be profaned with cannon smoke that hung over the town
like  low thunder clouds, that warm noontides filled with the piercing sweetness of massed honeysuckle and climbing roses could be so fearful, as
shells screamed into the streets, bursting like the crack of doom, throwing iron splinters hundreds of yards, blowing people and animals to bits.

Quiet,  drowsy  afternoon  siestas had ceased to be, for though the clamor of battle might lull from time to time, Peachtree Street was alive and
noisy at all hours, cannon and ambulances rumbling by, wounded stumbling in from the rifle pits, regiments hurrying past at double-quick, ordered
from  the  ditches on one side of town to the defense of some hard-pressed earthworks on the other, and couriers dashing headlong down the street
toward headquarters as though the fate of the Confederacy hung on them.

The  hot  nights  brought  a  measure of quiet but it was a sinister quiet. When the night was still, it was too still--as though the tree frogs,
katydids  and sleepy mockingbirds were too frightened to raise their voices in the usual summer-night chorus. Now and again, the quiet was broken
sharply by the crack-cracking of musket fire in the last line of defenses.

Often in the late night hours, when the lamps were out and Melanie asleep and deathly silence pressed over the town, Scarlett, lying awake, heard
the latch of the front gate click and soft urgent tappings on the front door.

Always,  faceless soldiers stood on the dark porch and from the darkness many different voices spoke to her. Sometimes a cultured voice came from
the  shadows:  "Madam, my abject apologies for disturbing you, but could I have water for myself and my horse?" Sometimes it was the hard burring
of  a  mountain  voice, sometimes the odd nasals of the flat Wiregrass country to the far south, occasionally the lulling drawl of the Coast that
caught at her heart, reminding her of Ellen's voice.

"Missy, I got a pardner here who I wuz aimin' ter git ter the horsepittle but looks like he ain't goin' ter last that fer. Kin you take him in?"

"Lady, I shore could do with some vittles. I'd shore relish a corn pone if it didn't deprive you none."

"Madam, forgive my intrusion but--could I spend the night on your porch? I saw the roses and smelled the honeysuckle and it was so much like home
that I was emboldened--"

No,  these  nights  were  not real! They were a nightmare and the men were part of that nightmare, men without bodies or faces, only tired voices
speaking  to  her from the warm dark. Draw water, serve food, lay pillows on the front porch, bind wounds, hold the dirty heads of the dying. No,
this could not be happening to her!

Once,  late in July, it was Uncle Henry Hamilton who came tapping in the night. Uncle Henry was minus his umbrella and carpetbag now, and his fat
stomach  as  well. The skin of his pink fat face hung down in loose folds like the dewlaps of a bulldog and his long white hair was indescribably
dirty. He was almost barefoot, crawling with lice, and he was hungry, but his irascible spirit was unimpaired.

Despite  his  remark:  "It's  a  foolish  war when old fools like me are out toting guns," the girls received the impression that Uncle Henry was
enjoying  himself.  He  was needed, like the young men, and he was doing a young man's work. Moreover, he could keep up with the young men, which
was  more  than  Grandpa  Merriwether  could  do,  he  told them gleefully. Grandpa's lumbago was troubling him greatly and the Captain wanted to
discharge  him.  But  Grandpa  wouldn't  go  home. He said frankly that he preferred the Captain's swearing and bullying to his daughter-in-law's
coddling, and her incessant demands that he give up chewing tobacco and launder his beard every day.

Uncle Henry's visit was brief, for he had only a four-hour furlough and he needed half of it for the long walk in from the breastworks and back.

"Girls,  I'm  not going to see you all for a while," he announced as he sat in Melanie's bedroom, luxuriously wriggling his blistered feet in the
tub of cold water Scarlett had set before him. "Our company is going out in the morning."

"Where?" questioned Melanie frightened, clutching his arm.

"Don't  put  your  hand  on  me," said Uncle Henry irritably. "I'm crawling with lice. War would be a picnic if it wasn't for lice and dysentery.
Where'm  I  going? Well, I haven't been told but I've got a good idea. We're marching south, toward Jonesboro, in the morning, unless I'm greatly
in error."

"Oh, why toward Jonesboro?"

"Because  there's going to be big fighting there, Missy. The Yankees are going to take the railroad if they possibly can. And if they do take it,
it's good-by Atlanta!"

"Oh, Uncle Henry, do you think they will?"

"Shucks,  girls! No! How can they when I'm there?" Uncle Henry grinned at their frightened faces and then, becoming serious again: "It's going to
be  a  hard fight, girls. We've got to win it. You know, of course, that the Yankees have got all the railroads except the one to Macon, but that
isn't  all  they've  got. Maybe you girls didn't know it, but they've got every road, too, every wagon lane and bridle path, except the McDonough
road.  Atlanta's  in  a  bag  and  the  strings of the bag are at Jonesboro. And if the Yankees can take the railroad there, they can pull up the
strings  and  have  us,  just like a possum in a poke. So, we don't aim to let them get that railroad. . . . I may be gone a while, girls. I just
came in to tell you all good-by and to make sure Scarlett was still with you, Melly."

"Of course, she's with me," said Melanie fondly. "Don't you worry about us, Uncle Henry, and do take care of yourself."

Uncle Henry wiped his wet feet on the rag rug and groaned as he drew on his tattered shoes.

"I got to be going," he said. "I've got five miles to walk. Scarlett, you fix me up some kind of lunch to take. Anything you've got."

After he had kissed Melanie good-by, he went down to the kitchen where Scarlett was wrapping a corn pone and some apples in a napkin.

"Uncle Henry--is it--is it really so serious?"

"Serious? God'lmighty, yes! Don't be a goose. We're in the last ditch."

"Do you think they'll get to Tara?"

"Why--" began Uncle Henry, irritated at the feminine mind which thought only of personal things when broad issues were involved. Then, seeing her
frightened, woebegone face, he softened.

"Of  course  they  won't.  Tara's  five miles from the railroad and it's the railroad the Yankees want. You've got no more sense than a June bug,
Missy."  He  broke  off abruptly. "I didn't walk all this way here tonight just to tell you all good-by. I came to bring Melly some bad news, but
when I got up to it I just couldn't tell her. So I'm going to leave it to you to do."

"Ashley isn't--you haven't heard anything--that he's--dead?"

"Now,  how  would  I  be  hearing  about Ashley when I've been standing in rifle pits up to the seat of my pants in mud?" the old gentleman asked
testily. "No. It's about his father. John Wilkes is dead."

Scarlett sat down suddenly, the half-wrapped lunch in her hand.

"I came to tell Melly--but I couldn't. You must do it. And give her these."

He  hauled  from  his  pockets  a heavy gold watch with dangling seals, a small miniature of the long dead Mrs. Wilkes and a pair of massive cuff
buttons.  At  the  sight  of  the  watch  which she had seen in John Wilkes' hands a thousand times, the full realization came over Scarlett that
Ashley's father was really dead. And she was too stunned to cry or to speak. Uncle Henry fidgeted, coughed and did not look at her, lest he catch
sight of a tear that would upset him.

"He  was  a  brave man, Scarlett. Tell Melly that. Tell her to write it to his girls. And a good soldier for all his years. A shell got him. Came
right  down  on  him and his horse. Tore the horse's--I shot the horse myself, poor creature. A fine little mare she was. You'd better write Mrs.
Tarleton about that, too. She set a store on that mare. Wrap up my lunch, child. I must be going. There, dear, don't take it so hard. What better
way can an old man die than doing a young man's work?"

"Oh,  he shouldn't have died! He shouldn't have ever gone to the war. He should have lived and seen his grandchild grow up and died peacefully in
bed. Oh, why did he go? He didn't believe in secession and he hated the war and--"

"Plenty  of  us  think  that way, but what of it?" Uncle Henry blew his nose grumpily. "Do you think I enjoy letting Yankee riflemen use me for a
target  at  my  age?  But there's no other choice for a gentleman these days. Kiss me good-by, child, and don't worry about me. I'll come through
this war safely."

Scarlett kissed him and heard him go down the steps into the dark, heard the latch click on the front gate. She stood for a minute looking at the
keepsakes in her hand. And then she went up the stairs to tell Melanie.



At  the end of July came the unwelcome news, predicted by Uncle Henry, that the Yankees had swung around again toward Jonesboro. They had cut the
railroad  four miles below the town, but they had been beaten off by the Confederate cavalry; and the engineering corps, sweating in the broiling
sun, had repaired the line.

Scarlett was frantic with anxiety. For three days she waited, fear growing in her heart. Then a reassuring letter came from Gerald. The enemy had
not reached Tara. They had heard the sound of the fight but they had seen no Yankees.

Gerald's letter was so full of brag and bluster as to how the Yankees had been driven from the railroad that one would have thought he personally
had  accomplished  the  feat,  single  handed.  He  wrote  for  three pages about the gallantry of the troops and then, at the end of his letter,
mentioned  briefly  that Carreen was ill. The typhoid, Mrs. O'Hara said it was. She was not very ill and Scarlett was not to worry about her, but
on  no  condition  must  she come home now, even if the railroad should become safe. Mrs. O'Hara was very glad now that Scarlett and Wade had not
come home when the siege began. Mrs. O'Hara said Scarlett must go to church and say some Rosaries for Carreen's recovery.

Scarlett's  conscience  smote  her at this last, for it had been months since she had been to church. Once she would have thought this omission a
mortal  sin but, somehow, staying away from church did not seem so sinful now as it formerly had. But she obeyed her mother and going to her room
gabbled  a  hasty Rosary. When she rose from her knees she did not feel as comforted as she had formerly felt after prayer. For some time she had
felt that God was not watching out for her, the Confederates or the South, in spite of the millions of prayers ascending to Him daily.

That  night she sat on the front porch with Gerald's letter in her bosom where she could touch it occasionally and bring Tara and Ellen closer to
her. The lamp in the parlor window threw odd golden shadows onto the dark vine-shrouded porch, and the matted tangle of yellow climbing roses and
honeysuckle  made  a wall of mingled fragrance about her. The night was utterly still. Not even the crack of a rifle had sounded since sunset and
the world seemed far away. Scarlett rocked back and forth, lonely, miserable since reading the news from Tara, wishing that someone, anyone, even
Mrs.  Merriwether, were with her. But Mrs. Merriwether was on night duty at the hospital, Mrs. Meade was at home making a feast for Phil, who was
in  from  the  front  lines, and Melanie was asleep. There was not even the hope of a chance caller. Visitors had fallen off to nothing this last
week, for every man who could walk was in the rifle pits or chasing the Yankees about the countryside near Jonesboro.

It  was not often that she was alone like this and she did not like it. When she was alone she had to think and, these days, thoughts were not so
pleasant. Like everyone else, she had fallen into the habit of thinking of the past, the dead.

Tonight  when Atlanta was so quiet, she could close her eyes and imagine she was back in the rural stillness of Tara and that life was unchanged,
unchanging.  But  she knew that life in the County would never be the same again. She thought of the four Tarletons, the red-haired twins and Tom
and Boyd, and a passionate sadness caught at her throat. Why, either Stu or Brent might have been her husband. But now, when the war was over and
she  went  back  to  Tara to live, she would never again hear their wild halloos as they dashed up the avenue of cedars. And Raiford Calvert, who
danced so divinely, would never again choose her to be his partner. And the Munroe boys and little Joe Fontaine and--

"Oh, Ashley!" she sobbed, dropping her head into her hands. "I'll never get used to you being gone!"

She  heard  the  front  gate  click and she hastily raised her head and dashed her hand across her wet eyes. She rose and saw it was Rhett Butler
coming  up  the  walk,  carrying  his  wide Panama hat in his hand. She had not seen him since the day when she had alighted from his carriage so
precipitously  at  Five  Points.  On  that occasion, she had expressed the desire never to lay eyes on him again. But she was so glad now to have
someone  to  talk  to,  someone to divert her thoughts from Ashley, that she hastily put the memory from her mind. Evidently he had forgotten the
contretemps, or pretended to have forgotten it, for he settled himself on the top step at her feet without mention of their late difference.

"So  you  didn't  refugee to Macon! I heard that Miss Pitty had retreated and, of course, I thought you had gone too. So, when I saw your light I
came here to investigate. Why did you stay?"

"To keep Melanie company. You see, she--well, she can't refugee just now."

"Thunderation,"  he  said, and in the lamplight she saw that he was frowning. "You don't mean to tell me Mrs. Wilkes is still here? I never heard
of such idiocy. It's quite dangerous for her in her condition."

Scarlett  was  silent,  embarrassed, for Melanie's condition was not a subject she could discuss with a man. She was embarrassed, too, that Rhett
should know it was dangerous for Melanie. Such knowledge sat ill upon a bachelor.

"It's quite ungallant of you not to think that I might get hurt too," she said tartly.

His eyes flickered with amusement.

"I'd back you against the Yankees any day."

"I'm not sure that that's a compliment," she said uncertainly.

"It isn't," he answered. "When will you stop looking for compliments in men's lightest utterances?"

"When I'm on my deathbed," she replied and smiled, thinking that there would always be men to compliment her, even if Rhett never did.

"Vanity, vanity," he said. "At least, you are frank about it."

He  opened  his  cigar  case,  extracted  a  black cigar and held it to his nose for a moment. A match flared, he leaned back against a post and,
clasping his hands about his knees, smoked a while in silence. Scarlett resumed her rocking and the still darkness of the warm night closed about
them.  The  mockingbird,  which  nested  in the tangle of roses and honeysuckle, roused from slumber and gave one timid, liquid note. Then, as if
thinking better of the matter, it was silent again.

From the shadow of the porch, Rhett suddenly laughed, a low, soft laugh.

"So you stayed with Mrs. Wilkes! This is the strangest situation I ever encountered!"

"I see nothing strange about it," she answered uncomfortably, immediately on the alert.

"No?  But  then  you lack the impersonal viewpoint. My impression has been for some time past that you could hardly endure Mrs. Wilkes. You think
her  silly  and  stupid  and  her  patriotic notions bore you. You seldom pass by the opportunity to slip in some belittling remark about her, so
naturally  it  seems strange to me that you should elect to do the unselfish thing and stay here with her during this shelling. Now, just why did
you do it?"

"Because she's Charlie's sister--and like a sister to me," answered Scarlett with as much dignity as possible though her cheeks were growing hot.

"You mean because she's Ashley's Wilkes' widow."

Scarlett rose quickly, struggling with her anger.

"I  was  almost on the point of forgiving you for your former boorish conduct but now I shan't do it. I wouldn't have ever let you come upon this
porch at all, if I hadn't been feeling so blue and--"

"Sit  down  and  smooth your ruffled fur," he said, and his voice changed. He reached up and taking her hand pulled her back into her chair. "Why
are you blue?"

"Oh,  I had a letter from Tara today. The Yankees are close to home and my little sister is ill with typhoid and--and--so now, even if I could go
home, like I want to, Mother wouldn't let me for fear I'd catch it too. Oh, dear, and I do so want to go home!"

"Well,  don't  cry about it," he said, but his voice was kinder. "You are much safer here in Atlanta even if the Yankees do come than you'd be at
Tara. The Yankees won't hurt you and typhoid would."

"The Yankees wouldn't hurt me! How can you say such a lie?"

"My  dear girl, the Yankees aren't fiends. They haven't horns and hoofs, as you seem to think. They are pretty much like Southerners--except with
worse manners, of course, and terrible accents."

"Why, the Yankees would--"

"Rape you? I think not. Though, of course, they'd want to."

"If you are going to talk vilely I shall go into the house," she cried, grateful that the shadows hid her crimson face.

"Be frank. Wasn't that what you were thinking?"

"Oh, certainly not!"

"Oh,  but  it  was!  No  use getting mad at me for reading your thoughts. That's what all our delicately nurtured and pure-minded Southern ladies
think. They have it on their minds constantly. I'll wager even dowagers like Mrs. Merriwether . . ."

Scarlett  gulped  in  silence, remembering that wherever two or more matrons were gathered together, in these trying days, they whispered of such
happenings,  always  in  Virginia  or  Tennessee  or  Lousiana,  never close to home. The Yankees raped women and ran bayonets through children's
stomachs  and  burned  houses  over  the  heads  of old people. Everyone knew these things were true even if they didn't shout them on the street
corners. And if Rhett had any decency he would realize they were true. And not talk about them. And it wasn't any laughing matter either.

She  could hear him chuckling softly. Sometimes he was odious. In fact, most of the time he was odious. It was awful for a man to know what women
really  thought about and talked about. It made a girl feel positively undressed. And no man ever learned such things from good women either. She
was indignant that he had read her mind. She liked to believe herself a thing of mystery to men, but she knew Rhett thought her as transparent as
glass.

"Speaking  of  such  matters,"  he  continued, "have you a protector or chaperon in the house? The admirable Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs. Meade? They
always look at me as if they knew I was here for no good purpose."

"Mrs. Meade usually comes over at night," answered Scarlett, glad to change the subject. "But she couldn't tonight. Phil, her boy, is home."

"What luck," he said softly, "to find you alone."

Something in his voice made her heart beat pleasantly faster and she felt her face flush. She had heard that note in men's voices often enough to
know that it presaged a declaration of love. Oh, what fun! If he would just say he loved her, how she would torment him and get even with him for
all  the  sarcastic  remarks  he  had  flung  at  her  these  past three years. She would lead him a chase that would make up for even that awful
humiliation  of  the  day he witnessed her slapping Ashley. And then she'd tell him sweetly she could only be a sister to him and retire with the
full honors of war. She laughed nervously in pleasant anticipation.

"Don't giggle," he said, and taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed his lips into the palm. Something vital, electric, leaped from him to
her  at the touch of his warm mouth, something that caressed her whole body thrillingly. His lips traveled to her wrist and she knew he must feel
the  leap  of  her pulse as her heart quickened and she tried to draw back her hand. She had not bargained on this--this treacherous warm tide of
feeling that made her want to run her hands through his hair, to feel his lips upon her mouth.

She  wasn't in love with him, she told herself confusedly. She was in love with Ashley. But how to explain this feeling that made her hands shake
and the pit of her stomach grow cold?

He laughed softly.

"Don't pull away! I won't hurt you!"

"Hurt me? I'm not afraid of you, Rhett Butler, or of any man in shoe leather!" she cried, furious that her voice shook as well as her hands.

"An  admirable  sentiment, but do lower your voice. Mrs. Wilkes might hear you. And pray compose yourself." He sounded as though delighted at her
flurry.

"Scarlett, you do like me, don't you?"

That was more like what she was expecting.

"Well, sometimes," she answered cautiously. "When you aren't acting like a varmint."

He laughed again and held the palm of her hand against his hard cheek.

"I think you like me because I am a varmint. You've known so few dyed-in-the-wool varmints in your sheltered life that my very difference holds a
quaint charm for you."

This was not the turn she had anticipated and she tried again without success to pull her hand free.

"That's not true! I like nice men--men you can depend on to always be gentlemanly."

"You mean men you can always bully. It's merely a matter of definition. But no matter."

He kissed her palm again, and again the skin on the back of her neck crawled excitingly.

"But you do like me. Could you ever love me, Scarlett?"

"Ah!"  she  thought,  triumphantly.  "Now I've got him!" And she answered with studied coolness: "Indeed, no. That is--not unless you mended your
manners considerably."

"And  I have no intention of mending them. So you could not love me? That is as I hoped. For while I like you immensely, I do not love you and it
would  be  tragic  indeed for you to suffer twice from unrequited love, wouldn't it, dear? May I call you 'dear,' Mrs. Hamilton? I shall call you
'dear' whether you like it or not, so no matter, but the proprieties must be observed."

"You don't love me?"

"No, indeed. Did you hope that I did?"

"Don't be so presumptuous!"

"You  hoped!  Alas,  to  blight your hopes! I should love you, for you are charming and talented at many useless accomplishments. But many ladies
have  charm  and  accomplishments and are just as useless as you are. No, I don't love you. But I do like you tremendously--for the elasticity of
your  conscience,  for  the selfishness which you seldom trouble to hide, and for the shrewd practicality in you which, I fear, you get from some
not too remote Irish-peasant ancestor."

Peasant! Why, he was insulting her! She began to splutter wordlessly.

"Don't  interrupt,"  he  begged,  squeezing her hand. "I like you because I have those same qualities in me and like begets liking. I realize you
still  cherish  the memory of the godlike and wooden-headed Mr. Wilkes, who's probably been in his grave these six months. But there must be room
in  your heart for me too. Scarlett, do stop wriggling! I am making you a declaration. I have wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you,
in  the  hall  of Twelve Oaks, when you were bewitching poor Charlie Hamilton. I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman--and I've waited
longer for you than I've ever waited for any woman."

She  was  breathless  with surprise at his last words. In spite of all his insults, he did love her and he was just so contrary he didn't want to
come out frankly and put it into words, for fear she'd laugh. Well, she'd show him and right quickly.

"Are you asking me to marry you?"

He dropped her hand and laughed so loudly she shrank back in her chair.

"Good Lord, no! Didn't I tell you I wasn't a marrying man?"

"But--but--what--"

He rose to his feet and, hand on heart, made her a burlesque bow.

"Dear," he said quietly, "I am complimenting your intelligence by asking you to be my mistress without having first seduced you."

Mistress!

Her  mind shouted the word, shouted that she had been vilely insulted. But in that first startled moment she did not feel insulted. She only felt
a  furious surge of indignation that he should think her such a fool. He must think her a fool if he offered her a proposition like that, instead
of the proposal of matrimony she had been expecting. Rage, punctured vanity and disappointment threw her mind into a turmoil and, before she even
thought of the high moral grounds on which she should upbraid him, she blurted out the first words which came to her lips--

"Mistress! What would I get out of that except a passel of brats?"

And  then  her  jaw  dropped  in  horror as she realized what she had said. He laughed until he choked, peering at her in the shadows as she sat,
stricken dumb, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.

"That's  why  I  like  you! You are the only frank woman I know, the only woman who looks on the practical side of matters without beclouding the
issue with mouthings about sin and morality. Any other woman would have swooned first and then shown me the door."

Scarlett leaped to her feet, her face red with shame. How could she have said such a thing! How could she, Ellen's daughter, with her upbringing,
have  sat  there and listened to such debasing words and then made such a shameless reply? She should have screamed. She should have fainted. She
should have turned coldly away in silence and swept from the porch. Too late now!

"I  will  show  you  the  door," she shouted, not caring if Melanie or the Meades, down the street, did bear her. "Get out! How dare you say such
things  to  me!  What  have  I ever done to encourage you--to make you suppose. . . . Get out and don't ever come back here. I mean it this time.
Don't  you  ever  come  back  here with any of your piddling papers of pins and ribbons, thinking I'll forgive you. I'll--I'll tell my father and
he'll kill you!"

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  bowed and she saw in the light of the lamp that his teeth were showing in a smile beneath his mustache. He was not
ashamed, he was amused at what she had said, and he was watching her with alert interest.

Oh,  he was detestable! She swung round on her heel and marched into the house. She grabbed hold of the door to shut it with a bang, but the hook
which held it open was too heavy for her. She struggled with it, panting.

"May I help you?" he asked.

Feeling  that  she  would  burst  a blood vessel if she stayed another minute, she stormed up the stairs. And as she reached the upper floor, she
heard him obligingly slam the door for her.



CHAPTER XX


As the hot noisy days of August were drawing to a close the bombardment abruptly ceased. The quiet that fell on the town was startling. Neighbors
met  on the streets and stared at one another, uncertain, uneasy, as to what might be impending. The stillness, after the screaming days, brought
no  surcease to strained nerves but, if possible, made the strain even worse. No one knew why the Yankee batteries were silent; there was no news
of  the  troops  except that they had been withdrawn in large numbers from the breastworks about the town and had marched off toward the south to
defend the railroad. No one knew where the fighting was, if indeed there was any fighting, or how the battle was going if there was a battle.

Nowadays  the  only  news  was  that  which  passed from mouth to mouth. Short of paper, short of ink, short of men, the newspapers had suspended
publication  after  the  siege  began, and the wildest rumors appeared from nowhere and swept through the town. Now, in the anxious quiet, crowds
stormed  General  Hood's  headquarters  demanding  information,  crowds  massed about the telegraph office and the depot hoping for tidings, good
tidings,  for  everyone  hoped that the silence of Sherman's cannon meant that the Yankees were in full retreat and the Confederates chasing them
back  up the road to Dalton. But no news came. The telegraph wires were still, no trains came in on the one remaining railroad from the south and
the mail service was broken.

Autumn with its dusty, breathless heat was slipping in to choke the suddenly quiet town, adding its dry, panting weight to tired, anxious hearts.
To  Scarlett,  mad  to  hear from Tara, yet trying to keep up a brave face, it seemed an eternity since the siege began, seemed as though she had
always  lived  with the sound of cannon in her ears until this sinister quiet had fallen. And yet, it was only thirty days since the siege began.
Thirty  days of siege! The city ringed with red-clay rifle pits, the monotonous booming of cannon that never rested, the long lines of ambulances
and ox carts dripping blood down the dusty streets toward the hospitals, the overworked burial squads dragging out men when they were hardly cold
and dumping them like so many logs in endless rows of shallow ditches. Only thirty days!

And  it was only four months since the Yankees moved south from Dalton! Only four months! Scarlett thought, looking back on that far day, that it
had occurred in another life. Oh, no! Surely not just four months. It had been a lifetime.

Four  months  ago!  Why,  four  months  ago Dalton, Resaca, Kennesaw Mountain had been to her only names of places on the railroad. Now they were
battles,  battles  desperately, vainly fought as Johnston fell back toward Atlanta. And now, Peachtree Creek, Decatur, Ezra Church and Utoy Creek
were  no  longer  pleasant  names  of  pleasant places. Never again could she think of them as quiet villages full of welcoming friends, as green
places  where  she  picnicked  with handsome officers on the soft banks of slow-moving streams. These names meant battles too, and the soft green
grasses where she had sat were cut to bits by heavy cannon wheels, trampled by desperate feet when bayonet met bayonet and flattened where bodies
threshed  in  agonies.  .  .  . And the lazy streams were redder now than ever Georgia clay could make them. Peachtree Creek was crimson, so they
said,  after  the  Yankees  crossed  it. Peachtree Creek, Decatur, Ezra Church, Utoy Creek. Never names of places any more. Names of graves where
friends  lay  buried,  names of tangled underbrush and thick woods where bodies rotted unburied, names of the four sides of Atlanta where Sherman
had tried to force his army in and Hood's men had doggedly beaten him back.

At  last,  news  came from the south to the strained town and it was alarming news, especially to Scarlett. General Sherman was trying the fourth
side  of  the  town  again,  striking  again  at the railroad at Jonesboro. Yankees in large numbers were on that fourth side of the town now, no
skirmishing  units  or  cavalry  detachments  but the massed Yankee forces. And thousands of Confederate troops had been withdrawn from the lines
close about the city to hurl themselves against them. And that explained the sudden silence.

"Why Jonesboro?" thought Scarlett, terror striking at her heart at the thought of Tara's nearness. "Why must they always hit Jonesboro? Why can't
they find some other place to attack the railroad?"

For a week she had not heard from Tara and the last brief note from Gerald had added to her fears. Carreen had taken a turn for the worse and was
very, very sick. Now it might be days before the mails came through, days before she heard whether Carreen was alive or dead. Oh, if she had only
gone home at the beginning of the siege, Melanie or no Melanie!

There  was fighting at Jonesboro--that much Atlanta knew, but how the battle went no one could tell and the most insane rumors tortured the town.
Finally  a  courier  came  up  from  Jonesboro  with  the  reassuring news that the Yankees had been beaten back. But they had made a sortie into
Jonesboro,  burned  the  depot, cut the telegraph wires and torn up three miles of track before they retreated. The engineering corps was working
like  mad,  repairing  the  line,  but  it  would  take  some time because the Yankees had torn up the crossties, made bonfires of them, laid the
wrenched-up rails across them until they were red hot and then twisted them around telegraph poles until they looked like giant corkscrews. These
days it was so hard to replace iron rails, to replace anything made of iron.

No, the Yankees hadn't gotten to Tara. The same courier who brought the dispatches to General Hood assured Scarlett of that. He had met Gerald in
Jonesboro after the battle, just as he was starting to Atlanta, and Gerald had begged him to bring a letter to her.

But  what  was Pa doing in Jonesboro? The young courier looked ill at ease as he made answer. Gerald was hunting for an army doctor to go to Tara
with him.

As  she  stood in the sunshine on the front porch, thanking the young man for his trouble, Scarlett felt her knees go weak. Carreen must be dying
if  she  was  so  far  beyond  Ellen's  medical skill that Gerald was hunting a doctor! As the courier went off in a small whirlwind of red dust,
Scarlett  tore  open Gerald's letter with fingers that trembled. So great was the shortage of paper in the Confederacy now that Gerald's note was
written between the lines of her last letter to him and reading it was difficult.

"Dear  Daughter,  Your  Mother and both girls have the typhoid. They are very ill but we must hope for the best. When your mother took to her bed
she  bade me write you that under no condition were you to come home and expose yourself and Wade to the disease. She sends her love and bids you
pray for her."

"Pray  for  her!" Scarlett flew up the stairs to her room and, dropping on her knees by the bed, prayed as she had never prayed before. No formal
Rosaries now but the same words over and over: "Mother of God, don't let her die! I'll be so good if you don't let her die! Please, don't let her
die!"

For  the  next  week  Scarlett crept about the house like a stricken animal, waiting for news, starting at every sound of horses' hooves, rushing
down  the  dark  stair  at night when soldiers came tapping at the door, but no news came from Tara. The width of the continent might have spread
between her and home instead of twenty-five miles of dusty road.

The  mails  were  still  disrupted,  no  one  knew  where  the Confederates were or what the Yankees were up to. No one knew anything except that
thousands of soldiers, gray and blue, were somewhere between Atlanta and Jonesboro. Not a word from Tara in a week.

Scarlett  had seen enough typhoid in the Atlanta hospital to know what a week meant in that dread disease. Ellen was ill, perhaps dying, and here
was  Scarlett helpless in Atlanta with a pregnant woman on her hands and two armies between her and home. Ellen was ill--perhaps dying. But Ellen
couldn't  be  ill!  She  had  never been ill. The very thought was incredible and it struck at the very foundations of the security of Scarlett's
life.  Everyone else got sick, but never Ellen. Ellen looked after sick people and made them well again. She couldn't be sick. Scarlett wanted to
be home. She wanted Tara with the desperate desire of a frightened child frantic for the only haven it had ever known.

Home!  The sprawling white house with fluttering white curtains at the windows, the thick clover on the lawn with the bees busy in it, the little
black  boy on the front steps shooing the ducks and turkeys from the flower beds, the serene red fields and the miles and miles of cotton turning
white in the sun! Home!

If  she had only gone home at the beginning of the siege, when everyone else was refugeeing! She could have taken Melanie with her in safety with
weeks to spare.

"Oh,  damn  Melanie!"  she thought a thousand times. "Why couldn't she have gone to Macon with Aunt Pitty? That's where she belongs, with her own
kinfolks,  not  with  me.  I'm  none of her blood. Why does she hang onto me so hard? If she'd only gone to Macon, then I could have gone home to
Mother.  Even now--even now, I'd take a chance on getting home in spite of the Yankees, if it wasn't for this baby. Maybe General Hood would give
me an escort. He's a nice man, General Hood, and I know I could make him give me an escort and a flag of truce to get me through the lines. But I
have  to  wait  for  this baby! . . . Oh, Mother! Mother! Don't die! . . . Why don't this baby ever come? I'll see Dr. Meade today and ask him if
there's  any  way to hurry babies up so I can go home--if I can get an escort. Dr. Meade said she'd have a bad time. Dear God! Suppose she should
die!  Melanie dead. Melanie dead. And Ashley-- No, I mustn't think about that, it isn't nice. But Ashley-- No, I mustn't think about that because
he's  probably  dead,  anyway.  But  he  made me promise I'd take care of her. But--if I didn't take care of her and she died and Ashley is still
alive--  No,  I  mustn't think about that. It's sinful. And I promised God I'd be good if He would just not let Mother die. Oh, if the baby would
only come. If I could only get away from here--get home--get anywhere but here."

Scarlett  hated the sight of the ominously still town now and once she had loved it. Atlanta was no longer the gay, the desperately gay place she
had  loved.  It  was  a  hideous  place  like  a  plague-stricken  city  so quiet, so dreadfully quiet after the din of the siege. There had been
stimulation  in the noise and the danger of the shelling. There was only horror in the quiet that followed. The town seemed haunted, haunted with
fear  and  uncertainty  and  memories.  People's faces looked pinched and the few soldiers Scarlett saw wore the exhausted look of racers forcing
themselves on through the last lap of a race already lost.

The  last  day of August came and with it convincing rumors that the fiercest fighting since the battle of Atlanta was taking place. Somewhere to
the  south. Atlanta, waiting for news of the turn of battle, stopped even trying to laugh and joke. Everyone knew now what the soldiers had known
two weeks before--that Atlanta was in the last ditch, that if the Macon railroad fell, Atlanta would fall too.



On  the  morning  of  the  first of September, Scarlett awoke with a suffocating sense of dread upon her, a dread she had taken to her pillow the
night before. She thought, dulled with sleep: "What was it I was worrying about when I went to bed last night? Oh, yes, the fighting. There was a
battle, somewhere, yesterday! Oh, who won?" She sat up hastily, rubbing her eyes, and her worried heart took up yesterday's load again.

The  air was oppressive even in the early morning hour, hot with the scorching promise of a noon of glaring blue sky and pitiless bronze sun. The
road  outside  lay  silent.  No  wagons creaked by. No troops raised the red dust with their tramping feet. There were no sounds of negroes' lazy
voices  in  neighboring  kitchens,  no  pleasant  sounds  of  breakfasts  being  prepared,  for all the near neighbors except Mrs. Meade and Mrs.
Merriwether  had  refugeed  to Macon. And she could hear nothing from their houses either. Farther down the street the business section was quiet
and  many  of  the stores and offices were locked and boarded up, while their occupants were somewhere about the countryside with rifles in their
hands.

The  stillness that greeted her seemed even more sinister this morning than on any of the mornings of the queer quiet week preceding it. She rose
hastily,  without  her  usual preliminary burrowings and stretchings, and went to the window, hoping to see some neighbor's face, some heartening
sight.  But  the  road  was  empty. She noted how the leaves on the trees were still dark green but dry and heavily coated with red dust, and how
withered and sad the untended flowers in the front yard looked.

As  she stood, looking out of the window, there came to her ears a far-off sound, faint and sullen as the first distant thunder of an approaching
storm.

"Rain,"  she  thought in the first moment, and her country-bred mind added, "we certainly need it." But, in a split instant: "Rain? No! Not rain!
Cannon!"

Her heart racing, she leaned from the window, her ear cocked to the far-off roaring, trying to discover from which direction it came. But the dim
thundering was so distant that, for a moment, she could not tell. "Make it from Marietta, Lord!" she prayed. "Or Decatur. Or Peachtree Creek. But
not  from  the south! Not from the south!" She gripped the window still tighter and strained her ears and the far-away booming seemed louder. And
it was coming from the south.

Cannon to the south! And to the south lay Jonesboro and Tara--and Ellen.

Yankees perhaps at Tara, now, this minute! She listened again but the blood thudding in her ears all but blurred out the sound of far-off firing.
No,  they  couldn't  be  at Jonesboro yet. If they were that far away, the sound would be fainter, more indistinct. But they must be at least ten
miles  down  the  road  toward  Jonesboro, probably near the little settlement of Rough and Ready. But Jonesboro was scarcely more than ten miles
below Rough and Ready.

Cannon  to the south, and they might be tolling the knell of Atlanta's fall. But to Scarlett, sick for her mother's safety, fighting to the south
only  meant  fighting  near Tara. She walked the floor and wrung her hands and for the first time the thought in all its implications came to her
that  the  gray  army  might be defeated. It was the thought of Sherman's thousands so close to Tara that brought it all home to her, brought the
full  horror  of the war to her as no sound of siege guns shattering windowpanes, no privations of food and clothing and no endless rows of dying
men  had done. Sherman's army within a few miles of Tara! And even if the Yankees should be defeated, they might fall back down the road to Tara.
And Gerald couldn't possibly refugee out of their way with three sick women.

Oh,  if she were only there now, Yankees or not. She paced the floor in her bare feet, her nightgown clinging to her legs and the more she walked
the stronger became her foreboding. She wanted to be at home. She wanted to be near Ellen.

From  the  kitchen  below, she heard the rattle of china as Prissy prepared breakfast, but no sound of Mrs. Meade's Betsy. The shrill, melancholy
minor  of  Prissy  was raised, "Jes' a few mo' days, ter tote de wee-ry load . . ." The song grated on Scarlett, its sad implications frightening
her, and slipping on a wrapper she pattered out into the hall and to the back stairs and shouted: "Shut up that singing, Prissy!"

A sullen "Yas'm" drifted up to her and she drew a deep breath, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself.

"Where's Betsy?"

"Ah doan know. She ain' came."

Scarlett  walked  to  Melanie's door and opened it a crack, peering into the sunny room. Melanie lay in bed in her nightgown, her eyes closed and
circled  with  black,  her heart-shaped face bloated, her slender body hideous and distorted. Scarlett wished viciously that Ashley could see her
now. She looked worse than any pregnant woman she had ever seen. As she looked, Melanie's eyes opened and a soft warm smile lit her face.

"Come  in,"  she  invited,  turning awkwardly on her side. "I've been awake since sun-up thinking, and, Scarlett, there's something I want to ask
you."

She entered the room and sat down on the bed that was glaring with harsh sunshine.

Melanie reached out and took Scarlett's hand in a gentle confiding clasp.

"Dear," she said, "I'm sorry about the cannon. It's toward Jonesboro, isn't it?"

Scarlett said "Um," her heart beginning to beat faster as the thought recurred.

"I know how worried you are. I know you'd have gone home last week when you heard about your mother, if it hadn't been for me. Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Scarlett ungraciously.

"Scarlett, darling. You've been so good to me. No sister could have been sweeter or braver. And I love you for it. I'm so sorry I'm in the way."

Scarlett stared. Loved her, did she? The fool!

"And  Scarlett,  I've been lying here thinking and I want to ask a very great favor of you." Her clasp tightened. "If I should die, will you take
my baby?"

Melanie's eyes were wide and bright with soft urgency.

"Will you?"

Scarlett jerked away her hand as fear swamped her. Fear roughened her voice as she spoke.

"Oh, don't be a goose, Melly. You aren't going to die. Every woman thinks she's going to die with her first baby. I know I did."

"No, you didn't. You've never been afraid of anything. You are just saying that to try to cheer me up. I'm not afraid to die but I'm so afraid to
leave the baby, if Ashley is-- Scarlett, promise me that you'll take my baby if I should die. Then I won't be afraid. Aunt Pittypat is too old to
raise  a  child and Honey and India are sweet but--I want you to have my baby. Promise me, Scarlett. And if it's a boy, bring him up like Ashley,
and if it's a girl--dear, I'd like her to be like you."

"God's nightgown!" cried Scarlett, leaping from the bed. "Aren't things bad enough without you talking about dying?"

"I'm sorry, dear. But promise me. I think it'll be today. I'm sure it'll be today. Please promise me."

"Oh, all right, I promise," said Scarlett, looking down at her in bewilderment.

Was  Melanie such a fool she really didn't know how she cared for Ashley? Or did she know everything and feel that because of that love, Scarlett
would  take good care of Ashley's child? Scarlett had a wild impulse to cry out questions, but they died on her lips as Melanie took her hand and
held it for an instant against her cheek. Tranquillity had come back into her eyes.

"Why do you think it will be today, Melly?"

"I've been having pains since dawn--but not very bad ones."

"You have? Well, why didn't you call me? I'll send Prissy for Dr. Meade."

"No, don't do that yet, Scarlett. You know how busy he is, how busy they all are. Just send word to him that we'll need him some time today. Send
over to Mrs. Meade's and tell her and ask her to come over and sit with me. She'll know when to really send for him."

"Oh, stop being so unselfish. You know you need a doctor as much as anybody in the hospital. I'll send for him right away."

"No,  please  don't. Sometimes it takes all day having a baby and I just couldn't let the doctor sit here for hours when all those poor boys need
him so much. Just send for Mrs. Meade. She'll know."

"Oh, all right," said Scarlett.

CHAPTER XXI


After  sending  up  Melanie's  breakfast tray, Scarlett dispatched Prissy for Mrs. Meade and sat down with Wade to eat her own breakfast. But for
once  she had no appetite. Between her nervous apprehension over the thought that Melanie's time was approaching and her unconscious straining to
hear  the  sound  of  the  cannon, she could hardly eat. Her heart acted very queerly, beating regularly for several minutes and then thumping so
loudly  and  swiftly  it  almost made her sick at her stomach. The heavy hominy stuck in her throat like glue and never before had the mixture of
parched  corn and ground-up yams that passed for coffee been so repulsive. Without sugar or cream it was bitter as gall, for the sorghum used for
"long  sweetening"  did  little  to  improve  the  taste. After one swallow she pushed her cup away. If for no other reason she hated the Yankees
because they kept her from having real coffee with sugar and thick cream in it.

Wade  was quieter than usual and did not set up his every morning complaint against the hominy that he so disliked. He ate silently the spoonfuls
she  pushed  into  his  mouth  and  washed  them down with noisily gulped water. His soft brown eyes followed her every movement, large, round as
dollars,  a  childish  bewilderment in them as though her own scarce-hidden fears had been communicated to him. When he had finished she sent him
off to the back yard to play and watched him toddle across the straggling grass to his playhouse with great relief.

She  arose  and  stood irresolutely at the foot of the stairs. She should go up and sit with Melanie and distract her mind from her coming ordeal
but she did not feel equal to it. Of all days in the world, Melanie had to pick this day to have the baby! And of all days to talk about dying!

She  sat  down  on  the  bottom  step  of the stairs and tried to compose herself, wondering again how yesterday's battle had gone, wondering how
today's  fighting  was going. How strange to have a big battle going on just a few miles away and to know nothing of it! How strange the quiet of
this  deserted  end of town in contrast with the day of the fighting at Peachtree Creek! Aunt Pitty's house was one of the last on the north side
of  Atlanta and with the fighting somewhere to the far south, there were no reinforcements going by at double-quick, no ambulances and staggering
lines of walking wounded coming back. She wondered if such scenes were being enacted on the south side of town and thanked God she was not there.
If  only  everyone except the Meades and the Merriwethers had not refugeed from this north end of Peachtree! It made her feel forsaken and alone.
She  wished fervently that Uncle Peter were with her so he could go down to headquarters and learn the news. If it wasn't for Melanie she'd go to
town  this  very minute and learn for herself, but she couldn't leave until Mrs. Meade arrived. Mrs. Meade. Why didn't she come on? And where was
Prissy?

She  rose  and  went  out onto the front porch and looked for them impatiently, but the Meade house was around a shady bend in the street and she
could  see  no  one.  After  a  long  while Prissy came into view, alone, switching her skirts from side to side and looking over her shoulder to
observe the effect.

"You're as slow as molasses in January," snapped Scarlett as Prissy opened the gate. "What did Mrs. Meade say? How soon will she be over here?"

"She warn't dar," said Prissy.

"Where is she? When will she be home?"

"Well'm,"  answered  Prissy, dragging out her words pleasurably to give more weight to her message. "Dey Cookie say Miss Meade done got wud early
dis mawnin' dat young Mist' Phil done been shot an' Miss Meade she tuck de cah'ige an' Ole Talbot an' Betsy an' dey done gone ter fotch him home.
Cookie say he bad hurt an' Miss Meade ain' gwine ter be studyin' 'bout comin' up hyah."

Scarlett stared at her and had an impulse to shake her. Negroes were always so proud of being the bearers of evil tidings.

"Well, don't stand there like a ninny. Go down to Mrs. Merriwether's and ask her to come up or send her mammy. Now, hurry."

"Dey  ain'  dar, Miss Scarlett. Ah drapped in ter pass time of de day wid Mammy on mah way home. Dey's done gone. House all locked up. Spec dey's
at de horsepittle."

"So that's where you were so long! Whenever I send you somewhere you go where I tell you and don't stop to 'pass any time' with anybody. Go--"

She  stopped  and  racked her brain. Who was left in town among their friends who would be helpful? There was Mrs. Elsing. Of course, Mrs. Elsing
didn't like her at all these days but she had always been fond of Melanie.

"Go  to Mrs. Elsing's, and explain everything very carefully and tell her to please come up here. And, Prissy, listen to me. Miss Melly's baby is
due and she may need you any minute now. Now you hurry right straight back."

"Yas'm," said Prissy and, turning, sauntered down the walk at snail's gait.

"Hurry, you slow poke!"

"Yas'm."

Prissy  quickened her gait infinitesimally and Scarlett went back into the house. She hesitated again before going upstairs to Melanie. She would
have  to explain to her just why Mrs. Meade couldn't come and the knowledge that Phil Meade was badly wounded might upset her. Well, she'd tell a
lie about it.

She entered Melanie's room and saw that the breakfast tray was untouched. Melanie lay on her side, her face white.

"Mrs. Meade's over at the hospital," said Scarlett. "But Mrs. Elsing is coming. Do you feel bad?"

"Not very," lied Melanie. "Scarlett, how long did it take Wade to get born?"

"Less  than no time," answered Scarlett with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. "I was out in the yard and I didn't hardly have time to get
into the house. Mammy said it was scandalous--just like one of the darkies."

"I hope I'll be like one of the darkies too," said Melanie, mustering a smile which suddenly disappeared as pain contorted her face.

Scarlett looked down at Melanie's tiny hips with none too sanguine hopes but said reassuringly: "Oh, it's not really so bad."

"Oh, I know it isn't. I'm afraid I'm a little coward. Is--is Mrs. Elsing coming right away?"

"Yes, right away," said Scarlett. "I'll go down and get some fresh water and sponge you off. It's so hot today."

She  took as long a time as possible in getting the water, running to the front door every two minutes to see if Prissy were coming. There was no
sign of Prissy so she went back upstairs, sponged Melanie's perspiring body and combed out her long dark hair.

When  an  hour  had  passed  she  heard  scuffing  negro feet coming down the street, and looking out of the window, saw Prissy returning slowly,
switching herself as before and tossing her head with as many airy affectations as if she had a large and interested audience.

"Some day, I'm going to take a strap to that little wench," thought Scarlett savagely, hurrying down the stairs to meet her.

"Miss  Elsing  ober  at de horsepittle. Dey Cookie 'lows a whole lot of wounded sojers come in on de early train. Cookie fixin' soup ter tek over
dar. She say--"

"Never  mind  what  she  said," interrupted Scarlett, her heart sinking. "Put on a clean apron because I want you to go over to the hospital. I'm
going  to give you a note to Dr. Meade, and if he isn't there, give it to Dr. Jones or any of the other doctors. And if you don't hurry back this
time, I'll skin you alive."

"Yas'm."

"And ask any of the gentlemen for news of the fighting. If they don't know, go by the depot and ask the engineers who brought the wounded in. Ask
if they are fighting at Jonesboro or near there."

"Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett!" and sudden fright was in Prissy's black face. "De Yankees ain' at Tara, is dey?"

"I don't know. I'm telling you to ask for news."

"Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett! Whut'll dey do ter Maw?"

Prissy began to bawl suddenly, loudly, the sound adding to Scarlett's own uneasiness.

"Stop bawling! Miss Melanie will hear you. Now go change your apron, quick."

Spurred to speed, Prissy hurried toward the back of the house while Scarlett scratched a hasty note on the margin of Gerald's last letter to her-
-the only bit of paper in the house. As she folded it, so that her note was uppermost, she caught Gerald's words, "Your mother--typhoid--under no
condition--to come home--" She almost sobbed. If it wasn't for Melanie, she'd start home, right this minute, if she had to walk every step of the
way.

Prissy went off at a trot, the letter gripped in her hand, and Scarlett went back upstairs, trying to think of some plausible lie to explain Mrs.
Elsing's  failure  to  appear.  But  Melanie asked no questions. She lay upon her back, her face tranquil and sweet, and the sight of her quieted
Scarlett for a while.

She  sat  down  and  tried  to talk of inconsequential things, but the thoughts of Tara and a possible defeat by the Yankees prodded cruelly. She
thought of Ellen dying and of the Yankees coming into Atlanta, burning everything, killing everybody. Through it all, the dull far-off thundering
persisted,  rolling  into her ears in waves of fear. Finally, she could not talk at all and only stared out of the window at the hot still street
and the dusty leaves hanging motionless on the trees. Melanie was silent too, but at intervals her quiet face was wrenched with pain.

She  said,  after  each  pain:  "It  wasn't  very bad, really," and Scarlett knew she was lying. She would have preferred a loud scream to silent
endurance.  She  knew she should feel sorry for Melanie, but somehow she could not muster a spark of sympathy. Her mind was too torn with her own
anguish. Once she looked sharply at the pain-twisted face and wondered why it should be that she, of all people in the world, should be here with
Melanie  at  this  particular time--she who had nothing in common with her, who hated her, who would gladly have seen her dead. Well, maybe she'd
have  her  wish,  and before the day was over too. A cold superstitious fear swept her at this thought. It was bad luck to wish that someone were
dead,  almost as bad luck as to curse someone. Curses came home to roost, Mammy said. She hastily prayed that Melanie wouldn't die and broke into
feverish small talk, hardly aware of what she said. At last, Melanie put a hot hand on her wrist.

"Don't bother about talking, dear. I know how worried you are. I'm so sorry I'm so much trouble."

Scarlett  relapsed  into silence but she could not sit still. What would she do if neither the doctor nor Prissy got there in time? She walked to
the window and looked down the street and came back and sat down again. Then she rose and looked out of the window on the other side of the room.

An  hour  went by and then another. Noon came and the sun was high and hot and not a breath of air stirred the dusty leaves. Melanie's pains were
harder  now.  Her  long hair was drenched in sweat and her gown stuck in wet spots to her body. Scarlett sponged her face in silence but fear was
gnawing  at her. God in Heaven, suppose the baby came before the doctor arrived! What would she do? She knew less than nothing of midwifery. This
was  exactly  the  emergency  she  had  been  dreading  for weeks. She had been counting on Prissy to handle the situation if no doctor should be
available.  Prissy knew all about midwifery. She'd said so time and again. But where was Prissy? Why didn't she come? Why didn't the doctor come?
She went to the window and looked again. She listened hard and suddenly she wondered if it were only her imagination or if the sound of cannon in
the distance had died away. If it were farther away it would mean that the fighting was nearer Jonesboro and that would mean--

At  last she saw Prissy coming down the street at a quick trot and she leaned out of the window. Prissy, looking up, saw her and her mouth opened
to  yell.  Seeing the panic written on the little black face and fearing she might alarm Melanie by crying out evil tidings, Scarlett hastily put
her finger to her lips and left the window.

"I'll  get some cooler water," she said, looking down into Melanie's dark, deep-circled eyes and trying to smile. Then she hastily left the room,
closing the door carefully behind her.

Prissy was sitting on the bottom step in the hall, panting.

"Dey's  fightin' at Jonesboro, Miss Scarlett! Dey say our gempmums is gittin' beat. Oh, Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Whut'll happen ter Maw an' Poke? Oh,
Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Whut'll happen ter us effen de Yankees gits hyah? Oh, Gawd--"

Scarlett clapped a hand over the blubbery mouth.

"For God's sake, hush!"

Yes, what would happen to them if the Yankees came--what would happen to Tara? She pushed the thought firmly back into her mind and grappled with
the more pressing emergency. If she thought of these things, she'd begin to scream and bawl like Prissy.

"Where's Dr. Meade? When's he coming?"

"Ah ain' nebber seed him, Miss Scarlett."

"What!"

"No'm,  he  ain'  at  de  horsepittle.  Miss  Merriwether an' Miss Elsing ain' dar needer. A man he tole me de doctah down by de car shed wid the
wounded  sojers  jes'  come  in frum Jonesboro, but Miss Scarlett, Ah wuz sceered ter go down dar ter de shed--dey's folkses dyin' down dar. Ah's
sceered of daid folkses--"

"What about the other doctors?"

"Miss  Scarlett,  fo'  Gawd, Ah couldn' sceercely git one of dem ter read yo' note. Dey wukin' in de horsepittle lak dey all done gone crazy. One
doctah he say ter me, 'Damn yo' hide! Doan you come roun' hyah bodderin' me 'bout babies w'en we got a mess of men dyin' hyah. Git some woman ter
he'p you.' An' den Ah went aroun' an' about an' ask fer news lak you done tole me an' dey all say 'fightin' at Jonesboro' an' Ah--"

"You say Dr. Meade's at the depot?"

"Yas'm. He--"

"Now,  listen  sharp  to  me.  I'm  going  to get Dr. Meade and I want you to sit by Miss Melanie and do anything she says. And if you so much as
breathe  to  her  where  the  fighting is, I'll sell you South as sure as gun's iron. And don't you tell her that the other doctors wouldn't come
either. Do you hear?"

"Yas'm."

"Wipe your eyes and get a fresh pitcher of water and go on up. Sponge her off. Tell her I've gone for Dr. Meade."

"Is her time nigh, Miss Scarlett?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid it is but I don't know. You should know. Go on up."

Scarlett  caught  up her wide straw bonnet from the console table and jammed it on her head. She looked in the mirror and automatically pushed up
loose  strands  of hair but she did not see her own reflection. Cold little ripples of fear that started in the pit of her stomach were radiating
outward  until the fingers that touched her cheeks were cold, though the rest of her body streamed perspiration. She hurried out of the house and
into  the heat of the sun. It was blindingly, glaring hot and as she hurried down Peachtree Street her temples began to throb from the heat. From
far down the street she could hear the rise and fall and roar of many voices. By the time she caught sight of the Leyden house, she was beginning
to pant, for her stays were tightly laced, but she did not slow her gait. The roar of noise grew louder.

From  the  Leyden house down to Five Points, the street seethed with activity, the activity of an anthill just destroyed. Negroes were running up
and  down  the  street,  panic  in  their  faces; and on porches, white children sat crying untended. The street was crowded with army wagons and
ambulances  filled  with wounded and carriages piled high with valises and pieces of furniture. Men on horseback dashed out of side streets pell-
mell  down  Peachtree  toward  Hood's  headquarters.  In front of the Bonnell house, old Amos stood holding the head of the carriage horse and he
greeted Scarlett with rolling eyes.

"Ain't you gone yit, Miss Scarlett? We is goin' now. Ole Miss packin' her bag."

"Going? Where?"

"Gawd knows, Miss. Somewheres. De Yankees is comin'!"

She  hurried  on,  not  even saying good-by. The Yankees were coming! At Wesley Chapel, she paused to catch her breath and wait for her hammering
heart  to  subside. If she did not quiet herself she would certainly faint. As she stood clutching a lamp post for support, she saw an officer on
horseback come charging up the street from Five Points and, on an impulse, she ran out into the street and waved at him.

"Oh, stop! Please, stop!"

He  reined  in so suddenly the horse went back on its haunches, pawing the air. There were harsh lines of fatigue and urgency in his face but his
tattered gray hat was off with a sweep.

"Madam?"

"Tell me, is it true? Are the Yankees coming?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Do you know so?"

"Yes, Ma'm. I know so. A dispatch came in to headquarters half an hour ago from the fighting at Jonesboro."

"At Jonesboro? Are you sure?"

"I'm  sure.  There's  no  use telling pretty lies, Madam. The message was from General Hardee and it said: 'I have lost the battle and am in full
retreat.'"

"Oh, my God!"

The dark face of the tired man looked down without emotion. He gathered the reins again and put on his hat.

"Oh, sir, please, just a minute. What shall we do?"

"Madam, I can't say. The army is evacuating Atlanta soon."

"Going off and leaving us to the Yankees?"

"I'm afraid so."

The  spurred  horse  went  off  as  though on springs and Scarlett was left standing in the middle of the street with the red dust thick upon her
ankles.

The Yankees were coming. The army was leaving. The Yankees were coming. What should she do? Where should she run? No, she couldn't run. There was
Melanie  back  there  in  the bed expecting that baby. Oh, why did women have babies? If it wasn't for Melanie she could take Wade and Prissy and
hide  in  the  woods  where the Yankees could never find them. But she couldn't take Melanie to the woods. No, not now. Oh, if she'd only had the
baby  sooner,  yesterday even, perhaps they could get an ambulance and take her away and hide her somewhere. But now--she must find Dr. Meade and
make him come home with her. Perhaps he could hurry the baby.

She  gathered up her skirts and ran down the street, and the rhythm of her feet was "The Yankees are coming! The Yankees are coming!" Five Points
was  crowded with people who rushed here and there with unseeing eyes, jammed with wagons, ambulances, ox carts, carriages loaded with wounded. A
roaring sound like the breaking of surf rose from the crowd.

Then  a  strangely  incongruous  sight  struck  her eyes. Throngs of women were coming up from the direction of the railroad tracks carrying hams
across  their  shoulders. Little children hurried by their sides, staggering under buckets of steaming molasses. Young boys dragged sacks of corn
and  potatoes.  One  old  man  struggled  along with a small barrel of flour on a wheelbarrow. Men, women and children, black and white, hurried,
hurried with straining faces, lugging packages and sacks and boxes of food--more food than she had seen in a year. The crowd suddenly gave a lane
for  a  careening  carriage  and  through the lane came the frail and elegant Mrs. Elsing, standing up in the front of her victoria, reins in one
hand,  whip  in  the  other.  She  was hatless and white faced and her long gray hair streamed down her back as she lashed the horse like a Fury.
Jouncing  on  the  back  seat of the carriage was her black mammy, Melissy, clutching a greasy side of bacon to her with one hand, while with the
other and both feet she attempted to hold the boxes and bags piled all about her. One bag of dried peas had burst and the peas strewed themselves
into the street. Scarlett screamed to her, but the tumult of the crowd drowned her voice and the carriage rocked madly by.

For  a  moment  she could not understand what it all meant and then, remembering that the commissary warehouses were down by the railroad tracks,
she realized that the army had thrown them open to the people to salvage what they could before the Yankees came.

She  pushed  her way swiftly through the crowds, past the packed, hysterical mob surging in the open space of Five Points, and hurried as fast as
she  could  down  the  short block toward the depot. Through the tangle of ambulances and the clouds of dust, she could see doctors and stretcher
bearers bending, lifting, hurrying. Thank God, she'd find Dr. Meade soon. As she rounded the corner of the Atlanta Hotel and came in full view of
the depot and the tracks, she halted appalled.

Lying  in  the pitiless sun, shoulder to shoulder, head to feet, were hundreds of wounded men, lining the tracks, the sidewalks, stretched out in
endless  rows  under the car shed. Some lay stiff and still but many writhed under the hot sun, moaning. Everywhere, swarms of flies hovered over
the  men,  crawling and buzzing in their faces, everywhere was blood, dirty bandages, groans, screamed curses of pain as stretcher bearers lifted
men.  The  smell of sweat, of blood, of unwashed bodies, of excrement rose up in waves of blistering heat until the fetid stench almost nauseated
her.  The ambulance men hurrying here and there among the prostrate forms frequently stepped on wounded men, so thickly packed were the rows, and
those trodden upon stared stolidly up, waiting their turn.

She  shrank  back,  clapping  her  hand  to  her  mouth  feeling that she was going to vomit. She couldn't go on. She had seen wounded men in the
hospitals,  wounded  men  on Aunt Pitty's lawn after the fighting at the creek, but never anything like this. Never anything like these stinking,
bleeding  bodies broiling under the glaring sun. This was an inferno of pain and smell and noise and hurry--hurry--hurry! The Yankees are coming!
The Yankees are coming!

She  braced her shoulders and went down among them, straining her eyes among the upright figures to distinguish Dr. Meade. But she discovered she
could  not  look for him, for if she did not step carefully she would tread on some poor soldier. She raised her skirts and tried to pick her way
among them toward a knot of men who were directing the stretcher bearers.

As she walked, feverish hands plucked at her skirt and voices croaked: "Lady--water! Please, lady, water! For Christ's sake, water!"

Perspiration  came  down  her face in streams as she pulled her skirts from clutching hands. If she stepped on one of these men, she'd scream and
faint.  She stepped over dead men, over men who lay dull eyed with hands clutched to bellies where dried blood had glued torn uniforms to wounds,
over men whose beards were stiff with blood and from whose broken jaws came sounds which must mean:

"Water! Water!"

If  she  did not find Dr. Meade soon, she would begin screaming with hysteria. She looked toward the group of men under the car shed and cried as
loudly as she could:

"Dr. Meade! Is Dr. Meade there?"

From  the  group  one  man  detached  himself  and  looked  toward  her. It was the doctor. He was coatless and his sleeves were rolled up to his
shoulders. His shirt and trousers were as red as a butcher's and even the end of his iron-gray beard was matted with blood. His face was the face
of  a  man  drunk with fatigue and impotent rage and burning pity. It was gray and dusty, and sweat had streaked long rivulets across his cheeks.
But his voice was calm and decisive as he called to her.

"Thank God, you are here. I can use every pair of hands."

For a moment she stared at him bewildered, dropping her skirts in dismay. They fell over the dirty face of a wounded man who feebly tried to turn
his  head  to escape from their smothering folds. What did the doctor mean? The dust from the ambulances came into her face with choking dryness,
and the rotten smells were like a foul liquid in her nostrils.

"Hurry, child! Come here."

She  picked  up  her  skirts  and went to him as fast as she could go across the rows of bodies. She put her hand on his arm and felt that it was
trembling with weariness but there was no weakness in his face.

"Oh, Doctor!" she cried. "You must come. Melanie is having her baby."

He  looked  at  her  as  if  her words did not register on his mind. A man who lay upon the ground at her feet, his head pillowed on his canteen,
grinned up companionably at her words.

"They will do it," he said cheerfully.

She did not even look down but shook the doctor's arm.

"It's Melanie. The baby. Doctor, you must come. She--the--" This was no time for delicacy but it was hard to bring out the words with the ears of
hundreds of strange men listening.

"The pains are getting hard. Please, Doctor!"

"A  baby? Great God!" thundered the doctor and his face was suddenly contorted with hate and rage, a rage not directed at her or at anyone except
a  world  wherein  such  things could happen. "Are you crazy? I can't leave these men. They are dying, hundreds of them. I can't leave them for a
damned baby. Get some woman to help you. Get my wife."

She  opened  her mouth to tell him why Mrs. Meade could not come and then shut it abruptly. He did not know his own son was wounded! She wondered
if he would still be here if he did know, and something told her that even if Phil were dying he would still be standing on this spot, giving aid
to the many instead of the one.

"No,  you  must  come,  Doctor.  You  know  you  said  she'd have a hard time--" Was it really she, Scarlett, standing here saying these dreadful
indelicate things at the top of her voice in this hell of heat and groans? "She'll die if you don't come!"

He shook off her hand roughly and spoke as though he hardly heard her, hardly knew what she said.

"Die?  Yes,  they'll  all die--all these men. No bandages, no salves, no quinine, no chloroform. Oh, God, for some morphia! Just a little morphia
for the worst ones. Just a little chloroform. God damn the Yankees! God damn the Yankees!"

"Give um hell, Doctor!" said the man on the ground, his teeth showing in his beard.

Scarlett  began  to  shake and her eyes burned with tears of fright. The doctor wasn't coming with her. Melanie would die and she had wished that
she would die. The doctor wasn't coming.

"Name of God, Doctor! Please!"

Dr. Meade bit his lip and his jaw hardened as his face went cool again.

"Child,  I'll  try.  I  can't promise you. But I'll try. When we get these men tended to. The Yankees are coming and the troops are moving out of
town.  I  don't  know  what they'll do with the wounded. There aren't any trains. The Macon line has been captured. . . . But I'll try. Run along
now. Don't bother me. There's nothing much to bringing a baby. Just tie up the cord. . . ."

He  turned  as an orderly touched his arm and began firing directions and pointing to this and that wounded man. The man at her feet looked up at
Scarlett compassionately. She turned away, for the doctor had forgotten her.

She  picked her way rapidly through the wounded and back to Peachtree Street. The doctor wasn't coming. She would have to see it through herself.
Thank  God,  Prissy knew all about midwifery. Her head ached from the heat and she could feel her basque, soaking wet from perspiration, sticking
to  her.  Her  mind  felt numb and so did her legs, numb as in a nightmare when she tried to run and could not move them. She thought of the long
walk back to the house and it seemed interminable.

Then,  "The  Yankees  are  coming!"  began  to beat its refrain in her mind again. Her heart began to pound and new life came into her limbs. She
hurried  into  the  crowd  at  Five Points, now so thick there was no room on the narrow sidewalks and she was forced to walk in the street. Long
lines  of soldiers were passing, dust covered, sodden with weariness. There seemed thousands of them, bearded, dirty, their guns slung over their
shoulders,  swiftly passing at route step. Cannon rolled past, the drivers flaying the thin mules with lengths of rawhide. Commissary wagons with
torn  canvas  covers  rocked  through  the  ruts. Cavalry raising clouds of choking dust went past endlessly. She had never seen so many soldiers
together before. Retreat! Retreat! The army was moving out.

The  hurrying  lines  pushed  her  back  onto the packed sidewalk and she smelled the reek of cheap corn whisky. There were women in the mob near
Decatur  Street,  garishly dressed women whose bright finery and painted faces gave a discordant note of holiday. Most of them were drunk and the
soldiers  on  whose arms they hung were drunker. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a head of red curls and saw that creature, Belle Watling, heard
her shrill drunken laughter as she clung for support to a one-armed soldier who reeled and staggered.

When  she  had  shoved and pushed her way through the mob for a block beyond Five Points the crowd thinned a little and, gathering up her skirts,
she  began to run again. When she reached Wesley Chapel, she was breathless and dizzy and sick at her stomach. Her stays were cutting her ribs in
two.  She  sank  down  on the steps of the church and buried her head in her hands until she could breathe more easily. If she could only get one
deep  breath,  way  down  in her abdomen. If her heart would only stop bumping and drumming and cavorting. If there were only someone in this mad
place to whom she could turn.

Why,  she had never had to do a thing for herself in all her life. There had always been someone to do things for her, to look after her, shelter
and protect her and spoil her. It was incredible that she could be in such a fix. Not a friend, not a neighbor to help her. There had always been
friends,  neighbors,  the  competent hands of willing slaves. And now in this hour of greatest need, there was no one. It was incredible that she
could be so completely alone, and frightened, and far from home.

Home!  If  she  were  only home, Yankees or no Yankees. Home, even if Ellen was sick. She longed for the sight of Ellen's sweet face, for Mammy's
strong arms around her.

She rose dizzily to her feet and started walking again. When she came in sight of the house, she saw Wade swinging on the front gate. When he saw
her, his face puckered and he began to cry, holding up a grubby bruised finger.

"Hurt!" he sobbed. "Hurt!"

"Hush! Hush! Hush! Or I'll spank you. Go out in the back yard and make mud pies and don't move from there."

"Wade hungwy," he sobbed and put the hurt finger in his mouth.

"I don't care. Go in the back yard and--"

She  looked up and saw Prissy leaning out of the upstairs window, fright and worry written on her face; but in an instant they were wiped away in
relief as she saw her mistress. Scarlett beckoned to her to come down and went into the house. How cool it was in the hall. She untied her bonnet
and  flung  it on the table, drawing her forearms across her wet forehead. She heard the upstairs door open and a low wailing moan, wrenched from
the depths of agony, came to her ears. Prissy came down the stairs three at a time.

"Is de doctah come?"

"No. He can't come."

"Gawd, Miss Scarlett! Miss Melly bad off!"

"The doctor can't come. Nobody can come. You've got to bring the baby and I'll help you."

Prissy's mouth fell open and her tongue wagged wordlessly. She looked at Scarlett sideways and scuffed her feet and twisted her thin body.

"Don't look so simple minded!" cried Scarlett, infuriated at her silly expression. "What's the matter?"

Prissy edged back up the stairs.

"Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett--" Fright and shame were in her rolling eyes.

"Well?"

"Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett! We's got ter have a doctah. Ah--Ah--Miss Scarlett, Ah doan know nuthin' 'bout bringin' babies. Maw wouldn' nebber lemme
be 'round folkses whut wuz havin' dem."

All  the  breath  went  out  of  Scarlett's  lungs in one gasp of horror before rage swept her. Prissy made a lunge past her, bent on flight, but
Scarlett grabbed her.

"You black liar--what do you mean? You've been saying you knew everything about birthing babies. What is the truth? Tell me!" She shook her until
the kinky head rocked drunkenly.

"Ah's lyin', Miss Scarlett! Ah doan know huccome Ah tell sech a lie. Ah jes' see one baby birthed, an' Maw she lak ter wo' me out fer watchin'."

Scarlett  glared  at  her  and  Prissy shrank back, trying to pull loose. For a moment her mind refused to accept the truth, but when realization
finally  came to her that Prissy knew no more about midwifery than she did, anger went over her like a flame. She had never struck a slave in all
her life, but now she slapped the black cheek with all the force in her tired arm. Prissy screamed at the top of her voice, more from fright than
pain, and began to dance up and down, writhing to break Scarlett's grip.

As  she  screamed, the moaning from the second floor ceased and a moment later Melanie's voice, weak and trembling, called: "Scarlett? Is it you?
Please come! Please!"

Scarlett  dropped  Prissy's  arm  and the wench sank whimpering to the steps. For a moment Scarlett stood still, looking up, listening to the low
moaning  which  had begun again. As she stood there, it seemed as though a yoke descended heavily upon her neck, felt as though a heavy load were
harnessed to it, a load she would feel as soon as she took a step.

She  tried  to  think  of  all  the  things Mammy and Ellen had done for her when Wade was born but the merciful blurring of the childbirth pains
obscured almost everything in mist. She did recall a few things and she spoke to Prissy rapidly, authority in her voice.

"Build  a fire in the stove and keep hot water boiling in the kettle. And bring up all the towels you can find and that ball of twine. And get me
the scissors. Don't come telling me you can't find them. Get them and get them quick. Now hurry."

She  jerked  Prissy to her feet and sent her kitchenwards with a shove. Then she squared her shoulders and started up the stairs. It was going to
be difficult, telling Melanie that she and Prissy were to deliver her baby.



CHAPTER XXII


There  would  never  again be an afternoon as long as this one. Or as hot. Or as full of lazy insolent flies. They swarmed on Melanie despite the
fan  Scarlett  kept in constant motion. Her arms ached from swinging the wide palmetto leaf. All her efforts seemed futile, for while she brushed
them from Melanie's moist face, they crawled on her clammy feet and legs and made her jerk them weakly and cry: "Please! On my feet!"

The  room  was  in semigloom, for Scarlett had pulled down the shades to shut out the heat and brightness. Pin points of sunlight came in through
minute  holes  in  the  shades  and about the edges. The room was an oven and Scarlett's sweat-drenched clothes never dried but became wetter and
stickier  as  the  hours  went by. Prissy was crouched in a corner, sweating too, and smelled so abominably Scarlett would have sent her from the
room  had  she  not  feared  the  girl would take to her heels if once out of sight. Melanie lay on the bed on a sheet dark with perspiration and
splotched with dampness where Scarlett had spilled water. She twisted endlessly, to one side, to the other, to left, to right and back again.

Sometimes she tried to sit up and fell back and began twisting again. At first, she had tried to keep from crying out, biting her lips until they
were  raw,  and Scarlett, whose nerves were as raw as the lips, said huskily: "Melly, for God's sake, don't try to be brave. Yell if you want to.
There's nobody to hear you but us."

As  the  afternoon  wore on, Melanie moaned whether she wanted to be brave or not, and sometimes she screamed. When she did, Scarlett dropped her
head  into her hands and covered her ears and twisted her body and wished that she herself were dead. Anything was preferable to being a helpless
witness  to  such  pain. Anything was better than being tied here waiting for a baby that took such a long time coming. Waiting, when for all she
knew the Yankees were actually at Five Points.

She fervently wished she had paid more attention to the whispered conversations of matrons on the subject of childbirth. If only she had! If only
she  had  been  more  interested  in such matters she'd know whether Melanie was taking a long time or not. She had a vague memory of one of Aunt
Pitty's  stories  of a friend who was in labor for two days and died without ever having the baby. Suppose Melanie should go on like this for two
days! But Melanie was so delicate. She couldn't stand two days of this pain. She'd die soon if the baby didn't hurry. And how could she ever face
Ashley, if he were still alive, and tell him that Melanie had died--after she had promised to take care of her?

At  first,  Melanie  wanted to hold Scarlett's hand when the pain was bad but she clamped down on it so hard she nearly broke the bones. After an
hour  of this, Scarlett's hands were so swollen and bruised she could hardly flex them. She knotted two long towels together and tied them to the
foot  of  the  bed  and  put  the knotted end in Melanie's hands. Melanie hung onto it as though it were a life line, straining, pulling it taut,
slackening  it,  tearing  it.  Throughout the afternoon, her voice went on like an animal dying in a trap. Occasionally she dropped the towel and
rubbed her hands feebly and looked up at Scarlett with eyes enormous with pain.

"Talk to me. Please talk to me," she whispered and Scarlett would gabble something until Melanie again gripped the knot and again began writhing.

The  dim room swam with heat and pain and droning flies, and time went by on such dragging feet Scarlett could scarcely remember the morning. She
felt  as  if she had been in this steaming, dark, sweating place all her life. She wanted very much to scream every time Melanie did, and only by
biting her lips so hard it infuriated her could she restrain herself and drive off hysteria.

Once Wade came tiptoeing up the stairs and stood outside the door, wailing.

"Wade hungwy!" Scarlett started to go to him, but Melanie whispered: "Don't leave me. Please. I can stand it when you're here."

So  Scarlett  sent  Prissy  down  to  warm  up the breakfast hominy and feed him. For herself, she felt that she could never eat again after this
afternoon.

The  clock  on  the  mantel  had stopped and she had no way of telling the time but as the heat in the room lessened and the bright pin points of
light  grew  duller,  she pulled the shade aside. She saw to her surprise that it was late afternoon and the sun, a ball of crimson, was far down
the sky. Somehow, she had imagined it would remain broiling hot noon forever.

She  wondered  passionately what was going on downtown. Had all the troops moved out yet? Had the Yankees come? Would the Confederates march away
without  even  a  fight? Then she remembered with a sick dropping in her stomach how few Confederates there were and how many men Sherman had and
how  well fed they were. Sherman! The name of Satan himself did not frighten her half so much. But there was no time for thinking now, as Melanie
called for water, for a cold towel on her head, to be fanned, to have the flies brushed away from her face.

When  twilight came on and Prissy, scurrying like a black wraith, lit a lamp, Melanie became weaker. She began calling for Ashley, over and over,
as  if  in  a delirium until the hideous monotony gave Scarlett a fierce desire to smother her voice with a pillow. Perhaps the doctor would come
after  all.  If  he would only come quickly! Hope raising its head, she turned to Prissy, and ordered her to run quickly to the Meades' house and
see if he were there or Mrs. Meade.

"And if he's not there, ask Mrs. Meade or Cookie what to do. Beg them to come!"

Prissy was off with a clatter and Scarlett watched her hurrying down the street, going faster than she had ever dreamed the worthless child could
move. After a prolonged time she was back, alone.

"De doctah ain' been home all day. Sont wud he mout go off wid de sojers. Miss Scarlett, Mist' Phil's 'ceased."

"Dead?"

"Yas'm," said Prissy, expanding with importance. "Talbot, dey coachman, tole me. He wuz shot--"

"Never mind that."

"Ah  din' see Miss Meade. Cookie say Miss Meade she washin' him an' fixin ter buhy him fo' de Yankees gits hyah. Cookie say effen de pain get too
bad, jes' you put a knife unner Miss Melly's bed an' it cut de pain in two."

Scarlett  wanted  to  slap  her  again  for  this helpful information but Melanie opened wide, dilated eyes and whispered: "Dear--are the Yankees
coming?"

"No," said Scarlett stoutly. "Prissy's a liar."

"Yas'm, Ah sho is," Prissy agreed fervently.

"They're coming," whispered Melanie undeceived and buried her face in the pillow. Her voice came out muffled.

"My poor baby. My poor baby." And, after a long interval: "Oh, Scarlett, you mustn't stay here. You must go and take Wade."

What Melanie said was no more than Scarlett had been thinking but hearing it put into words infuriated her, shamed her as if her secret cowardice
was written plainly in her face.

"Don't be a goose. I'm not afraid. You know I won't leave you."

"You might as well. I'm going to die." And she began moaning again.



Scarlett  came  down  the  dark stairs slowly, like an old woman, feeling her way, clinging to the banisters lest she fall. Her legs were leaden,
trembling  with fatigue and strain, and she shivered with cold from the clammy sweat that soaked her body. Feebly she made her way onto the front
porch  and  sank down on the top step. She sprawled back against a pillar of the porch and with a shaking hand unbuttoned her basque halfway down
her bosom. The night was drenched in warm soft darkness and she lay staring into it, dull as an ox.

It  was all over. Melanie was not dead and the small baby boy who made noises like a young kitten was receiving his first bath at Prissy's hands.
Melanie  was  asleep. How could she sleep after that nightmare of screaming pain and ignorant midwifery that hurt more than it helped? Why wasn't
she dead? Scarlett knew that she herself would have died under such handling. But when it was over, Melanie had even whispered, so weakly she had
to  bend over her to hear: "Thank you." And then she had gone to sleep. How could she go to sleep? Scarlett forgot that she too had gone to sleep
after  Wade  was  born.  She forgot everything. Her mind was a vacuum; the world was a vacuum; there had been no life before this endless day and
there  would  be  none  hereafter--only  a  heavily hot night, only the sound of her hoarse tired breathing, only the sweat trickling coldly from
armpit to waist, from hip to knee, clammy, sticky, chilling.

She  heard  her own breath pass from loud evenness to spasmodic sobbing but her eyes were dry and burning as though there would never be tears in
them  again.  Slowly,  laboriously, she heaved herself over and pulled her heavy skirts up to her thighs. She was warm and cold and sticky all at
the  same  time  and  the  feel  of  the night air on her limbs was refreshing. She thought dully what Aunt Pitty would say, if she could see her
sprawled  here  on  the  front  porch with her skirts up and her drawers showing, but she did not care. She did not care about anything. Time had
stood still. It might be just after twilight and it might be midnight. She didn't know or care.

She  heard  sounds of moving feet upstairs and thought "May the Lord damn Prissy," before her eyes closed and something like sleep descended upon
her. Then after an indeterminate dark interval, Prissy was beside her, chattering on in a pleased way.

"We done right good, Miss Scarlett. Ah specs Maw couldn' a did no better."

From  the  shadows,  Scarlett  glared  at  her,  too  tired to rail, too tired to upbraid, too tired to enumerate Prissy's offenses--her boastful
assumption  of  experience  she  didn't  possess,  her fright, her blundering awkwardness, her utter inefficiency when the emergency was hot, the
misplacing  of the scissors, the spilling of the basin of water on the bed, the dropping of the new born baby. And now she bragged about how good
she had been.

And the Yankees wanted to free the negroes! Well, the Yankees were welcome to them.

She  lay  back against the pillar in silence and Prissy, aware of her mood, tiptoed away into the darkness of the porch. After a long interval in
which  her  breathing finally quieted and her mind steadied, Scarlett heard the sound of faint voices from up the road, the tramping of many feet
coming from the north. Soldiers! She sat up slowly, pulling down her skirts, although she knew no one could see her in the darkness. As they came
abreast the house, an indeterminate number, passing like shadows, she called to them.

"Oh, please!"

A shadow disengaged itself from the mass and came to the gate.

"Are you going? Are you leaving us?"

The shadow seemed to take off a hat and a quiet voice came from the darkness.

"Yes, Ma'm. That's what we're doing. We're the last of the men from the breastworks, 'bout a mile north from here."

"Are you--is the army really retreating?"

"Yes, Ma'm. You see, the Yankees are coming."

The  Yankees  are  coming!  She  had forgotten that. Her throat suddenly contracted and she could say nothing more. The shadow moved away, merged
itself  with  the  other  shadows and the feet tramped off into the darkness. "The Yankees are coming! The Yankees are coming!" That was what the
rhythm of their feet said, that was what her suddenly bumping heart thudded out with each beat. The Yankees are coming!

"De  Yankees  is comin'!" bawled Prissy, shrinking close to her. "Oh, Miss Scarlett, dey'll kill us all! Dey'll run dey baynits in our stummicks!
Dey'll--"

"Oh,  hush!" It was terrifying enough to think these things without hearing them put into trembling words. Renewed fear swept her. What could she
do? How could she escape? Where could she turn for help? Every friend had failed her.

Suddenly  she  thought  of  Rhett Butler and calm dispelled her fears. Why hadn't she thought of him this morning when she had been tearing about
like  a  chicken  with its head off? She hated him, but he was strong and smart and he wasn't afraid of the Yankees. And he was still in town. Of
course,  she  was  mad  at  him. But she could overlook such things at a time like this. And he had a horse and carriage, too. Oh, why hadn't she
thought of him before! He could take them all away from this doomed place, away from the Yankees, somewhere, anywhere.

She turned to Prissy and spoke with feverish urgency.

"You know where Captain Butler lives--at the Atlanta Hotel?"

"Yas'm, but--"

"Well,  go  there,  now,  as  quick  as  you  can  run and tell him I want him. I want him to come quickly and bring his horse and carriage or an
ambulance if he can get one. Tell him about the baby. Tell him I want him to take us out of here. Go, now. Hurry!"

She sat upright and gave Prissy a push to speed her feet.

"Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett! Ah's sceered ter go runnin' roun' in de dahk by mahseff! Spose de Yankees gits me?"

"If you run fast you can catch up with those soldiers and they won't let the Yankees get you. Hurry!"

"Ah's sceered! Sposin' Cap'n Butler ain' at de hotel?"

"Then  ask  where  he  is.  Haven't you any gumption? If he isn't at the hotel, go to the barrooms on Decatur Street and ask for him. Go to Belle
Watling's house. Hunt for him. You fool, don't you see that if you don't hurry and find him the Yankees will surely get us all?"

"Miss Scarlett, Maw would weah me out wid a cotton stalk, did Ah go in a bahroom or a ho' house."

Scarlett pulled herself to her feet.

"Well,  I'll  wear  you  out  if  you don't. You can stand outside in the street and yell for him, can't you? Or ask somebody if he's inside. Get
going."

When Prissy still lingered, shuffling her feet and mouthing, Scarlett gave her another push which nearly sent her headlong down the front steps.

"You'll  go  or  I'll  sell  you  down  the river. You'll never see your mother again or anybody you know and I'll sell you for a field hand too.
Hurry!"

"Gawdlmighty, Miss Scarlett--"

But under the determined pressure of her mistress' hand she started down the steps. The front gate clicked and Scarlett cried: "Run, you goose!"

She heard the patter of Prissy's feet as she broke into a trot, and then the sound died away on the soft earth.



CHAPTER XXIII


After  Prissy  had  gone,  Scarlett went wearily into the downstairs hall and lit a lamp. The house felt steamingly hot, as though it held in its
walls  all  the  heat  of  the  noontide. Some of her dullness was passing now and her stomach was clamoring for food. She remembered she had had
nothing  to  eat  since the night before except a spoonful of hominy, and picking up the lamp she went into the kitchen. The fire in the oven had
died  but the room was stifling hot. She found half a pone of hard corn bread in the skillet and gnawed hungrily on it while she looked about for
other food. There was some hominy left in the pot and she ate it with a big cooking spoon, not waiting to put it on a plate. It needed salt badly
but  she  was  too  hungry  to  hunt for it. After four spoonfuls of it, the heat of the room was too much and, taking the lamp in one hand and a
fragment of pone in the other, she went out into the hall.

She  knew  she should go upstairs and sit beside Melanie. If anything went wrong, Melanie would be too weak to call. But the idea of returning to
that  room where she had spent so many nightmare hours was repulsive to her. Even if Melanie were dying, she couldn't go back up there. She never
wanted  to  see  that room again. She set the lamp on the candle stand by the window and returned to the front porch. It was so much cooler here,
and even the night was drowned in soft warmth. She sat down on the steps in the circle of faint light thrown by the lamp and continued gnawing on
the corn bread.

When  she had finished it, a measure of strength came back to her and with the strength came again the pricking of fear. She could hear a humming
of noise far down the street, but what it portended she did not know. She could distinguish nothing but a volume of sound that rose and fell. She
strained  forward  trying to hear and soon she found her muscles aching from the tension. More than anything in the world she yearned to hear the
sound  of  hooves  and to see Rhett's careless, self-confident eyes laughing at her fears. Rhett would take them away, somewhere. She didn't know
where. She didn't care.

As  she  sat  straining her ears toward town, a faint glow appeared above the trees. It puzzled her. She watched it and saw it grow brighter. The
dark  sky became pink and then dull red, and suddenly above the trees, she saw a huge tongue of flame leap high to the heavens. She jumped to her
feet, her heart beginning again its sickening thudding and bumping.

The  Yankees had come! She knew they had come and they were burning the town. The flames seemed to be off to the east of the center of town. They
shot  higher  and  higher  and  widened rapidly into a broad expanse of red before her terrified eyes. A whole block must be burning. A faint hot
breeze that had sprung up bore the smell of smoke to her.

She  fled  up  the  stairs to her own room and hung out the window for a better view. The sky was a hideous lurid color and great swirls of black
smoke  went  twisting  up  to hand in billowy clouds above the flames. The smell of smoke was stronger now. Her mind rushed incoherently here and
there,  thinking  how  soon  the  flames would spread up Peachtree Street and burn this house, how soon the Yankees would be rushing in upon her,
where  she  would  run,  what she would do. All the fiends of hell seemed screaming in her ears and her brain swirled with confusion and panic so
overpowering she clung to the window sill for support.

"I must think," she told herself over and over. "I must think."

But  thoughts  eluded  her, darting in and out of her mind like frightened humming birds. As she stood hanging to the sill, a deafening explosion
burst  on  her  ears, louder than any cannon she had ever heard. The sky was rent with gigantic flame. Then other explosions. The earth shook and
the glass in the panes above her head shivered and came down around her.

The  world  became  an  inferno  of noise and flame and trembling earth as one explosion followed another in earsplitting succession. Torrents of
sparks  shot  to  the  sky and descended slowly, lazily, through blood-colored clouds of smoke. She thought she heard a feeble call from the next
room but she paid it no heed. She had no time for Melanie now. No time for anything except a fear that licked through her veins as swiftly as the
flames she saw. She was a child and mad with fright and she wanted to bury her head in her mother's lap and shut out this sight. If she were only
home! Home with Mother.

Through  the  nerve-shivering sounds, she heard another sound, that of fear-sped feet coming up the stairs three at a time, heard a voice yelping
like a lost hound. Prissy broke into the room and, flying to Scarlett, clutched her arm in a grip that seemed to pinch out pieces of flesh.

"The Yankees--" cried Scarlett.

"No'm,  its  our  gempmums!"  yelled  Prissy between breaths, digging her nails deeper into Scarlett's arm. "Dey's buhnin' de foun'ry an' de ahmy
supply  depots an' de wa'houses an', fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett, dey done set off dem sebenty freight cahs of cannon balls an' gunpowder an', Jesus,
we's all gwine ter buhn up!"

She began yelping again shrilly and pinched Scarlett so hard she cried out in pain and fury and shook off her hand.

The Yankees hadn't come yet! There was still time to get away! She rallied her frightened forces together.

"If  I  don't  get  a hold on myself," she thought, "I'll be squalling like a scalded cat!" and the sight of Prissy's abject terror helped steady
her. She took her by the shoulders and shook her.

"Shut up that racket and talk sense. The Yankees haven't come, you fool! Did you see Captain Butler? What did he say? Is he coming?"

Prissy ceased her yelling but her teeth chattered.

"Yas'm, ah finely foun' him. In a bahroom, lak you told me. He--"

"Never mind where you found him. Is he coming? Did you tell him to bring his horse?"

"Lawd, Miss Scarlett, he say our gempmums done tuck his hawse an' cah'ige fer a amberlance."

"Dear God in Heaven!"

"But he comin'--"

"What did he say?"

Prissy had recovered her breath and a small measure of control but her eyes still rolled.

"Well'm,  lak  you  tole  me, Ah foun' him in a bahroom. Ah stood outside an' yell fer him an' he come out. An' terreckly he see me an' Ah starts
tell  him,  de sojers tech off a sto' house down Decatur Street an' it flame up an' he say Come on an' he grab me an' we runs ter Fibe Points an'
he  say  den:  What now? Talk fas'. An' Ah say you say, Cap'n Butler, come quick an' bring yo' hawse an' cah'ige. Miss Melly done had a chile an'
you  is bustin' ter get outer town. An' he say: Where all she studyin' 'bout goin'? An' Ah say: Ah doan know, suh, but you is boun' ter go fo' de
Yankees gits hyah an' wants him ter go wid you. An' he laugh an' say dey done tuck his hawse."

Scarlett's  heart  went leaden as the last hope left her. Fool that she was, why hadn't she thought that the retreating army would naturally take
every  vehicle  and  animal  left in the city? For a moment she was too stunned to hear what Prissy was saying but she pulled herself together to
hear the rest of the story.

"An' den he say, Tell Miss Scarlett ter res' easy. Ah'll steal her a hawse outer de ahmy crall effen dey's ary one lef. An' he say, Ah done stole
hawses  befo'  dis  night.  Tell her Ah git her a hawse effen Ah gits shot fer it. Den he laugh agin an' say, Cut an' run home. An' befo' Ah gits
started  Ker-bboom!  Off  goes a noise an' Ah lak ter drap in mah tracks an' he tell me twain't nuthin' but de ammernition our gempmums blown' up
so's de Yankees don't git it an'--"

"He is coming? He's going to bring a horse?"

"So he say."

She  drew a long breath of relief. If there was any way of getting a horse, Rhett Butler would get one. A smart man, Rhett. She would forgive him
anything  if  he  got  them  out of this mess. Escape! And with Rhett she would have no fear. Rhett would protect them. Thank God for Rhett! With
safety in view she turned practical.

"Wake  Wade  up  and dress him and pack some clothes for all of us. Put them in the small trunk. And don't tell Miss Mellie we're going. Not yet.
But wrap the baby in a couple of thick towels and be sure and pack his clothes."

Prissy still clung to her skirts and hardly anything showed in her eyes except the whites. Scarlett gave her a shove and loosened her grip.

"Hurry," she cried, and Prissy went off like a rabbit.

Scarlett  knew  she  should  go  in  and  quiet  Melanie's  fear, knew Melanie must be frightened out of her senses by the thunderous noises that
continued unabated and the glare that lighted the sky. It looked and sounded like the end of the world.

But  she  could  not bring herself to go back into that room just yet. She ran down the stairs with some idea of packing up Miss Pittypat's china
and  the little silver she had left when she refugeed to Macon. But when she reached the dining room, her hands were shaking so badly she dropped
three  plates and shattered them. She ran out onto the porch to listen and back again to the dining room and dropped the silver clattering to the
floor. Everything she touched she dropped. In her hurry she slipped on the rag rug and fell to the floor with a jolt but leaped up so quickly she
was  not  even  aware  of  the  pain.  Upstairs  she could hear Prissy galloping about like a wild animal and the sound maddened her, for she was
galloping just as aimlessly.

For the dozenth time, she ran out onto the porch but this time she did not go back to her futile packing. She sat down. It was just impossible to
pack  anything.  Impossible  to  do anything but sit with hammering heart and wait for Rhett. It seemed hours before he came. At last, far up the
road,  she  heard  the protesting screech of unoiled axles and the slow uncertain plodding of hooves. Why didn't he hurry? Why didn't he make the
horse trot?

The  sounds  came  nearer and she leaped to her feet and called Rhett's name. Then, she saw him dimly as he climbed down from the seat of a small
wagon,  heard  the  clicking  of the gate as he came toward her. He came into view and the light of the lamp showed him plainly. His dress was as
debonaire  as  if  he  were  going  to a ball, well-tailored white linen coat and trousers, embroidered gray watered-silk waistcoat and a hint of
ruffle  on  his shirt bosom. His wide Panama hat was set dashingly on one side of his head and in the belt of his trousers were thrust two ivory-
handled, long-barreled dueling pistols. The pockets of his coat sagged heavily with ammunition.

He  came  up  the  walk with the springy stride of a savage and his fine head was carried like a pagan prince. The dangers of the night which had
driven  Scarlett into panic had affected him like an intoxicant. There was a carefully restrained ferocity in his dark face, a ruthlessness which
would have frightened her had she the wits to see it.

His  black  eyes  danced  as  though  amused by the whole affair, as though the earth-splitting sounds and the horrid glare were merely things to
frighten children. She swayed toward him as he came up the steps, her face white, her green eyes burning.

"Good evening," he said, in his drawling voice, as he removed his hat with a sweeping gesture. "Fine weather we're having. I hear you're going to
take a trip."

"If you make any jokes, I shall never speak to you again," she said with quivering voice.

"Don't  tell  me  you  are  frightened!" He pretended to be surprised and smiled in a way that made her long to push him backwards down the steep
steps.

"Yes,  I  am! I'm frightened to death and if you had the sense God gave a goat, you'd be frightened too. But we haven't got time to talk. We must
get out of here."

"At  your service, Madam. But just where were you figuring on going? I made the trip out here for curiosity, just to see where you were intending
to  go.  You can't go north or east or south or west. The Yankees are all around. There's just one road out of town which the Yankees haven't got
yet  and  the  army  is retreating by that road. And that road won't be open long. General Steve Lee's cavalry is fighting a rear-guard action at
Rough and Ready to hold it open long enough for the army to get away. If you follow the army down the McDonough road, they'll take the horse away
from you and, while it's not much of a horse, I did go to a lot of trouble stealing it. Just where are you going?"

She  stood  shaking,  listening to his words, hardly hearing them. But, at his question she suddenly knew where she was going, knew that all this
miserable day she had known where she was going. The only place.

"I'm going home," she said.

"Home? You mean to Tara?"

"Yes, yes! To Tara! Oh, Rhett, we must hurry!"

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

"Tara?  God  Almighty,  Scarlett! Don't you know they fought all day at Jonesboro? Fought for ten miles up and down the road from Rough and Ready
even into the streets of Jonesboro? The Yankees may be all over Tara by now, all over the County. Nobody knows where they are but they're in that
neighborhood. You can't go home! You can't go right through the Yankee army!"

"I will go home!" she cried. "I will! I will!"

"You  little  fool,"  and  his  voice was swift and rough. "You can't go that way. Even if you didn't run into the Yankees, the woods are full of
stragglers  and  deserters  from  both armies. And lots of our troops are still retreating from Jonesboro. They'd take the horse away from you as
quickly  as the Yankees would. Your only chance is to follow the troops down the McDonough road and pray that they won't see you in the dark. You
can't go to Tara. Even if you got there, you'd probably find it burned down. I won't let you go home. It's insanity."

"I  will go home!" she cried and her voice broke and rose to a scream. "I will go home! You can't stop me! I will go home! I want my mother! I'll
kill you if you try to stop me! I will go home!"

Tears  of  fright  and  hysteria  streamed  down her face as she finally gave way under the long strain. She beat on his chest with her fists and
screamed again: "I will! I will! If I have to walk every step of the way!"

Suddenly  she  was in his arms, her wet cheek against the starched ruffle of his shirt, her beating hands stilled against him. His hands caressed
her  tumbled  hair  gently,  soothingly,  and his voice was gentle too. So gentle, so quiet, so devoid of mockery, it did not seem Rhett Butler's
voice at all but the voice of some kind strong stranger who smelled of brandy and tobacco and horses, comforting smells because they reminded her
of Gerald.

"There, there, darling," he said softly. "Don't cry. You shall go home, my brave little girl. You shall go home. Don't cry."

She  felt  something  brush  her  hair and wondered vaguely through her tumult if it were his lips. He was so tender, so infinitely soothing, she
longed to stay in his arms forever. With such strong arms about her, surely nothing could harm her.

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"Now, blow your nose like a good child," he ordered, a glint of a smile in his eyes, "and tell me what to do. We must work fast."

She blew her nose obediently, still trembling, but she could not think what to tell him to do. Seeing how her lip quivered and her eyes looked up
at him helplessly, he took command.

"Mrs.  Wilkes  has  had  her child? It will be dangerous to move her--dangerous to drive her twenty-five miles in that rickety wagon. We'd better
leave her with Mrs. Meade."

"The Meades aren't home. I can't leave her."

"Very well. Into the wagon she goes. Where is that simple-minded little wench?"

"Upstairs packing the trunk."

"Trunk?  You  can't  take  any  trunk  in  that  wagon.  It's  almost  too  small to hold all of you and the wheels are ready to come off with no
encouragement. Call her and tell her to get the smallest feather bed in the house and put it in the wagon."

Still  Scarlett  could  not  move. He took her arm in a strong grasp and some of the vitality which animated him seemed to flow into her body. If
only  she  could be as cool and casual as he was! He propelled her into the hall but she still stood helplessly looking at him. His lip went down
mockingly: "Can this be the heroic young woman who assured me she feared neither God nor man?"

He suddenly burst into laughter and dropped her arm. Stung, she glared at him, hating him.

"I'm not afraid," she said.

"Yes, you are. In another moment you'll be in a swoon and I have no smelling salts about me."

She  stamped  her  foot  impotently  because she could not think of anything else to do--and without a word picked up the lamp and started up the
stairs.  He  was close behind her and she could hear him laughing softly to himself. That sound stiffened her spine. She went into Wade's nursery
and  found  him  sitting  clutched in Prissy's arms, half dressed, hiccoughing quietly. Prissy was whimpering. The feather tick on Wade's bed was
small  and  she  ordered  Prissy  to drag it down the stairs and into the wagon. Prissy put down the child and obeyed. Wade followed her down the
stairs, his hiccoughs stilled by his interest in the proceedings.

"Come," said Scarlett, turning to Melanie's door and Rhett followed her, hat in hand.

Melanie  lay quietly with the sheet up to her chin. Her face was deathly white but her eyes, sunken and black circled, were serene. She showed no
surprise at the sight of Rhett in her bedroom but seemed to take it as a matter of course. She tried to smile weakly but the smile died before it
reached the corners of her mouth.

"We are going home, to Tara," Scarlett explained rapidly. "The Yankees are coming. Rhett is going to take us. It's the only way, Melly."

Melanie  tried  to  nod her head feebly and gestured toward the baby. Scarlett picked up the small baby and wrapped him hastily in a thick towel.
Rhett stepped to the bed.

"I'll try not to hurt you," he said quietly, tucking the sheet about her. "See if you can put your arms around my neck."

Melanie  tried but they fell back weakly. He bent, slipped an arm under her shoulders and another across her knees and lifted her gently. She did
not  cry  out but Scarlett saw her bite her lip and go even whiter. Scarlett held the lamp high for Rhett to see and started toward the door when
Melanie made a feeble gesture toward the wall.

"What is it?" Rhett asked softly.

"Please," Melanie whispered, trying to point. "Charles."

Rhett  looked  down at her as if he thought her delirious but Scarlett understood and was irritated. She knew Melanie wanted the daguerreotype of
Charles which hung on the wall below his sword and pistol.

"Please," Melanie whispered again, "the sword."

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Scarlett and, after she had lighted Rhett's careful way down the steps, she went back and unhooked the sword and pistol
belts.  It  would  be  awkward, carrying them as well as the baby and the lamp. That was just like Melanie, not to be at all bothered over nearly
dying and having the Yankees at her heels but to worry about Charles' things.

As  she took down the daguerreotype, she caught a glimpse of Charles' face. His large brown eyes met hers and she stopped for a moment to look at
the  picture curiously. This man had been her husband, had lain beside her for a few nights, had given her a child with eyes as soft and brown as
his. And she could hardly remember him.

The child in her arms waved small fists and mewed softly and she looked down at him. For the first time, she realized that this was Ashley's baby
and suddenly wished with all the strength left in her that he were her baby, hers and Ashley's.

Prissy came bounding up the stairs and Scarlett handed the child to her. They went hastily down, the lamp throwing uncertain shadows on the wall.
In  the  hall, Scarlett saw a bonnet and put it on hurriedly, tying the ribbons under her chin. It was Melanie's black mourning bonnet and it did
not fit Scarlett's head but she could not recall where she had put her own bonnet.

She  went  out  of  the house and down the front steps, carrying the lamp and trying to keep the saber from banging against her legs. Melanie lay
full length in the back of the wagon, and, beside her, were Wade and the towel-swathed baby. Prissy climbed in and took the baby in her arms.

The wagon was very small and the boards about the sides very low. The wheels leaned inward as if their first revolution would make them come off.
She  took  one  look at the horse and her heart sank. He was a small emaciated animal and he stood with his head dispiritedly low, almost between
his forelegs. His back was raw with sores and harness galls and he breathed as no sound horse should.

"Not  much  of  an  animal, is it?" grinned Rhett. "Looks like he'll die in the shafts. But he's the best I could do. Some day I'll tell you with
embellishments just where and how I stole him and how narrowly I missed getting shot. Nothing but my devotion to you would make me, at this stage
of my career, turn horse thief--and thief of such a horse. Let me help you in."

He  took  the lamp from her and set it on the ground. The front seat was only a narrow plank across the sides of the wagon. Rhett picked Scarlett
up  bodily  and  swung  her  to  it. How wonderful to be a man and as strong as Rhett, she thought, tucking her wide skirts about her. With Rhett
beside her, she did not fear anything, neither the fire nor the noise nor the Yankees.

He climbed onto the seat beside her and picked up the reins.

"Oh, wait!" she cried. "I forgot to lock the front door."

He burst into a roar of laughter and slapped the reins upon the horse's back.

"What are you laughing at?"

"At  you--locking  the  Yankees  out,"  he said and the horse started off, slowly, reluctantly. The lamp on the sidewalk burned on, making a tiny
yellow circle of light which grew smaller and smaller as they moved away.



Rhett  turned  the  horse's slow feet westward from Peachtree and the wobbling wagon jounced into the rutty lane with a violence that wrenched an
abruptly stifled moan from Melanie. Dark trees interlaced above their heads, dark silent houses loomed up on either side and the white palings of
fences  gleamed faintly like a row of tombstones. The narrow street was a dim tunnel, but faintly through the thick leafy ceiling the hideous red
glow  of  the sky penetrated and shadows chased one another down the dark way like mad ghosts. The smell of smoke came stronger and stronger, and
on  the wings of the hot breeze came a pandemonium of sound from the center of town, yells, the dull rumbling of heavy army wagons and the steady
tramp  of  marching  feet.  As  Rhett  jerked the horse's head and turned him into another street, another deafening explosion tore the air and a
monstrous skyrocket of flame and smoke shot up in the west.

"That  must  be the last of the ammunition trains," Rhett said calmly. "Why didn't they get them out this morning, the fools! There was plenty of
time.  Well,  too bad for us. I thought by circling around the center of town, we might avoid the fire and that drunken mob on Decatur Street and
get  through  to  the  southwest  part  of  town without any danger. But we've got to cross Marietta Street somewhere and that explosion was near
Marietta Street or I miss my guess."

"Must--must we go through the fire?" Scarlett quavered.

"Not  if we hurry," said Rhett and, springing from the wagon, he disappeared into the darkness of a yard. When he returned he had a small limb of
a  tree  in  his  hand  and he laid it mercilessly across the horse's galled back. The animal broke into a shambling trot, his breath panting and
labored,  and the wagon swayed forward with a jolt that threw them about like popcorn in a popper. The baby wailed, and Prissy and Wade cried out
as they bruised themselves against the sides of the wagon. But from Melanie there was no sound.

As  they neared Marietta Street, the trees thinned out and the tall flames roaring up above the buildings threw street and houses into a glare of
light brighter than day, casting monstrous shadows that twisted as wildly as torn sails flapping in a gale on a sinking ship.

Scarlett's  teeth  chattered but so great was her terror she was not even aware of it. She was cold and she shivered, even though the heat of the
flames  was  already  hot against their faces. This was hell and she was in it and, if she could only have conquered her shaking knees, she would
have  leaped from the wagon and run screaming back the dark road they had come, back to the refuge of Miss Pittypat's house. She shrank closer to
Rhett,  took  his  arm in fingers that trembled and looked up at him for words, for comfort, for something reassuring. In the unholy crimson glow
that  bathed them, his dark profile stood out as clearly as the head on an ancient coin, beautiful, cruel and decadent. At her touch he turned to
her,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  a  light  as frightening as the fire. To Scarlett, he seemed as exhilarated and contemptuous as if he got strong
pleasure from the situation, as if he welcomed the inferno they were approaching.

"Here,"  he  said,  laying a hand on one of the long-barreled pistols in his belt. "If anyone, black or white, comes up on your side of the wagon
and tries to lay hand on the horse, shoot him and we'll ask questions later. But for God's sake, don't shoot the nag in your excitement."

"I--I  have  a  pistol," she whispered, clutching the weapon in her lap, perfectly certain that if death stared her in the face, she would be too
frightened to pull the trigger.

"You have? Where did you get it?"

"It's Charles'."

"Charles?"

"Yes, Charles--my husband."

"Did you ever really have a husband, my dear?" he whispered and laughed softly.

If he would only be serious! If he would only hurry!

"How do you suppose I got my boy?" she cried fiercely.

"Oh, there are other ways than husbands--"

"Will you hush and hurry?"

But he drew rein abruptly, almost at Marietta Street, in the shadow of a warehouse not yet touched by the flames.

"Hurry!" It was the only word in her mind. Hurry! Hurry!

"Soldiers," he said.

The  detachment  came  down  Marietta Street, between the burning buildings, walking at route step, tiredly, rifles held any way, heads down, too
weary to hurry, too weary to care if timbers were crashing to right and left and smoke billowing about them. They were all ragged, so ragged that
between officers and men there were no distinguishing insignia except here and there a torn hat brim pinned up with a wreathed "C.S.A." Many were
barefooted and here and there a dirty bandage wrapped a head or arm. They went past, looking neither to left nor right, so silent that had it not
been for the steady tramp of feet they might all have been ghosts.

"Take  a  good  look  at  them,"  came  Rhett's gibing voice, "so you can tell your grandchildren you saw the rear guard of the Glorious Cause in
retreat."

Suddenly  she  hated  him, hated him with a strength that momentarily overpowered her fear, made it seem petty and small. She knew her safety and
that  of the others in the back of the wagon depended on him and him alone, but she hated him for his sneering at those ragged ranks. She thought
of Charles who was dead and Ashley who might be dead and all the gay and gallant young men who were rotting in shallow graves and she forgot that
she, too, had once thought them fools. She could not speak, but hatred and disgust burned in her eyes as she stared at him fiercely.

As  the last of the soldiers were passing, a small figure in the rear rank, his rifle butt dragging the ground, wavered, stopped and stared after
the  others  with  a  dirty face so dulled by fatigue he looked like a sleepwalker. He was as small as Scarlett, so small his rifle was almost as
tall  as he was, and his grime-smeared face was unbearded. Sixteen at the most, thought Scarlett irrelevantly, must be one of the Home Guard or a
runaway schoolboy.

As she watched, the boy's knees buckled slowly and he went down in the dust. Without a word, two men fell out of the last rank and walked back to
him.  One,  a  tall  spare  man  with  a black beard that hung to his belt, silently handed his own rifle and that of the boy to the other. Then,
stooping,  he  jerked  the boy to his shoulders with an ease that looked like sleight of hand. He started off slowly after the retreating column,
his  shoulders  bowed  under the weight, while the boy, weak, infuriated like a child teased by its elders, screamed out: "Put me down, damn you!
Put me down! I can walk!"

The bearded man said nothing and plodded on out of sight around the bend of the road.

Rhett  sat  still,  the  reins lax in his hands, looking after them, a curious moody look on his swarthy face. Then, there was a crash of falling
timbers  near by and Scarlett saw a thin tongue of flame lick up over the roof of the warehouse in whose sheltering shadow they sat. Then pennons
and  battle  flags of flame flared triumphantly to the sky above them. Smoke burnt her nostrils and Wade and Prissy began coughing. The baby made
soft sneezing sounds.

"Oh, name of God, Rhett! Are you crazy? Hurry! Hurry!"

Rhett  made  no reply but brought the tree limb down on the horse's back with a cruel force that made the animal leap forward. With all the speed
the horse could summon, they jolted and bounced across Marietta Street. Ahead of them was a tunnel of fire where buildings were blazing on either
side  of  the  short,  narrow street that led down to the railroad tracks. They plunged into it. A glare brighter than a dozen suns dazzled their
eyes, scorching heat seared their skins and the roaring, cracking and crashing beat upon their ears in painful waves. For an eternity, it seemed,
they were in the midst of flaming torment and then abruptly they were in semidarkness again.

As  they  dashed  down  the  street and bumped over the railroad tracks, Rhett applied the whip automatically. His face looked set and absent, as
though  he  had  forgotten where he was. His broad shoulders were hunched forward and his chin jutted out as though the thoughts in his mind were
not pleasant. The heat of the fire made sweat stream down his forehead and cheeks but he did not wipe it off.

They  pulled  into  a  side  street,  then  another, then turned and twisted from one narrow street to another until Scarlett completely lost her
bearings and the roaring of the flames died behind them. Still Rhett did not speak. He only laid on the whip with regularity. The red glow in the
sky  was  fading now and the road became so dark, so frightening, Scarlett would have welcomed words, any words from him, even jeering, insulting
words, words that cut. But he did not speak.

Silent  or  not,  she  thanked Heaven for the comfort of his presence. It was so good to have a man beside her, to lean close to him and feel the
hard swell of his arm and know that he stood between her and unnamable terrors, even though he merely sat there and stared.

"Oh, Rhett," she whispered clasping his arm, "What would we ever have done without you? I'm so glad you aren't in the army!"

He  turned  his  head  and  gave her one look, a look that made her drop his arm and shrink back. There was no mockery in his eyes now. They were
naked  and there was anger and something like bewilderment in them. His lip curled down and he turned his head away. For a long time they jounced
along  in  a  silence  unbroken except for the faint wails of the baby and sniffles from Prissy. When she was able to bear the sniffling noise no
longer, Scarlett turned and pinched her viciously, causing Prissy to scream in good earnest before she relapsed into frightened silence.

Finally  Rhett  turned the horse at right angles and after a while they were on a wider, smoother road. The dim shapes of houses grew farther and
farther apart and unbroken woods loomed wall-like on either side.

"We're out of town now," said Rhett briefly, drawing rein, "and on the main road to Rough and Ready."

"Hurry. Don't stop!"

"Let the animal breathe a bit." Then turning to her, he asked slowly: "Scarlett, are you still determined to do this crazy thing?"

"Do what?"

"Do you still want to try to get through to Tara? It's suicidal. Steve Lee's cavalry and the Yankee Army are between you and Tara."

Oh, Dear God! Was he going to refuse to take her home, after all she'd gone through this terrible day?

"Oh, yes! Yes! Please, Rhett, let's hurry. The horse isn't tired."

"Just  a  minute. You can't go down to Jonesboro on this road. You can't follow the train tracks. They've been fighting up and down there all day
from Rough and Ready on south. Do you know any other roads, small wagon roads or lanes that don't go through Rough and Ready or Jonesboro?"

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Scarlett  in relief. "If we can just get near to Rough and Ready, I know a wagon trace that winds off from the main Jonesboro
road and wanders around for miles. Pa and I used to ride it. It comes out right near the MacIntosh place and that's only a mile from Tara."

"Good. Maybe you can get past Rough and Ready all right. General Steve Lee was there during the afternoon covering the retreat. Maybe the Yankees
aren't there yet. Maybe you can get through there, if Steve Lee's men don't pick up your horse."

"_I_ can get through?"

"Yes, YOU." His voice was rough.

"But Rhett-- You-- Aren't going to take us?"

"No. I'm leaving you here."

She  looked  around  wildly, at the livid sky behind them, at the dark trees on either hand hemming them in like a prison wall, at the frightened
figures in the back of the wagon--and finally at him. Had she gone crazy? Was she not hearing right?

He was grinning now. She could just see his white teeth in the faint light and the old mockery was back in his eyes.

"Leaving us? Where--where are you going?"

"I am going, dear girl, with the army."

She  sighed  with relief and irritation. Why did he joke at this time of all times? Rhett in the army! After all he'd said about stupid fools who
were enticed into losing their lives by a roll of drums and brave words from orators--fools who killed themselves that wise men might make money!

"Oh, I could choke you for scaring me so! Let's get on."

"I'm  not  joking, my dear. And I am hurt, Scarlett, that you do not take my gallant sacrifice with better spirit. Where is your patriotism, your
love  for  Our  Glorious  Cause? Now is your chance to tell me to return with my shield or on it. But, talk fast, for I want time to make a brave
speech before departing for the wars."

His  drawling  voice  gibed  in  her ears. He was jeering at her and, somehow, she knew he was jeering at himself too. What was he talking about?
Patriotism,  shields,  brave  speeches?  It  wasn't  possible  that  he meant what he was saying. It just wasn't believable that he could talk so
blithely  of leaving her here on this dark road with a woman who might be dying, a new-born infant, a foolish black wench and a frightened child,
leaving her to pilot them through miles of battle fields and stragglers and Yankees and fire and God knows what.

Once,  when  she was six years old, she had fallen from a tree, flat on her stomach. She could still recall that sickening interval before breath
came back into her body. Now, as she looked at Rhett, she felt the same way she had felt then, breathless, stunned, nauseated.

"Rhett, you are joking!"

She grabbed his arm and felt her tears of fright splash down her wrist. He raised her hand and kissed it arily.

"Selfish  to  the end, aren't you, my dear? Thinking only of your own precious hide and not of the gallant Confederacy. Think how our troops will
be heartened by my eleventh-hour appearance." There was a malicious tenderness in his voice.

"Oh, Rhett," she wailed, "how can you do this to me? Why are you leaving me?"

"Why?" he laughed jauntily. "Because, perhaps, of the betraying sentimentality that lurks in all of us Southerners. Perhaps--perhaps because I am
ashamed. Who knows?"

"Ashamed? You should die of shame. To desert us here, alone, helpless--"

"Dear Scarlett! You aren't helpless. Anyone as selfish and determined as you are is never helpless. God help the Yankees if they should get you."

He stepped abruptly down from the wagon and, as she watched him, stunned with bewilderment, he came around to her side of the wagon.

"Get out," he ordered.

She  stared  at him. He reached up roughly, caught her under the arms and swung her to the ground beside him. With a tight grip on her he dragged
her  several  paces away from the wagon. She felt the dust and gravel in her slippers hurting her feet. The still hot darkness wrapped her like a
dream.

"I'm  not asking you to understand or forgive. I don't give a damn whether you do either, for I shall never understand or forgive myself for this
idiocy.  I  am  annoyed  at myself to find that so much quixoticism still lingers in me. But our fair Southland needs every man. Didn't our brave
Governor  Brown  say just that? Not matter. I'm off to the wars." He laughed suddenly, a ringing, free laugh that startled the echoes in the dark
woods.

"'I  could  not  love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not Honour more.' That's a pat speech, isn't it? Certainly better than anything I can think up
myself, at the present moment. For I do love you, Scarlett, in spite of what I said that night on the porch last month."

His  drawl  was caressing and his hands slid up her bare arms, warm strong hands. "I love you, Scarlett, because we are so much alike, renegades,
both of us, dear, and selfish rascals. Neither of us cares a rap if the whole world goes to pot, so long as we are safe and comfortable."

His voice went on in the darkness and she heard words, but they made no sense to her. Her mind was tiredly trying to take in the harsh truth that
he was leaving her here to face the Yankees alone. Her mind said: "He's leaving me. He's leaving me." But no emotion stirred.

Then  his  arms  went  around  her  waist  and shoulders and she felt the hard muscles of his thighs against her body and the buttons of his coat
pressing  into  her  breast.  A  warm  tide of feeling, bewildering, frightening, swept over her, carrying out of her mind the time and place and
circumstances. She felt as limp as a rag doll, warm, weak and helpless, and his supporting arms were so pleasant.

"You  don't  want  to change your mind about what I said last month? There's nothing like danger and death to give an added fillip. Be patriotic,
Scarlett. Think how you would be sending a soldier to his death with beautiful memories."

He  was  kissing  her  now  and his mustache tickled her mouth, kissing her with slow, hot lips that were so leisurely as though he had the whole
night  before  him.  Charles  had  never kissed her like this. Never had the kisses of the Tarleton and Calvert boys made her go hot and cold and
shaky like this. He bent her body backward and his lips traveled down her throat to where the cameo fastened her basque.

"Sweet," he whispered. "Sweet."

She saw the wagon dimly in the dark and heard the treble piping of Wade's voice.

"Muvver! Wade fwightened!"

Into  her  swaying,  darkened  mind,  cold  sanity  came  back with a rush and she remembered what she had forgotten for the moment--that she was
frightened  too,  and  Rhett  was leaving her, leaving her, the damned cad. And on top of it all, he had the consummate gall to stand here in the
road and insult her with his infamous proposals. Rage and hate flowed into her and stiffened her spine and with one wrench she tore herself loose
from his arms.

"Oh,  you  cad!"  she cried and her mind leaped about, trying to think of worse things to call him, things she had heard Gerald call Mr. Lincoln,
the  MacIntoshes  and balky mules, but the words would not come. "You low-down, cowardly, nasty, stinking thing!" And because she could not think
of anything crushing enough, she drew back her arm and slapped him across the mouth with all the force she had left. He took a step backward, his
hand going to his face.

"Ah,"  he said quietly and for a moment they stood facing each other in the darkness. Scarlett could hear his heavy breathing, and her own breath
came in gasps as if she had been running hard.

"They were right! Everybody was right! You aren't a gentleman!"

"My dear girl," he said, "how inadequate."

She knew he was laughing and the thought goaded her.

"Go  on!  Go  on  now! I want you to hurry. I don't want to ever see you again. I hope a cannon ball lands right on you. I hope it blows you to a
million pieces. I--"

"Never mind the rest. I follow your general idea. When I'm dead on the altar of my country, I hope your conscience hurts you."

She  heard  him laugh as he turned away and walked back toward the wagon. She saw him stand beside it, heard him speak and his voice was changed,
courteous and respectful as it always was when he spoke to Melanie.

"Mrs. Wilkes?"

Prissy's frightened voice made answer from the wagon.

"Gawdlmighty, Cap'n Butler! Miss Melly done fainted away back yonder."

"She's not dead? Is she breathing?"

"Yassuh, she breathin'."

"Then  she's probably better off as she is. If she were conscious, I doubt if she could live through all the pain. Take good care of her, Prissy.
Here's a shinplaster for you. Try not to be a bigger fool than you are."

"Yassuh. Thankee suh."

"Good-by, Scarlett."

She  knew he had turned and was facing her but she did not speak. Hate choked all utterance. His feet ground on the pebbles of the road and for a
moment  she  saw  his big shoulders looming up in the dark. Then he was gone. She could hear the sound of his feet for a while and then they died
away. She came slowly back to the wagon, her knees shaking.

Why  had  he  gone,  stepping  off into the dark, into the war, into a Cause that was lost, into a world that was mad? Why had he gone, Rhett who
loved the pleasures of women and liquor, the comfort of good food and soft beds, the feel of fine linen and good leather, who hated the South and
jeered at the fools who fought for it? Now he had set his varnished boots upon a bitter road where hunger tramped with tireless stride and wounds
and  weariness  and heartbreak ran like yelping wolves. And the end of the road was death. He need not have gone. He was safe, rich, comfortable.
But he had gone, leaving her alone in a night as black as blindness, with the Yankee Army between her and home.

Now  she remembered all the bad names she had wanted to call him but it was too late. She leaned her head against the bowed neck of the horse and
cried.



CHAPTER XXIV


The  bright  glare of morning sunlight streaming through the trees overhead awakened Scarlett. For a moment, stiffened by the cramped position in
which  she  had  slept,  she could not remember where she was. The sun blinded her, the hard boards of the wagon under her were harsh against her
body, and a heavy weight lay across her legs. She tried to sit up and discovered that the weight was Wade who lay sleeping with his head pillowed
on  her  knees.  Melanie's bare feet were almost in her face and, under the wagon seat, Prissy was curled up like a black cat with the small baby
wedged in between her and Wade.

Then  she  remembered everything. She popped up to a sitting position and looked hastily all around. Thank God, no Yankees in sight! Their hiding
place  had  not  been  discovered in the night. It all came back to her now, the nightmare journey after Rhett's footsteps died away, the endless
night,  the black road full of ruts and boulders along which they jolted, the deep gullies on either side into which the wagon slipped, the fear-
crazed  strength  with  which  she  and Prissy had pushed the wheels out of the gullies. She recalled with a shudder how often she had driven the
unwilling  horse  into fields and woods when she heard soldiers approaching, not knowing if they were friends or foes--recalled, too, her anguish
lest a cough, a sneeze or Wade's hiccoughing might betray them to the marching men.

Oh,  that  dark road where men went by like ghosts, voices stilled, only the muffled tramping of feet on soft dirt, the faint clicking of bridles
and  the  straining  creak  of leather! And, oh, that dreadful moment when the sick horse balked and cavalry and light cannon rumbled past in the
darkness,  past  where  they  sat breathless, so close she could almost reach out and touch them, so close she could smell the stale sweat on the
soldiers' bodies!

When,  at  last,  they had neared Rough and Ready, a few camp fires were gleaming where the last of Steve Lee's rear guard was awaiting orders to
fall  back.  She had circled through a plowed field for a mile until the light of the fires died out behind her. And then she had lost her way in
the  darkness  and  sobbed  when  she  could not find the little wagon path she knew so well. Then finally having found it, the horse sank in the
traces and refused to move, refused to rise even when she and Prissy tugged at the bridle.

So  she had unharnessed him and crawled, sodden with fatigue, into the back of the wagon and stretched her aching legs. She had a faint memory of
Melanie's voice before sleep clamped down her eyelids, a weak voice that apologized even as it begged: "Scarlett, can I have some water, please?"

She had said: "There isn't any," and gone to sleep before the words were out of her mouth.

Now it was morning and the world was still and serene and green and gold with dappled sunshine. And no soldiers in sight anywhere. She was hungry
and  dry  with thirst, aching and cramped and filled with wonder that she, Scarlett O'Hara, who could never rest well except between linen sheets
and on the softest of feather beds, had slept like a field hand on hard planks.

Blinking  in  the sunlight, her eyes fell on Melanie and she gasped, horrified. Melanie lay so still and white Scarlett thought she must be dead.
She  looked dead. She looked like a dead, old woman with her ravaged face and her dark hair snarled and tangled across it. Then Scarlett saw with
relief the faint rise and fall of her shallow breathing and knew that Melanie had survived the night.

Scarlett  shaded  her  eyes with her hand and looked about her. They had evidently spent the night under the trees in someone's front yard, for a
sand and gravel driveway stretched out before her, winding away under an avenue of cedars.

"Why, it's the Mallory place!" she thought, her heart leaping with gladness at the thought of friends and help.

But  a  stillness  as of death hung over the plantation. The shrubs and grass of the lawn were cut to pieces where hooves and wheels and feet had
torn  frantically back and forth until the soil was churned up. She looked toward the house and instead of the old white clapboard place she knew
so  well,  she saw there only a long rectangle of blackened granite foundation stones and two tall chimneys rearing smoke-stained bricks into the
charred leaves of still trees.

She drew a deep shuddering breath. Would she find Tara like this, level with the ground, silent as the dead?

"I  mustn't  think about that now," she told herself hurriedly. "I mustn't let myself think about it. I'll get scared again if I think about it."
But, in spite of herself, her heart quickened and each beat seemed to thunder: "Home! Hurry! Home! Hurry!"

They  must  be  starting  on  toward home again. But first they must find some food and water, especially water. She prodded Prissy awake. Prissy
rolled her eyes as she looked about her.

"Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett, Ah din' spec ter wake up agin 'cept in de Promise Lan'."

"You're  a long way from there," said Scarlett, trying to smooth back her untidy hair. Her face was damp and her body was already wet with sweat.
She  felt dirty and messy and sticky, almost as if she smelled bad. Her clothes were crushed and wrinkled from sleeping in them and she had never
felt  more  acutely  tired  and  sore  in all her life. Muscles she did not know she possessed ached from her unaccustomed exertions of the night
before and every movement brought sharp pain.

She  looked  down at Melanie and saw that her dark eyes were opened. They were sick eyes, fever bright, and dark baggy circles were beneath them.
She opened cracking lips and whispered appealingly: "Water."

"Get up, Prissy," ordered Scarlett. "We'll go to the well and get some water."

"But, Miss Scarlett! Dey mout be hants up dar. Sposin' somebody daid up dar?"

"I'll  make  a hant out of you if you don't get out of this wagon," said Scarlett, who was in no mood for argument, as she climbed lamely down to
the ground.

And then she thought of the horse. Name of God! Suppose the horse had died in the night! He had seemed ready to die when she unharnessed him. She
ran  around  the  wagon and saw him lying on his side. If he were dead, she would curse God and die too. Somebody in the Bible had done just that
thing.  Cursed  God  and  died. She knew just how that person felt. But the horse was alive--breathing heavily, sick eyes half closed, but alive.
Well, some water would help him too.

Prissy  climbed  reluctantly  from  the  wagon  with  many  groans  and  timorously  followed Scarlett up the avenue. Behind the ruins the row of
whitewashed  slave  quarters  stood  silent and deserted under the overhanging trees. Between the quarters and the smoked stone foundations, they
found  the  well,  and the roof of it still stood with the bucket far down the well. Between them, they wound up the rope, and when the bucket of
cool  sparkling  water appeared out of the dark depths, Scarlett tilted it to her lips and drank with loud sucking noises, spilling the water all
over herself.

She drank until Prissy's petulant: "Well, Ah's thusty, too, Miss Scarlett," made her recall the needs of the others.

"Untie  the knot and take the bucket to the wagon and give them some. And give the rest to the horse. Don't you think Miss Melanie ought to nurse
the baby? He'll starve."

"Law, Miss Scarlett, Miss Melly ain' got no milk--ain' gwine have none."

"How do you know?"

"Ah's seed too many lak her."

"Don't go putting on any airs with me. A precious little you knew about babies yesterday. Hurry now. I'm going to try to find something to eat."

Scarlett's  search  was  futile  until in the orchard she found a few apples. Soldiers had been there before her and there was none on the trees.
Those  she  found  on  the  ground were mostly rotten. She filled her skirt with the best of them and came back across the soft earth, collecting
small  pebbles in her slippers. Why hadn't she thought of putting on stouter shoes last night? Why hadn't she brought her sun hat? Why hadn't she
brought something to eat? She'd acted like a fool. But, of course, she'd thought Rhett would take care of them.

Rhett! She spat on the ground, for the very name tasted bad. How she hated him! How contemptible he had been! And she had stood there in the road
and let him kiss her--and almost liked it. She had been crazy last night. How despicable he was!

When  she came back, she divided up the apples and threw the rest into the back of the wagon. The horse was on his feet now but the water did not
seem to have refreshed him much. He looked far worse in the daylight than he had the night before. His hip bones stood out like an old cow's, his
ribs  showed  like a washboard and his back was a mass of sores. She shrank from touching him as she harnessed him. When she slipped the bit into
his  mouth,  she saw that he was practically toothless. As old as the hills! While Rhett was stealing a horse, why couldn't he have stolen a good
one?

She  mounted  the  seat and brought down the hickory limb on his back. He wheezed and started, but he walked so slowly as she turned him into the
road  she  knew  she  could  walk faster herself with no effort whatever. Oh, if only she didn't have Melanie and Wade and the baby and Prissy to
bother  with!  How  swiftly  she  could  walk home! Why, she would run home, run every step of the way that would bring her closer to Tara and to
Mother.

They  couldn't  be  more  than  fifteen  miles from home, but at the rate this old nag traveled it would take all day, for she would have to stop
frequently  to  rest him. All day! She looked down the glaring red road, cut in deep ruts where cannon wheels and ambulances had gone over it. It
would  be hours before she knew if Tara still stood and if Ellen were there. It would be hours before she finished her journey under the broiling
September sun.

She looked back at Melanie who lay with sick eyes closed against the sun and jerked loose the strings of her bonnet and tossed it to Prissy.

"Put  that  over  her  face.  It'll keep the sun out of her eyes." Then as the heat beat down upon her unprotected head, she thought: "I'll be as
freckled as a guinea egg before this day is over."

She  had  never  in her life been out in the sunshine without a hat or veils, never handled reins without gloves to protect the white skin of her
dimpled  hands.  Yet  here  she  was  exposed  to  the sun in a broken-down wagon with a broken-down horse, dirty, sweaty, hungry, helpless to do
anything  but  plod  along  at  a  snail's pace through a deserted land. What a few short weeks it had been since she was safe and secure! What a
little  while  since  she  and  everyone else had thought that Atlanta could never fall, that Georgia could never be invaded. But the small cloud
which  appeared  in  the  northwest  four months ago had blown up into a mighty storm and then into a screaming tornado, sweeping away her world,
whirling her out of her sheltered life, and dropping her down in the midst of this still, haunted desolation.

Was Tara still standing? Or was Tara also gone with the wind which had swept through Georgia?

She laid the whip on the tired horse's back and tried to urge him on while the waggling wheels rocked them drunkenly from side to side.



There  was  death  in  the  air. In the rays of the late afternoon sun, every well-remembered field and forest grove was green and still, with an
unearthly  quiet  that  struck terror to Scarlett's heart. Every empty, shell-pitted house they had passed that day, every gaunt chimney standing
sentinel  over  smoke-blackened ruins, had frightened her more. They had not seen a living human being or animal since the night before. Dead men
and  dead horses, yes, and dead mules, lying by the road, swollen, covered with flies, but nothing alive. No far-off cattle lowed, no birds sang,
no wind waved the trees. Only the tired plop-plop of the horse's feet and the weak wailing of Melanie's baby broke the stillness.

The  countryside lay as under some dread enchantment. Or worse still, thought Scarlett with a chill, like the familiar and dear face of a mother,
beautiful  and  quiet at last, after death agonies. She felt that the once-familiar woods were full of ghosts. Thousands had died in the fighting
near  Jonesboro. They were here in these haunted woods where the slanting afternoon sun gleamed eerily through unmoving leaves, friends and foes,
peering at her in her rickety wagon, through eyes blinded with blood and red dust--glazed, horrible eyes.

"Mother!  Mother!"  she  whispered. If she could only win to Ellen! If only, by a miracle of God, Tara were still standing and she could drive up
the long avenue of trees and go into the house and see her mother's kind, tender face, could feel once more the soft capable hands that drove out
fear,  could  clutch Ellen's skirts and bury her face in them. Mother would know what to do. She wouldn't let Melanie and her baby die. She would
drive away all ghosts and fears with her quiet "Hush, hush." But Mother was ill, perhaps dying.

Scarlett laid the whip across the weary rump of the horse. They must go faster! They had crept along this never-ending road all the long hot day.
Soon  it  would  be night and they would be alone in this desolation that was death. She gripped the reins tighter with hands that were blistered
and slapped them fiercely on the horse's back, her aching arms burning at the movement.

If  she  could  only  reach the kind arms of Tara and Ellen and lay down her burdens, far too heavy for her young shoulders--the dying woman, the
fading  baby,  her  own  hungry little boy, the frightened negro, all looking to her for strength, for guidance, all reading in her straight back
courage she did not possess and strength which had long since failed.

The  exhausted horse did not respond to the whip or reins but shambled on, dragging his feet, stumbling on small rocks and swaying as if ready to
fall  to  his  knees.  But, as twilight came, they at last entered the final lap of the long journey. They rounded the bend of the wagon path and
turned into the main road. Tara was only a mile away!

Here  loomed  up  the  dark bulk of the mock-orange hedge that marked the beginning of the MacIntosh property. A little farther on, Scarlett drew
rein  in  front  of  the avenue of oaks that led from the road to old Angus MacIntosh's house. She peered through the gathering dusk down the two
lines  of  ancient  trees.  All was dark. Not a single light showed in the house or in the quarters. Straining her eyes in the darkness she dimly
discerned  a  sight  which  had  grown  familiar through that terrible day--two tall chimneys, like gigantic tombstones towering above the ruined
second floor, and broken unlit windows blotching the walls like still, blind eyes.

"Hello!" she shouted, summoning all her strength. "Hello!"

Prissy clawed at her in a frenzy of fright and Scarlett, turning, saw that her eyes were rolling in her head.

"Doan holler, Miss Scarlett! Please, doan holler agin!" she whispered, her voice shaking. "Dey ain' no tellin' WHUT mout answer!"

"Dear God!" thought Scarlett, a shiver running through her. "Dear God! She's right. Anything might come out of there!"

She  flapped the reins and urged the horse forward. The sight of the MacIntosh house had pricked the last bubble of hope remaining to her. It was
burned,  in  ruins, deserted, as were all the plantations she had passed that day. Tara lay only half a mile away, on the same road, right in the
path of the army. Tara was leveled, too! She would find only the blackened bricks, starlight shining through the roofless walls, Ellen and Gerald
gone, the girls gone, Mammy gone, the negroes gone, God knows where, and this hideous stillness over everything.

Why  had  she  come  on  this fool's errand, against all common sense, dragging Melanie and her child? Better that they had died in Atlanta than,
tortured by this day of burning sun and jolting wagon, to die in the silent ruins of Tara.

But  Ashley had left Melanie in her care. "Take care of her." Oh, that beautiful, heartbreaking day when he had kissed her good-by before he went
away  forever!  "You'll  take  care of her, won't you? Promise!" And she had promised. Why had she ever bound herself with such a promise, doubly
binding  now that Ashley was gone? Even in her exhaustion she hated Melanie, hated the tiny mewing voice of her child which, fainter and fainter,
pierced  the  stillness.  But  she  had promised and now they belonged to her, even as Wade and Prissy belonged to her, and she must struggle and
fight for them as long as she had strength or breath. She could have left them in Atlanta, dumped Melanie into the hospital and deserted her. But
had  she  done  that,  she  could never face Ashley, either on this earth or in the hereafter and tell him she had left his wife and child to die
among strangers.

Oh,  Ashley!  Where was he tonight while she toiled down this haunted road with his wife and baby? Was he alive and did he think of her as he lay
behind the bars at Rock Island? Or was he dead of smallpox months ago, rotting in some long ditch with hundreds of other Confederates?

Scarlett's  taut  nerves  almost  cracked  as a sudden noise sounded in the underbrush near them. Prissy screamed loudly, throwing herself to the
floor  of  the  wagon,  the  baby  beneath  her.  Melanie  stirred feebly, her hands seeking the baby, and Wade covered his eyes and cowered, too
frightened to cry. Then the bushes beside them crashed apart under heavy hooves and a low moaning bawl assaulted their ears.

"It's  only  a  cow,"  said Scarlett, her voice rough with fright. "Don't be a fool, Prissy. You've mashed the baby and frightened Miss Melly and
Wade."

"It's a ghos'," moaned Prissy, writhing face down on the wagon boards.

Turning  deliberately, Scarlett raised the tree limb she had been using as a whip and brought it down across Prissy's back. She was too exhausted
and weak from fright to tolerate weakness in anyone else.

"Sit up, you fool," she said, "before I wear this out on you."

Yelping,  Prissy  raised her head and peering over the side of the wagon saw it was, indeed, a cow, a red and white animal which stood looking at
them appealingly with large frightened eyes. Opening its mouth, it lowed again as if in pain.

"Is it hurt? That doesn't sound like an ordinary moo."

"Soun'  ter  me lak her bag full an' she need milkin' bad," said Prissy, regaining some measure of control. "Spec it one of Mist' MacIntosh's dat
de niggers driv in de woods an' de Yankees din' git."

"We'll take it with us," Scarlett decided swiftly. "Then we can have some milk for the baby."

"How  all we gwine tek a cow wid us, Miss Scarlett? We kain tek no cow wid us. Cow ain' no good nohow effen she ain' been milked lately. Dey bags
swells up and busts. Dat's why she hollerin'."

"Since you know so much about it, take off your petticoat and tear it up and tie her to the back of the wagon."

"Miss  Scarlett, you knows Ah ain' had no petticoat fer a month an' did Ah have one, Ah wouldn' put it on her fer nuthin'. Ah nebber had no truck
wid cows. Ah's sceered of cows."

Scarlett  laid down the reins and pulled up her skirt. The lace-trimmed petticoat beneath was the last garment she possessed that was pretty--and
whole.  She  untied the waist tape and slipped it down over her feet, crushing the soft linen folds between her hands. Rhett had brought her that
linen and lace from Nassau on the last boat he slipped through the blockade and she had worked a week to make the garment. Resolutely she took it
by the hem and jerked, put it in her mouth and gnawed, until finally the material gave with a rip and tore the length. She gnawed furiously, tore
with both hands and the petticoat lay in strips in her hands. She knotted the ends with fingers that bled from blisters and shook from fatigue.

"Slip this over her horns," she directed. But Prissy balked.

"Ah's sceered of cows, Miss Scarlett. Ah ain' nebber had nuthin' ter do wid cows. Ah ain' no yard nigger. Ah's a house nigger."

"You're  a  fool  nigger, and the worst day's work Pa ever did was to buy you," said Scarlett slowly, too tired for anger. "And if I ever get the
use of my arm again, I'll wear this whip out on you."

There, she thought, I've said "nigger" and Mother wouldn't like that at all.

Prissy  rolled  her  eyes wildly, peeping first at the set face of her mistress and then at the cow which bawled plaintively. Scarlett seemed the
less dangerous of the two, so Prissy clutched at the sides of the wagon and remained where she was.

Stiffly,  Scarlett  climbed  down from the seat, each movement of agony of aching muscles. Prissy was not the only one who was "sceered" of cows.
Scarlett  had  always  feared  them,  even the mildest cow seemed sinister to her, but this was no time to truckle to small fears when great ones
crowded  so  thick  upon  her.  Fortunately the cow was gentle. In its pain it had sought human companionship and help and it made no threatening
gesture  as she looped one end of the torn petticoat about its horns. She tied the other end to the back of the wagon, as securely as her awkward
fingers  would permit. Then, as she started back toward the driver's seat, a vast weariness assailed her and she swayed dizzily. She clutched the
side of the wagon to keep from falling.

Melanie opened her eyes and, seeing Scarlett standing beside her, whispered: "Dear--are we home?"

Home!  Hot tears came to Scarlett's eyes at the word. Home. Melanie did not know there was no home and that they were alone in a mad and desolate
world.

"Not  yet,"  she said, as gently as the constriction of her throat would permit, "but we will be, soon. I've just found a cow and soon we'll have
some milk for you and the baby."

"Poor baby," whispered Melanie, her hand creeping feebly toward the child and falling short.

Climbing  back  into  the  wagon  required all the strength Scarlett could muster, but at last it was done and she picked up the lines. The horse
stood  with  head  drooping dejectedly and refused to start. Scarlett laid on the whip mercilessly. She hoped God would forgive her for hurting a
tired  animal.  If  He  didn't  she  was sorry. After all, Tara lay just ahead, and after the next quarter of a mile, the horse could drop in the
shafts if he liked.

Finally  he started slowly, the wagon creaking and the cow lowing mournfully at every step. The pained animal's voice rasped on Scarlett's nerves
until  she  was  tempted to stop and untie the beast. What good would the cow do them anyway if there should be no one at Tara? She couldn't milk
her and, even if she could, the animal would probably kick anyone who touched her sore udder. But she had the cow and she might as well keep her.
There was little else she had in this world now.

Scarlett's  eyes grew misty when, at last, they reached the bottom of a gentle incline, for just over the rise lay Tara! Then her heart sank. The
decrepit animal would never pull the hill. The slope had always seemed so slight, so gradual, in days when she galloped up it on her fleet-footed
mare. It did not seem possible it could have grown so steep since she saw it last. The horse would never make it with the heavy load.

Wearily she dismounted and took the animal by the bridle.

"Get out, Prissy," she commanded, "and take Wade. Either carry him or make him walk. Lay the baby by Miss Melanie."

Wade broke into sobs and whimperings from which Scarlett could only distinguish: "Dark--dark--Wade fwightened!"

"Miss Scarlett, Ah kain walk. Mah feets done blistered an' dey's thoo mah shoes, an' Wade an' me doan weigh so much an'--"

"Get out! Get out before I pull you out! And if I do, I'm going to leave you right here, in the dark by yourself. Quick, now!"

Prissy moaned, peering at the dark trees that closed about them on both sides of the road--trees which might reach out and clutch her if she left
the shelter of the wagon. But she laid the baby beside Melanie, scrambled to the ground and, reaching up, lifted Wade out. The little boy sobbed,
shrinking close to his nurse.

"Make  him  hush.  I can't stand it," said Scarlett, taking the horse by the bridle and pulling him to a reluctant start. "Be a little man, Wade,
and stop crying or I will come over there and slap you."

Why had God invented children, she thought savagely as she turned her ankle cruelly on the dark road--useless, crying nuisances they were, always
demanding  care,  always  in  the  way.  In her exhaustion, there was no room for compassion for the frightened child, trotting by Prissy's side,
dragging at her hand and sniffling--only a weariness that she had borne him, only a tired wonder that she had ever married Charles Hamilton.

"Miss  Scarlett,"  whispered Prissy, clutching her mistress' arm, "doan le's go ter Tara. Dey's not dar. Dey's all done gone. Maybe dey daid--Maw
an' all'm."

The echo of her own thoughts infuriated her and Scarlett shook off the pinching fingers.

"Then give me Wade's hand. You can sit right down here and stay."

"No'm! No'm!"

"Then HUSH!"

How  slowly  the horse moved! The moisture from his slobbering mouth dripped down upon her hand. Through her mind ran a few words of the song she
had once sung with Rhett--she could not recall the rest:


"Just a few more days for to tote the weary load--"


"Just a few more steps," hummed her brain, over and over, "just a few more steps for to tote the weary load."

Then they topped the rise and before them lay the oaks of Tara, a towering dark mass against the darkening sky. Scarlett looked hastily to see if
there was a light anywhere. There was none.

"They are gone!" said her heart, like cold lead in her breast. "Gone!"

She  turned  the  horse's head into the driveway, and the cedars, meeting over their heads cast them into midnight blackness. Peering up the long
tunnel  of  darkness, straining her eyes she saw ahead--or did she see? Were her tired eyes playing her tricks?--the white bricks of Tara blurred
and  indistinct. Home! Home! The dear white walls, the windows with the fluttering curtains, the wide verandas--were they all there ahead of her,
in the gloom? Or did the darkness mercifully conceal such a horror as the MacIntosh house?

The  avenue  seemed  miles long and the horse, pulling stubbornly at her hand, plopped slower and slower. Eagerly her eyes searched the darkness.
The  roof  seemed  to  be  intact. Could it be--could it be--? No, it wasn't possible. War stopped for nothing, not even Tara, built to last five
hundred years. It could not have passed over Tara.

Then the shadowy outline did take form. She pulled the horse forward faster. The white walls did show there through the darkness. And untarnished
by  smoke.  Tara had escaped! Home! She dropped the bridle and ran the last few steps, leaped forward with an urge to clutch the walls themselves
in  her arms. Then she saw a form, shadowy in the dimness, emerging from the blackness of the front veranda and standing at the top of the steps.
Tara was not deserted. Someone was home!

A  cry of joy rose to her throat and died there. The house was so dark and still and the figure did not move or call to her. What was wrong? What
was  wrong?  Tara  stood  intact,  yet  shrouded  with the same eerie quiet that hung over the whole stricken countryside. Then the figure moved.
Stiffly and slowly, it came down the steps.

"Pa?" she whispered huskily, doubting almost that it was he. "It's me--Katie Scarlett. I've come home."

Gerald  moved  toward her, silent as a sleepwalker, his stiff leg dragging. He came close to her, looking at her in a dazed way as if he believed
she  was  part  of a dream. Putting out his hand, he laid it on her shoulder. Scarlett felt it tremble, tremble as if he had been awakened from a
nightmare into a half-sense of reality.

"Daughter," he said with an effort. "Daughter."

Then he was silent.

Why--he's an old man! thought Scarlett.

Gerald's  shoulders  sagged. In the face which she could only see dimly, there was none of the virility, the restless vitality of Gerald, and the
eyes that looked into hers had almost the same fear-stunned look that lay in little Wade's eyes. He was only a little old man and broken.

And now, fear of unknown things seized her, leaped swiftly out of the darkness at her and she could only stand and stare at him, all the flood of
questioning dammed up at her lips.

From the wagon the faint wailing sounded again and Gerald seemed to rouse himself with an effort.

"It's Melanie and her baby," whispered Scarlett rapidly. "She's very ill--I brought her home."

Gerald  dropped  his hand from her arm and straightened his shoulders. As he moved slowly to the side of the wagon, there was a ghostly semblance
of the old host of Tara welcoming guests, as if Gerald spoke words from out of shadowy memory.

"Cousin Melanie!"

Melanie's voice murmured indistinctly.

"Cousin Melanie, this is your home. Twelve Oaks is burned. You must stay with us."

Thoughts  of  Melanie's  prolonged  suffering spurred Scarlett to action. The present was with her again, the necessity of laying Melanie and her
child on a soft bed and doing those small things for her that could be done.

"She must be carried. She can't walk."

There was a scuffle of feet and a dark figure emerged from the cave of the front hall. Pork ran down the steps.

"Miss Scarlett! Miss Scarlett!" he cried.

Scarlett  caught  him by the arms. Pork, part and parcel of Tara, as dear as the bricks and the cool corridors! She felt his tears stream down on
her hands as he patted her clumsily, crying: "Sho is glad you back! Sho is--"

Prissy  burst  into  tears  and  incoherent  mumblings:  "Poke!  Poke,  honey!"  And little Wade, encouraged by the weakness of his elders, began
sniffling: "Wade thirsty!"

Scarlett caught them all in hand.

"Miss  Melanie  is  in the wagon and her baby too. Pork, you must carry her upstairs very carefully and put her in the back company room. Prissy,
take the baby and Wade inside and give Wade a drink of water. Is Mammy here, Pork? Tell her I want her."

Galvanized  by  the  authority in her voice, Pork approached the wagon and fumbled at the backboard. A moan was wrenched from Melanie as he half-
lifted,  half-dragged  her  from  the feather tick on which she had lain so many hours. And then she was in Pork's strong arms, her head drooping
like  a child's across his shoulder. Prissy, holding the baby and dragging Wade by the hand, followed them up the wide steps and disappeared into
the blackness of the hall.

Scarlett's bleeding fingers sought her father's hand urgently.

"Did they get well, Pa?"

"The girls are recovering."

Silence  fell  and  in  the  silence  an idea too monstrous for words took form. She could not, could not force it to her lips. She swallowed and
swallowed  but  a  sudden  dryness seemed to have stuck the sides of her throat together. Was this the answer to the frightening riddle of Tara's
silence? As if answering the question in her mind Gerald spoke.

"Your mother--" he said and stopped.

"And--Mother?"

"Your mother died yesterday."



Her  father's arm held tightly in her own, Scarlett felt her way down the wide dark hall which, even in its blackness, was as familiar as her own
mind.  She  avoided  the  high-backed  chairs, the empty gun rack, the old sideboard with its protruding claw feet, and she felt herself drawn by
instinct  to  the  tiny office at the back of the house where Ellen always sat, keeping her endless accounts. Surely, when she entered that room,
Mother  would  again  be  sitting there before the secretary and would look up, quill poised, and rise with sweet fragrance and rustling hoops to
meet her tired daughter. Ellen could not be dead, not even though Pa had said it, said it over and over like a parrot that knows only one phrase:
"She died yesterday--she died yesterday--she died yesterday."

Queer  that  she  should  feel  nothing now, nothing except a weariness that shackled her limbs with heavy iron chains and a hunger that made her
knees  tremble.  She would think of Mother later. She must put her mother out of her mind now, else she would stumble stupidly like Gerald or sob
monotonously like Wade.

Pork came down the wide dark steps toward them, hurrying to press close to Scarlett like a cold animal toward a fire.

"Lights?" she questioned. "Why is the house so dark, Pork? Bring candles."

"Dey  tuck all de candles, Miss Scarlett, all 'cept one we been usin' ter fine things in de dahk wid, an' it's 'bout gone. Mammy been usin' a rag
in a dish of hawg fat fer a light fer nussin' Miss Careen an' Miss Suellen."

"Bring what's left of the candle," she ordered. "Bring it into Mother's--into the office."

Pork  pattered into the dining room and Scarlett groped her way into the inky small room and sank down on the sofa. Her father's arm still lay in
the crook of hers, helpless, appealing, trusting, as only the hands of the very young and the very old can be.

"He's an old man, an old tired man," she thought again and vaguely wondered why she could not care.

Light  wavered  into  the  room as Pork entered carrying high a half-burned candle stuck in a saucer. The dark cave came to life, the sagging old
sofa  on  which  they sat, the tall secretary reaching toward the ceiling with Mother's fragile carved chair before it, the racks of pigeonholes,
still  stuffed  with  papers  written  in her fine hand, the worn carpet--all, all were the same, except that Ellen was not there, Ellen with the
faint  scent  of  lemon verbena sachet and the sweet look in her up-tilted eyes. Scarlett felt a small pain in her heart as of nerves numbed by a
deep  wound, struggling to make themselves felt again. She must not let them come to life now; there was all the rest of her life ahead of her in
which they could ache. But, not now! Please, God, not now!

She  looked into Gerald's putty-colored face and, for the first time in her life, she saw him unshaven, his once florid face covered with silvery
bristles.  Pork placed the candle on the candle stand and came to her side. Scarlett felt that if he had been a dog he would have laid his muzzle
in her lap and whined for a kind hand upon his head.

"Pork, how many darkies are here?"

"Miss Scarlett, dem trashy niggers done runned away an' some of dem went off wid de Yankees an'--"

"How many are left?"

"Dey's me, Miss Scarlett, an' Mammy. She been nussin' de young Misses all day. An' Dilcey, she settin' up wid de young Misses now. Us three, Miss
Scarlett."

"Us  three"  where there had been a hundred. Scarlett with an effort lifted her head on her aching neck. She knew she must keep her voice steady.
To  her  surprise,  words  came  out  as  coolly and naturally as if there had never been a war and she could, by waving her hand, call ten house
servants to her.

"Pork, I'm starving. Is there anything to eat?"

"No'm. Dey tuck it all."

"But the garden?"

"Dey tuhned dey hawses loose in it."

"Even the sweet potato hills?"

Something almost like a pleased smile broke his thick lips.

"Miss Scarlett, Ah done fergit de yams. Ah specs dey's right dar. Dem Yankee folks ain' never seed no yams an' dey thinks dey's jes' roots an'--"

"The moon will be up soon. You go out and dig us some and roast them. There's no corn meal? No dried peas? No chickens?"

"No'm. No'm. Whut chickens dey din' eat right hyah dey cah'ied off 'cross dey saddles."

They--  They--  They--  Was there no end to what 'They" had done? Was it not enough to burn and kill? Must they also leave women and children and
helpless negroes to starve in a country which they had desolated?

"Miss Scarlett, Ah got some apples Mammy buhied unner de house. We been eatin' on dem today."

"Bring them before you dig the potatoes. And, Pork--I--I feel so faint. Is there any wine in the cellar, even blackberry?"

"Oh, Miss Scarlett, de cellar wuz de fust place dey went."

A  swimming nausea compounded of hunger, sleeplessness, exhaustion and stunning blows came on suddenly and she gripped the carved roses under her
hand.

"No wine," she said dully, remembering the endless rows of bottles in the cellar. A memory stirred.

"Pork, what of the corn whisky Pa buried in the oak barrel under the scuppernong arbor?"

Another ghost of a smile lit the black face, a smile of pleasure and respect.

"Miss  Scarlett,  you  sho  is  de beatenes' chile! Ah done plum fergit dat bah'l. But, Miss Scarlett, dat whisky ain' no good. Ain' been dar but
'bout a year an' whisky ain' no good fer ladies nohow."

How stupid negroes were! They never thought of anything unless they were told. And the Yankees wanted to free them.

"It'll  be  good  enough  for  this  lady  and for Pa. Hurry, Pork, and dig it up and bring us two glasses and some mint and sugar and I'll mix a
julep."

"Miss  Scarlett,  you  knows  dey  ain'  been  no  sugar  at Tara fer de longes'. An' dey hawses done et up all de mint an' dey done broke all de
glasses."

If  he says "They" once more, I'll scream. I can't help it, she thought, and then, aloud: "Well, hurry and get the whisky, quickly. We'll take it
neat."  And,  as he turned: "Wait, Pork. There's so many things to do that I can't seem to think. . . . Oh, yes. I brought home a horse and a cow
and  the  cow needs milking, badly, and unharness the horse and water him. Go tell Mammy to look after the cow. Tell her she's got to fix the cow
up somehow. Miss Melanie's baby will die if he doesn't get something to eat and--"

"Miss Melly ain'--kain--?" Pork paused delicately.

"Miss Melanie has no milk." Dear God, but Mother would faint at that!

"Well, Miss Scarlett, mah Dilcey ten' ter Miss Melly's chile. Mah Dilcey got a new chile herseff an' she got mo'n nuff fer both."

"You've got a new baby, Pork?"

Babies, babies, babies. Why did God make so many babies? But no, God didn't make them. Stupid people made them.

"Yas'm, big fat black boy. He--"

"Go  tell Dilcey to leave the girls. I'll look after them. Tell her to nurse Miss Melanie's baby and do what she can for Miss Melanie. Tell Mammy
to look after the cow and put that poor horse in the stable."

"Dey ain' no stable, Miss Scarlett. Dey use it fer fiah wood."

"Don't tell me any more what 'They' did. Tell Dilcey to look after them. And you, Pork, go dig up that whisky and then some potatoes."

"But, Miss Scarlett, Ah ain' got no light ter dig by."

"You can use a stick of firewood, can't you?"

"Dey ain' no fiah wood--Dey--"

"Do something. . . . I don't care what. But dig those things and dig them fast. Now, hurry."

Pork  scurried  from  the  room as her voice roughened and Scarlett was left alone with Gerald. She patted his leg gently. She noted how shrunken
were the thighs that once bulged with saddle muscles. She must do something to drag him from his apathy--but she could not ask about Mother. That
must come later, when she could stand it.

"Why didn't they burn Tara?"

Gerald stared at her for a moment as if not hearing her and she repeated her question.

"Why--" he fumbled, "they used the house as a headquarters."

"Yankees--in this house?"

A feeling that the beloved walls had been defiled rose in her. This house, sacred because Ellen had lived in it, and those--those--in it.

"So  they  were, Daughter. We saw the smoke from Twelve Oaks, across the river, before they came. But Miss Honey and Miss India and some of their
darkies  had  refugeed  to  Macon,  so  we  did  not worry about them. But we couldn't be going to Macon. The girls were so sick--your mother--we
couldn't  be  going. Our darkies ran--I'm not knowing where. They stole the wagons and the mules. Mammy and Dilcey and Pork--they didn't run. The
girls--your mother--we couldn't be moving them."

"Yes,  yes."  He  mustn't  talk  about  Mother.  Anything  else.  Even  that General Sherman himself had used this room, Mother's office, for his
headquarters. Anything else.

"The  Yankees  were  moving  on Jonesboro, to cut the railroad. And they came up the road from the river--thousands and thousands--and cannon and
horses--thousands. I met them on the front porch."

"Oh,  gallant little Gerald!" thought Scarlett, her heart swelling, Gerald meeting the enemy on the stairs of Tara as if an army stood behind him
instead of in front of him.

"They  said for me to leave, that they would be burning the place. And I said that they would be burning it over my head. We could not leave--the
girls--your mother were--"

"And then?" Must he revert to Ellen always?

"I  told  them  there  was sickness in the house, the typhoid, and it was death to move them. They could burn the roof over us. I did not want to
leave anyway--leave Tara--"

His  voice  trailed  off into silence as he looked absently about the walls and Scarlett understood. There were too many Irish ancestors crowding
behind  Gerald's shoulders, men who had died on scant acres, fighting to the end rather than leave the homes where they had lived, plowed, loved,
begotten sons.

"I  said  that  they  would  be  burning  the  house  over  the  heads of three dying women. But we would not leave. The young officer was--was a
gentleman."

"A Yankee a gentleman? Why, Pa!"

"A gentleman. He galloped away and soon he was back with a captain, a surgeon, and he looked at the girls--and your mother."

"You let a damned Yankee into their room?"

"He had opium. We had none. He saved your sisters. Suellen was hemorrhaging. He was as kind as he knew how. And when he reported that they were--
ill--they  did  not  burn the house. They moved in, some general, his staff, crowding in. They filled all the rooms except the sick room. And the
soldiers--"

He paused again, as if too tired to go on. His stubbly chin sank heavily in loose folds of flesh on his chest. With an effort he spoke again.

"They  camped  all  round  the  house,  everywhere,  in the cotton, in the corn. The pasture was blue with them. That night there were a thousand
campfires.  They tore down the fences and burned them to cook with and the barns and the stables and the smokehouse. They killed the cows and the
hogs  and  the  chickens--even  my  turkeys."  Gerald's  precious  turkeys.  So they were gone. "They took things, even the pictures--some of the
furniture, the china--"

"The silver?"

"Pork  and  Mammy  did something with the silver--put it in the well--but I'm not remembering now," Gerald's voice was fretful. "Then they fought
the  battle  from here--from Tara--there was so much noise, people galloping up and stamping about. And later the cannon at Jonesboro--it sounded
like thunder--even the girls could hear it, sick as they were, and they kept saying over and over: 'Papa, make it stop thundering.'"

"And--and Mother? Did she know Yankees were in the house?"

"She--never knew anything."

"Thank  God,"  said  Scarlett.  Mother  was  spared  that.  Mother  never knew, never heard the enemy in the rooms below, never heard the guns at
Jonesboro, never learned that the land which was part of her heart was under Yankee feet.

"I  saw  few  of them for I stayed upstairs with the girls and your mother. I saw the young surgeon mostly. He was kind, so kind, Scarlett. After
he'd  worked  all day with the wounded, he came and sat with them. He even left some medicine. He told me when they moved on that the girls would
recover but your mother-- She was so frail, he said--too frail to stand it all. He said she had undermined her strength. . . ."

In  the  silence that fell, Scarlett saw her mother as she must have been in those last days, a thin power of strength in Tara, nursing, working,
doing without sleep and food that the others might rest and eat.

"And then, they moved on. Then, they moved on."

He was silent for a long time and then fumbled at her hand.

"It's glad I am you are home," he said simply.

There  was  a  scraping noise on the back porch. Poor Pork, trained for forty years to clean his shoes before entering the house, did not forget,
even in a time like this. He came in, carefully carrying two gourds, and the strong smell of dripping spirits entered before him.

"Ah spilt a plen'y, Miss Scarlett. It's pow'ful hard ter po' outer a bung hole inter a go'de."

"That's quite all right, Pork, and thank you." She took the wet gourd dipper from him, her nostrils wrinkling in distaste at the reek.

"Drink this, Father," she said, pushing the whisky in its strange receptacle into his hand and taking the second gourd of water from Pork. Gerald
raised it, obedient as a child, and gulped noisily. She handed the water to him but he shook his head.

As she took the whisky from him and held it to her mouth, she saw his eyes follow her, a vague stirring of disapproval in them.

"I know no lady drinks spirits," she said briefly. "But today I'm no lady, Pa, and there is work to do tonight."

She tilted the dipper, drew a deep breath and drank swiftly. The hot liquid burned down her throat to her stomach, choking her and bringing tears
to her eyes. She drew another breath and raised it again.

"Katie  Scarlett,"  said  Gerald,  the  first  note of authority she had heard in his voice since her return, "that is enough. You're not knowing
spirits and they will be making you tipsy."

"Tipsy?" She laughed an ugly laugh. "Tipsy? I hope it makes me drunk. I would like to be drunk and forget all of this."

She  drank  again,  a slow train of warmth lighting in her veins and stealing through her body until even her finger tips tingled. What a blessed
feeling,  this  kindly  fire.  It  seemed  to  penetrate even her ice-locked heart and strength came coursing back into her body. Seeing Gerald's
puzzled hurt face, she patted his knee again and managed an imitation of the pert smile he used to love.

"How could it make me tipsy, Pa? I'm your daughter. Haven't I inherited the steadiest head in Clayton County?"

He almost smiled into her tired face. The whisky was bracing him too. She handed it back to him.

"Now you're going to take another drink and then I am going to take you upstairs and put you to bed."

She  caught  herself. Why, this was the way she talked to Wade--she should not address her father like this. It was disrespectful. But he hung on
her words.

"Yes,  put  you  to bed," she added lightly, "and give you another drink--maybe all the dipper and make you go to sleep. You need sleep and Katie
Scarlett is here, so you need not worry about anything. Drink."

He drank again obediently and, slipping her arm through his, she pulled him to his feet.

"Pork. . . ."

Pork  took  the  gourd in one hand and Gerald's arm in the other. Scarlett picked up the flaring candle and the three walked slowly into the dark
hall and up the winding steps toward Gerald's room.

The room where Suellen and Carreen lay mumbling and tossing on the same bed stank vilely with the smell of the twisted rag burning in a saucer of
bacon  fat,  which provided the only light. When Scarlett first opened the door the thick atmosphere of the room, with all windows closed and the
air  reeking  with  sick-room  odors, medicine smells and stinking grease, almost made her faint. Doctors might say that fresh air was fatal in a
sick room but if she were to sit here, she must have air or die. She opened the three windows, bringing in the smell of oak leaves and earth, but
the fresh air could do little toward dispelling the sickening odors which had accumulated for weeks in this close room.

Carreen  and  Suellen, emaciated and white, slept brokenly and awoke to mumble with wide, staring eyes in the tall four-poster bed where they had
whispered  together in better, happier days. In the corner of the room was an empty bed, a narrow French Empire bed with curling head and foot, a
bed which Ellen had brought from Savannah. This was where Ellen had lain.

Scarlett  sat  beside  the two girls, staring at them stupidly. The whisky taken on a stomach long empty was playing tricks on her. Sometimes her
sisters  seemed  far away and tiny and their incoherent voices came to her like the buzz of insects. And again, they loomed large, rushing at her
with lightning speed. She was tired, tired to the bone. She could lie down and sleep for days.

If  she  could only lie down and sleep and wake to feel Ellen gently shaking her arm and saying: "It is late, Scarlett. You must not be so lazy."
But she could not ever do that again. If there were only Ellen, someone older than she, wiser and unweary, to whom she could go! Someone in whose
lap she could lay her head, someone on whose shoulders she could rest her burdens!

The door opened softly and Dilcey entered, Melanie's baby held to her breast, the gourd of whisky in her hand. In the smoky, uncertain light, she
seemed  thinner  than when Scarlett last saw her and the Indian blood was more evident in her face. The high cheek bones were more prominent, the
hawk-bridged  nose was sharper and her copper skin gleamed with a brighter hue. Her faded calico dress was open to the waist and her large bronze
breast  exposed.  Held close against her, Melanie's baby pressed his pale rosebud mouth greedily to the dark nipple, sucking, gripping tiny fists
against the soft flesh like a kitten in the warm fur of its mother's belly.

Scarlett rose unsteadily and put a hand on Dilcey's arm.

"It was good of you to stay, Dilcey."

"How could I go off wid them trashy niggers, Miss Scarlett, after yo' pa been so good to buy me and my little Prissy and yo' ma been so kine?"

"Sit down, Dilcey. The baby can eat all right, then? And how is Miss Melanie?"

"Nuthin'  wrong  wid  this  chile 'cept he hongry, and whut it take to feed a hongry chile I got. No'm, Miss Melanie is all right. She ain' gwine
die, Miss Scarlett. Doan you fret yo'seff. I seen too many, white and black, lak her. She mighty tired and nervous like and scared fo' this baby.
But I hesh her and give her some of whut was lef' in that go'de and she sleepin'."

So  the  corn whisky had been used by the whole family! Scarlett thought hysterically that perhaps she had better give a drink to little Wade and
see  if it would stop his hiccoughs-- And Melanie would not die. And when Ashley came home--if he did come home . . . No, she would think of that
later too. So much to think of--later! So many things to unravel--to decide. If only she could put off the hour of reckoning forever! She started
suddenly as a creaking noise and a rhythmic "Ker-bunk--ker-bunk--" broke the stillness of the air outside.

"That's  Mammy gettin' the water to sponge off the young Misses. They takes a heap of bathin'," explained Dilcey, propping the gourd on the table
between medicine bottles and a glass.

Scarlett  laughed suddenly. Her nerves must be shredded if the noise of the well windlass, bound up in her earliest memories, could frighten her.
Dilcey  looked  at  her steadily as she laughed, her face immobile in its dignity, but Scarlett felt that Dilcey understood. She sank back in her
chair.  If she could only be rid of her tight stays, the collar that choked her and the slippers still full of sand and gravel that blistered her
feet.

The windlass creaked slowly as the rope wound up, each creak bringing the bucket nearer the top. Soon Mammy would be with her--Ellen's Mammy, her
Mammy.  She  sat silent, intent on nothing, while the baby, already glutted with milk, whimpered because he had lost the friendly nipple. Dilcey,
silent  too,  guided  the  child's mouth back, quieting him in her arms as Scarlett listened to the slow scuffing of Mammy's feet across the back
yard. How still the night air was! The slightest sounds roared in her ears.

The upstairs hall seemed to shake as Mammy's ponderous weight came toward the door. Then Mammy was in the room, Mammy with shoulders dragged down
by two heavy wooden buckets, her kind black face sad with the uncomprehending sadness of a monkey's face.

Her  eyes  lighted  up at the sight of Scarlett, her white teeth gleamed as she set down the buckets, and Scarlett ran to her, laying her head on
the broad, sagging breasts which had held so many heads, black and white. Here was something of stability, thought Scarlett, something of the old
life that was unchanging. But Mammy's first words dispelled this illusion.

"Mammy's  chile  is home! Oh, Miss Scarlett, now dat Miss Ellen's in de grabe, whut is we gwine ter do? Oh, Miss Scarlett, effen Ah wuz jes' daid
longside Miss Ellen! Ah kain make out widout Miss Ellen. Ain' nuthin' lef' now but mizry an' trouble. Jes' weery loads, honey, jes' weery loads."

As  Scarlett  lay  with  her  head  hugged close to Mammy's breast, two words caught her attention, "weery loads." Those were the words which had
hummed  in  her  brain  that afternoon so monotonously they had sickened her. Now, she remembered the rest of the song, remembered with a sinking
heart:


"Just a few more days for to tote the weary load! No matter, 'twill never be light! Just a few more days till we totter in the road--"


"No  matter,  'twill  never  be light"--she took the words to her tired mind. Would her load never be light? Was coming home to Tara to mean, not
blessed surcease, but only more loads to carry? She slipped from Mammy's arms and, reaching up, patted the wrinkled black face.

"Honey,  yo'  han's!" Mammy took the small hands with their blisters and blood clots in hers and looked at them with horrified disapproval. "Miss
Scarlett, Ah done tole you an' tole you dat you kin allus tell a lady by her han's an'--yo' face sunbuhnt too!"

Poor Mammy, still the martinet about such unimportant things even though war and death had just passed over her head! In another moment she would
be saying that young Misses with blistered hands and freckles most generally didn't never catch husbands and Scarlett forestalled the remark.

"Mammy, I want you to tell me about Mother. I couldn't bear to hear Pa talk about her."

Tears  started  from  Mammy's  eyes  as  she leaned down to pick up the buckets. In silence she carried them to the bedside and, turning down the
sheet,  began  pulling  up  the night clothes of Suellen and Carreen. Scarlett, peering at her sisters in the dim flaring light, saw that Carreen
wore  a nightgown, clean but in tatters, and Suellen lay wrapped in an old negligee, a brown linen garment heavy with tagging ends of Irish lace.
Mammy cried silently as she sponged the gaunt bodies, using the remnant of an old apron as a cloth.

"Miss  Scarlett,  it  wuz  dem Slatterys, dem trashy, no-good, low-down po'-w'ite Slatterys dat kilt Miss Ellen. Ah done tole her an' tole her it
doan  do  no  good doin' things fer trashy folks, but Miss Ellen wuz so sot in her ways an' her heart so sof' she couldn' never say no ter nobody
whut needed her."

"Slatterys?" questioned Scarlett, bewildered. "How do they come in?"

"Dey  wuz  sick  wid  disyere  thing,"  Mammy  gestured  with  her rag to the two naked girls, dripping with water on their damp sheet. "Ole Miss
Slattery's  gal,  Emmie,  come down wid it an' Miss Slattery come hotfootin' it up hyah affer Miss Ellen, lak she allus done w'en anything wrong.
Why  din' she nuss her own? Miss Ellen had mo'n she could tote anyways. But Miss Ellen she went down dar an' she nuss Emmie. An' Miss Ellen wuzn'
well  a-tall herseff, Miss Scarlett. Yo' ma hadn' been well fer de longes'. Dey ain' been too much ter eat roun' hyah, wid de commissary stealin'
eve'y  thing us growed. An' Miss Ellen eat lak a bird anyways. An' Ah tole her an' tole her ter let dem w'ite trash alone, but she din' pay me no
mine.  Well'm,  'bout  de  time Emmie look lak she gittin' better, Miss Carreen come down wid it. Yas'm, de typhoy fly right up de road an' ketch
Miss Carreen, an' den down come Miss Suellen. So Miss Ellen, she tuck an' nuss dem too.

"Wid all de fightin' up de road an' de Yankees 'cross de river an' us not knowin' whut wuz gwine ter happen ter us an' de fe'el han's runnin' off
eve'y night, Ah's 'bout crazy. But Miss Ellen jes' as cool as a cucumber. 'Cept she wuz worried ter a ghos' 'bout de young Misses kase we couldn'
git  no  medicines  nor nuthin'. An' one night she say ter me affer we done sponge off de young Misses 'bout ten times, she say, 'Mammy, effen Ah
could sell mah soul, Ah'd sell it fer some ice ter put on mah gals' haids.'

"She  wouldn't  let Mist' Gerald come in hyah, nor Rosa nor Teena, nobody but me, kase Ah done had de typhoy. An' den it tuck her, Miss Scarlett,
an' Ah seed right off dat 'twarnt no use."

Mammy straightened up and, raising her apron, dried her streaming eyes.

"She went fas', Miss Scarlett, an' even dat nice Yankee doctah couldn' do nuthin' fer her. She din' know nuthin' a-tall. Ah call ter her an' talk
ter her but she din' even know her own Mammy."

"Did she--did she ever mention me--call for me?"

"No, honey. She think she is lil gal back in Savannah. She din' call nobody by name."

Dilcey stirred and laid the sleeping baby across her knees.

"Yes'm, she did. She did call somebody."

"You hesh yo' mouf, you Injun-nigger!" Mammy turned with threatening violence on Dilcey.

"Hush, Mammy! Who did she call, Dilcey? Pa?"

"No'm. Not yo' pa. It wuz the night the cotton buhnt--"

"Has the cotton gone--tell me quickly!"

"Yes'm, it buhnt up. The sojers rolls it out of the shed into the back yard and hollers, 'Here the bigges' bonfiah in Georgia,' and tech it off."

Three years of stored cotton--one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all in one blaze!

"And  the  fiah light up the place lak it wuz day--we wuz scared the house would buhn, too, and it wuz so bright in this hyah room that you could
mos'  pick a needle offen the flo'. And w'en the light shine in the winder, it look lak it wake Miss Ellen up and she set right up in bed and cry
out loud, time and again: 'Feeleep! Feeleep!' I ain' never heerd no sech name but it wuz a name and she wuz callin' him."

Mammy  stood  as though turned to stone glaring at Dilcey but Scarlett dropped her head into her hands. Philippe--who was he and what had he been
to Mother that she died calling him?



The  long  road  from  Atlanta to Tara had ended, ended in a blank wall, the road that was to end in Ellen's arms. Never again could Scarlett lie
down,  as a child, secure beneath her father's roof with the protection of her mother's love wrapped about her like an eiderdown quilt. There was
no  security  or  haven  to which she could turn now. No turning or twisting would avoid this dead end to which she had come. There was no one on
whose  shoulders  she could rest her burdens. Her father was old and stunned, her sisters ill, Melanie frail and weak, the children helpless, and
the  negroes  looking  up to her with childlike faith, clinging to her skirts, knowing that Ellen's daughter would be the refuge Ellen had always
been.

Through  the  window,  in  the faint light of the rising moon, Tara stretched before her, negroes gone, acres desolate, barns ruined, like a body
bleeding  under  her eyes, like her own body, slowly bleeding. This was the end of the road, quivering old age, sickness, hungry mouths, helpless
hands  plucking  at her skirts. And at the end of this road, there was nothing--nothing but Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton, nineteen years old, a widow
with a little child.

What  would  she  do  with all of this? Aunt Pitty and the Burrs in Macon could take Melanie and her baby. If the girls recovered, Ellen's family
would have to take them, whether they liked it or not. And she and Gerald could turn to Uncle James and Andrew.

She  looked at the thin forms, tossing before her, the sheets about them moist and dark from dripping water. She did not like Suellen. She saw it
now with a sudden clarity. She had never liked her. She did not especially love Carreen--she could not love anyone who was weak. But they were of
her  blood,  part  of  Tara.  No, she could not let them live out their lives in their aunts' homes as poor relations. An O'Hara a poor relation,
living on charity bread and sufferance! Oh, never that!

Was  there  no  escape  from this dead end? Her tired brain moved so slowly. She raised her hands to her head as wearily as if the air were water
against  which  her  arms  struggled.  She  took  the gourd from between the glass and bottle and looked in it. There was some whisky left in the
bottom,  how  much  she could not tell in the uncertain light. Strange that the sharp smell did not offend her nostrils now. She drank slowly but
this time the liquid did not burn, only a dull warmth followed.

She  set down the empty gourd and looked about her. This was all a dream, this smoke-filled dim room, the scrawny girls, Mammy shapeless and huge
crouching  beside  the  bed,  Dilcey a still bronze image with the sleeping pink morsel against her dark breast--all a dream from which she would
awake,  to  smell  bacon  frying in the kitchen, hear the throaty laughter of the negroes and the creaking of wagons fieldward bound, and Ellen's
gentle insistent hand upon her.

Then she discovered she was in her own room, on her own bed, faint moonlight pricking the darkness, and Mammy and Dilcey were undressing her. The
torturing  stays  no  longer  pinched her waist and she could breathe deeply and quietly to the bottom of her lungs and her abdomen. She felt her
stockings being stripped gently from her and heard Mammy murmuring indistinguishable comforting sounds as she bathed her blistered feet. How cool
the  water was, how good to lie here in softness, like a child. She sighed and relaxed and after a time which might have been a year or a second,
she was alone and the room was brighter as the rays of the moon streamed in across the bed.

She  did  not  know  she was drunk, drunk with fatigue and whisky. She only knew she had left her tired body and floated somewhere above it where
there was no pain and weariness and her brain saw things with an inhuman clarity.

She  was  seeing things with new eyes for, somewhere along the long road to Tara, she had left her girlhood behind her. She was no longer plastic
clay,  yielding  imprint  to  each  new experience. The clay had hardened, some time in this indeterminate day which had lasted a thousand years.
Tonight was the last time she would ever be ministered to as a child. She was a woman now and youth was gone.

No,  she  could  not,  would not, turn to Gerald's or Ellen's families. The O'Haras did not take charity. The O'Haras looked after their own. Her
burdens  were her own and burdens were for shoulders strong enough to bear them. She thought without surprise, looking down from her height, that
her  shoulders  were  strong  enough  to  bear anything now, having borne the worst that could ever happen to her. She could not desert Tara; she
belonged to the red acres far more than they could ever belong to her. Her roots went deep into the blood-colored soil and sucked up life, as did
the  cotton. She would stay at Tara and keep it, somehow, keep her father and her sisters, Melanie and Ashley's child, the negroes. Tomorrow--oh,
tomorrow! Tomorrow she would fit the yoke about her neck. Tomorrow there would be so many things to do. Go to Twelve Oaks and the MacIntosh place
and  see  if  anything was left in the deserted gardens, go to the river swamps and beat them for straying hogs and chickens, go to Jonesboro and
Lovejoy  with  Ellen's jewelry--there must be someone left there who would sell something to eat. Tomorrow--tomorrow--her brain ticked slowly and
more slowly, like a clock running down, but the clarity of vision persisted.

Of  a  sudden,  the  oft-told family tales to which she had listened since babyhood, listened half-bored, impatient and but partly comprehending,
were  crystal clear. Gerald, penniless, had raised Tara; Ellen had risen above some mysterious sorrow; Grandfather Robillard, surviving the wreck
of  Napoleon's  throne, had founded his fortunes anew on the fertile Georgia coast; Great-grandfather Prudhomme had carved a small kingdom out of
the  dark  jungles  of  Haiti,  lost  it,  and  lived to see his name honored in Savannah. There were the Scarletts who had fought with the Irish
Volunteers for a free Ireland and been hanged for their pains and the O'Haras who died at the Boyne, battling to the end for what was theirs.

All  had  suffered  crushing  misfortunes  and  had not been crushed. They had not been broken by the crash of empires, the machetes of revolting
slaves,  war,  rebellion,  proscription,  confiscation. Malign fate had broken their necks, perhaps, but never their hearts. They had not whined,
they  had  fought.  And when they died, they died spent but unquenched. All of those shadowy folks whose blood flowed in her veins seemed to move
quietly  in the moonlit room. And Scarlett was not surprised to see them, these kinsmen who had taken the worst that fate could send and hammered
it into the best. Tara was her fate, her fight, and she must conquer it.

She turned drowsily on her side, a slow creeping blackness enveloping her mind. Were they really there, whispering wordless encouragement to her,
or was this part of her dream?

"Whether you are there or not," she murmured sleepily, "good night--and thank you."



CHAPTER XXV


The next morning Scarlett's body was so stiff and sore from the long miles of walking and jolting in the wagon that every movement was agony. Her
face  was  crimson  with  sunburn  and  her blistered palms raw. Her tongue was furred and her throat parched as if flames had scorched it and no
amount  of  water  could  assuage  her  thirst.  Her  head felt swollen and she winced even when she turned her eyes. A queasiness of the stomach
reminiscent  of  the  early  days of her pregnancy made the smoking yams on the breakfast table unendurable, even to the smell. Gerald could have
told  her she was suffering the normal aftermath of her first experience with hard drinking but Gerald noticed nothing. He sat at the head of the
table,  a  gray  old man with absent, faded eyes fastened on the door and head cocked slightly to hear the rustle of Ellen's petticoats, to smell
the lemon verbena sachet.

As Scarlett sat down, he mumbled: "We will wait for Mrs. O'Hara. She is late." She raised an aching head, looked at him with startled incredulity
and met the pleading eyes of Mammy, who stood behind Gerald's chair. She rose unsteadily, her hand at her throat and looked down at her father in
the morning sunlight. He peered up at her vaguely and she saw that his hands were shaking, that his head trembled a little.

Until this moment she had not realized how much she had counted on Gerald to take command, to tell her what she must do, and now--Why, last night
he  had seemed almost himself. There had been none of his usual bluster and vitality, but at least he had told a connected story and now--now, he
did  not  even  remember Ellen was dead. The combined shock of the coming of the Yankees and her death had stunned him. She started to speak, but
Mammy shook her head vehemently and raising her apron dabbed at her red eyes.

"Oh,  can  Pa  have  lost his mind?" thought Scarlett and her throbbing head felt as if it would crack with this added strain. "No, no. He's just
dazed  by  it  all.  It's  like he was sick. He'll get over it. He must get over it. What will I do if he doesn't?--I won't think about it now. I
won't  think  of  him  or  Mother or any of these awful things now. No, not till I can stand it. There are too many other things to think about--
things that can be helped without my thinking of those I can't help."

She  left the dining room without eating, and went out onto the back porch where she found Pork, barefooted and in the ragged remains of his best
livery,  sitting  on  the  steps  cracking  peanuts.  Her head was hammering and throbbing and the bright, sunlight stabbed into her eyes. Merely
holding  herself  erect  required  an effort of will power and she talked as briefly as possible, dispensing with the usual forms of courtesy her
mother had always taught her to use with negroes.

She began asking questions so brusquely and giving orders so decisively Pork's eyebrows went up in mystification. Miss Ellen didn't never talk so
short  to  nobody,  not even when she caught them stealing pullets and watermelons. She asked again about the fields, the gardens, the stock, and
her green eyes had a hard bright glaze which Pork had never seen in them before.

"Yas'm, dat hawse daid, lyin' dar whar Ah tie him wid his nose in de water bucket he tuhned over. No'm, de cow ain' daid. Din' you know? She done
have a calf las' night. Dat why she beller so."

"A fine midwife your Prissy will make," Scarlett remarked caustically. "She said she was bellowing because she needed milking."

"Well'm,  Prissy  ain'  fixin'  ter be no cow midwife, Miss Scarlett," Pork said tactfully. "An' ain' no use quarrelin' wid blessin's, 'cause dat
calf gwine ter mean a full cow an' plen'y buttermilk fer de young Misses, lak dat Yankee doctah say dey' need."

"All right, go on. Any stock left?"

"No'm.  Nuthin'  'cept one ole sow an' her litter. Ah driv dem inter de swamp de day de Yankees come, but de Lawd knows how we gwine git dem. She
mean, dat sow."

"We'll get them all right. You and Prissy can start right now hunting for her."

Pork was amazed and indignant.

"Miss Scarlett, dat a fe'el han's bizness. Ah's allus been a house nigger."

A small fiend with a pair of hot tweezers plucked behind Scarlett's eyeballs.

"You two will catch the sow--or get out of here, like the field hands did."

Tears trembled in Pork's hurt eyes. Oh, if only Miss Ellen was here! She understood such niceties and realized the wide gap between the duties of
a field hand and those of a house nigger.

"Git out, Miss Scarlett? Whar'd Ah git out to, Miss Scarlett?"

"I don't know and I don't care. But anyone at Tara who won't work can go hunt up the Yankees. You can tell the others that too."

"Now, what about the corn and the cotton, Pork?"

"De  cawn?  Lawd, Miss Scarlett, dey pasture dey hawses in de cawn an' cah'ied off whut de hawses din' eat or spile. An' dey driv dey cannons an'
waggins 'cross de cotton till it plum ruint, 'cept a few acres over on de creek bottom dat dey din' notice. But dat cotton ain' wuth foolin' wid,
'cause ain' but 'bout three bales over dar."

Three  bales.  Scarlett  thought  of the scores of bales Tara usually yielded and her head hurt worse. Three bales. That was little more than the
shiftless  Slatterys  raised. To make matters worse, there was the question of taxes. The Confederate government took cotton for taxes in lieu of
money,  but  three  bales wouldn't even cover the taxes. Little did it matter though, to her or the Confederacy, now that all the field hands had
run away and there was no one to pick the cotton.

"Well,  I won't think of that either," she told herself. "Taxes aren't a woman's job anyway. Pa ought to look after such things, but Pa-- I won't
think of Pa now. The Confederacy can whistle for its taxes. What we need now is something to eat."

"Pork, have any of you been to Twelve Oaks or the MacIntosh place to see if there's anything left in the gardens there?"

"No, Ma'm! Us ain' lef' Tara. De Yankees mout git us."

"I'll send Dilcey over to MacIntosh. Perhaps she'll find something there. And I'll go to Twelve Oaks."

"Who wid, chile?"

"By myself. Mammy must stay with the girls and Mr. Gerald can't--"

Pork set up an outcry which she found infuriating. There might be Yankees or mean niggers at Twelve Oaks. She mustn't go alone.

"That  will  be enough, Pork. Tell Dilcey to start immediately. And you and Prissy go bring in the sow and her litter," she said briefly, turning
on her heel.

Mammy's  old  sunbonnet,  faded but clean, hung on its peg on the back porch and Scarlett put it on her head, remembering, as from another world,
the  bonnet with the curling green plume which Rhett had brought her from Paris. She picked up a large split-oak basket and started down the back
stairs, each step jouncing her head until her spine seemed to be trying to crash through the top of her skull.

The  road  down  to  the  river lay red and scorching between the ruined cotton fields. There were no trees to cast a shade and the sun beat down
through Mammy's sunbonnet as if it were made of tarlatan instead of heavy quilted calico, while the dust floating upward sifted into her nose and
throat  until  she felt the membranes would crack dryly if she spoke. Deep ruts and furrows were cut into the road where horses had dragged heavy
guns  along  it  and  the  red  gullies  on  either  side were deeply gashed by the wheels. The cotton was mangled and trampled where cavalry and
infantry,  forced off the narrow road by the artillery, had marched through the green bushes, grinding them into the earth. Here and there in the
road and fields lay buckles and bits of harness leather, canteens flattened by hooves and caisson wheels, buttons, blue caps, worn socks, bits of
bloody rags, all the litter left by the marching army.

She  passed  the clump of cedars and the low brick wall which marked the family burying ground, trying not to think of the new grave lying by the
three  short mounds of her little brothers. Oh, Ellen--She trudged on down the dusty hill, passing the heap of ashes and the stumpy chimney where
the  Slattery  house  had  stood,  and  she  wished  savagely  that the whole tribe of them had been part of the ashes. If it hadn't been for the
Slatterys--if it hadn't been for that nasty Emmie who'd had a bastard brat by their overseer--Ellen wouldn't have died.

She  moaned  as  a  sharp  pebble  cut  into  her  blistered foot. What was she doing here? Why was Scarlett O'Hara, the belle of the County, the
sheltered  pride  of  Tara,  tramping down this rough road almost barefoot? Her little feet were made to dance, not to limp, her tiny slippers to
peep daringly from under bright silks, not to collect sharp pebbles and dust. She was born to be pampered and waited upon, and here she was, sick
and ragged, driven by hunger to hunt for food in the gardens of her neighbors.

At  the bottom of the long hill was the river and how cool and still were the tangled trees overhanging the water! She sank down on the low bank,
and  stripping  off  the  remnants of her slippers and stockings, dabbled her burning feet in the cool water. It would be so good to sit here all
day,  away from the helpless eyes of Tara, here where only the rustle of leaves and the gurgle of slow water broke the stillness. But reluctantly
she  replaced  her  shoes and stockings and trudged down the bank, spongy with moss, under the shady trees. The Yankees had burned the bridge but
she  knew  of  a  footlog  bridge across a narrow point of the stream a hundred yards below. She crossed it cautiously and trudged uphill the hot
half-mile to Twelve Oaks.

There  towered  the twelve oaks, as they had stood since Indian days, but with their leaves brown from fire and the branches burned and scorched.
Within  their  circle  lay  the  ruins  of John Wilkes' house, the charred remains of that once stately home which had crowned the hill in white-
columned dignity. The deep pit which had been the cellar, the blackened field-stone foundations and two mighty chimneys marked the site. One long
column, half-burned, had fallen across the lawn, crushing the cape jessamine bushes.

Scarlett  sat down on the column, too sick at the sight to go on. This desolation went to her heart as nothing she had ever experienced. Here was
the  Wilkes  pride  in  the  dust  at her feet. Here was the end of the kindly, courteous house which had always welcomed her, the house where in
futile  dreams  she  had aspired to be mistress. Here she had danced and dined and flirted and here she had watched with a jealous, hurting heart
how Melanie smiled up at Ashley. Here, too, in the cool shadows of the trees, Charles Hamilton had rapturously pressed her hand when she said she
would marry him.

"Oh, Ashley," she thought, "I hope you are dead! I could never bear for you to see this."

Ashley had married his bride here but his son and his son's son would never bring brides to this house. There would be no more matings and births
beneath this roof which she had so loved and longed to rule. The house was dead and to Scarlett, it was as if all the Wilkeses, too, were dead in
its ashes.

"I won't think of it now. I can't stand it now. I'll think of it later," she said aloud, turning her eyes away.

Seeking  the  garden,  she  limped around the ruins, by the trampled rose beds the Wilkes girls had tended so zealously, across the back yard and
through  the  ashes  to the smokehouse, barns and chicken houses. The split-rail fence around the kitchen garden had been demolished and the once
orderly  rows  of green plants had suffered the same treatment as those at Tara. The soft earth was scarred with hoof prints and heavy wheels and
the vegetables were mashed into the soil. There was nothing for her here.

She walked back across the yard and took the path down toward the silent row of whitewashed cabins in the quarters, calling "Hello!" as she went.
But no voice answered her. Not even a dog barked. Evidently the Wilkes negroes had taken flight or followed the Yankees. She knew every slave had
his own garden patch and as she reached the quarters, she hoped these little patches had been spared.

Her  search  was  rewarded  but  she was too tired even to feel pleasure at the sight of turnips and cabbages, wilted for want of water but still
standing,  and  straggling  butter  beans  and  snap beans, yellow but edible. She sat down in the furrows and dug into the earth with hands that
shook,  filling  her  basket  slowly.  There would be a good meal at Tara tonight, in spite of the lack of side meat to boil with the vegetables.
Perhaps  some  of  the  bacon  grease Dilcey was using for illumination could be used for seasoning. She must remember to tell Dilcey to use pine
knots and save the grease for cooking.

Close  to  the  back  step  of  one cabin, she found a short row of radishes and hunger assaulted her suddenly. A spicy, sharp-tasting radish was
exactly  what  her  stomach  craved.  Hardly  waiting to rub the dirt off on her skirt, she bit off half and swallowed it hastily. It was old and
coarse  and  so  peppery that tears started in her eyes. No sooner had the lump gone down than her empty outraged stomach revolted and she lay in
the soft dirt and vomited tiredly.

The  faint niggery smell which crept from the cabin increased her nausea and, without strength to combat it, she kept on retching miserably while
the cabins and trees revolved swiftly around her.

After  a  long  time,  she  lay  weakly on her face, the earth as soft and comfortable as a feather pillow, and her mind wandered feebly here and
there. She, Scarlett O'Hara was lying behind a negro cabin, in the midst of ruins, too sick and too weak to move, and no one in the world knew or
cared.  No  one would care if they did know, for everyone had too many troubles of his own to worry about her. And all this was happening to her,
Scarlett  O'Hara,  who  had  never  raised  her hand even to pick up her discarded stockings from the floor or to tie the laces of her slippers--
Scarlett, whose little headaches and tempers had been coddled and catered to all her life.

As  she  lay  prostrate,  too  weak  to fight off memories and worries, they rushed at her like buzzards waiting for death. No longer had she the
strength  to  say: "I'll think of Mother and Pa and Ashley and all this ruin later-- Yes, later when I can stand it." She could not stand it now,
but  she  was  thinking  of them whether she willed it or not. The thoughts circled and swooped above her, dived down and drove tearing claws and
sharp  beaks  into  her  mind.  For  a timeless time, she lay still, her face in the dirt, the sun beating hotly upon her, remembering things and
people who were dead, remembering a way of living that was gone forever--and looking upon the harsh vista of the dark future.

When  she  arose  at  last  and  saw  again  the black ruins of Twelve Oaks, her head was raised high and something that was youth and beauty and
potential tenderness had gone out of her face forever. What was past was past. Those who were dead were dead. The lazy luxury of the old days was
gone, never to return. And, as Scarlett settled the heavy basket across her arm, she had settled her own mind and her own life.

There was no going back and she was going forward.

Throughout the South for fifty years there would be bitter-eyed women who looked backward, to dead times, to dead men, evoking memories that hurt
and were futile, bearing poverty with bitter pride because they had those memories. But Scarlett was never to look back.

She  gazed  at the blackened stones and, for the last time, she saw Twelve Oaks rise before her eyes as it had once stood, rich and proud, symbol
of a race and a way of living. Then she started down the road toward Tara, the heavy basket cutting into her flesh.

Hunger  gnawed  at  her empty stomach again and she said aloud: "As God is my witness, as God is my witness, the Yankees aren't going to lick me.
I'm  going  to live through this, and when it's over, I'm never going to be hungry again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to steal or kill--as
God is my witness, I'm never going to be hungry again."



In  the  days  that followed, Tara might have been Crusoe's desert island, so still it was, so isolated from the rest of the world. The world lay
only  a few miles away, but a thousand miles of tumbling waves might have stretched between Tara and Jonesboro and Fayetteville and Lovejoy, even
between  Tara  and  the  neighbors'  plantations.  With the old horse dead, their one mode of conveyance was gone, and there was neither time nor
strength for walking the weary red miles.

Sometimes,  in  the  days  of  backbreaking work, in the desperate struggle for food and the never-ceasing care of the three sick girls, Scarlett
found  herself  straining her ears for familiar sounds--the shrill laughter of the pickaninnies in the quarters, the creaking of wagons home from
the  fields,  the  thunder  of  Gerald's stallion tearing across the pasture, the crunching of carriage wheels on the drive and the gay voices of
neighbors  dropping  in  for  an  afternoon  of  gossip.  But she listened in vain. The road lay still and deserted and never a cloud of red dust
proclaimed the approach of visitors. Tara was an island in a sea of rolling green hills and red fields.

Somewhere was the world and families who ate and slept safely under their own roofs. Somewhere girls in thrice-turned dresses were flirting gaily
and  singing  "When  This  Cruel  War Is Over," as she had done only a few weeks before. Somewhere there was a war and cannon booming and burning
towns  and men who rotted in hospitals amid sickening-sweet stinks. Somewhere a barefoot army in dirty homespun was marching, fighting, sleeping,
hungry  and weary with the weariness that comes when hope is gone. And somewhere the hills of Georgia were blue with Yankees, well-fed Yankees on
sleek corn-stuffed horses.

Beyond  Tara  was  the  war and the world. But on the plantation the war and the world did not exist except as memories which must be fought back
when  they  rushed  to  mind  in  moments  of  exhaustion. The world outside receded before the demands of empty and half-empty stomachs and life
resolved itself into two related thoughts, food and how to get it.

Food!  Food!  Why did the stomach have a longer memory than the mind? Scarlett could banish heartbreak but not hunger and each morning as she lay
half  asleep,  before  memory  brought  back to her mind war and hunger, she curled drowsily expecting the sweet smells of bacon frying and rolls
baking. And each morning she sniffed so hard to really smell the food she woke herself up.

There  were apples, yams, peanuts and milk on the table at Tara but never enough of even this primitive fare. At the sight of them, three times a
day, her memory would rush back to the old days, the meals of the old days, the candle-lit table and the food perfuming the air.

How careless they had been of food then, what prodigal waste! Rolls, corn muffins, biscuits and waffles, dripping butter, all at one meal. Ham at
one  end  of  the table and fried chicken at the other, collards swimming richly in pot liquor iridescent with grease, snap beans in mountains on
brightly  flowered  porcelain,  fried squash, stewed okra, carrots in cream sauce thick enough to cut. And three desserts, so everyone might have
his  choice,  chocolate  layer cake, vanilla blanc mange and pound cake topped with sweet whipped cream. The memory of those savory meals had the
power  to  bring  tears  to her eyes as death and war had failed to do, and the power to turn her ever-gnawing stomach from rumbling emptiness to
nausea.  For the appetite Mammy had always deplored, the healthy appetite of a nineteen-year-old girl, now was increased fourfold by the hard and
unremitting labor she had never known before.

Hers was not the only troublesome appetite at Tara, for wherever she turned hungry faces, black and white, met her eyes. Soon Carreen and Suellen
would have the insatiable hunger of typhoid convalescents. Already little Wade whined monotonously: "Wade doan like yams. Wade hungwy."

The others grumbled, too:

"Miss Scarlett, 'ness I gits mo' to eat, I kain nuss neither of these chillun."

"Miss Scarlett, ef Ah doan have mo' in mah stummick, Ah kain split no wood."

"Lamb, Ah's perishin' fer real vittles."

"Daughter, must we always have yams?"

Only Melanie did not complain, Melanie whose face grew thinner and whiter and twitched with pain even in her sleep.

"I'm not hungry, Scarlett. Give my share of the milk to Dilcey. She needs it to nurse the babies. Sick people are never hungry."

It was her gentle hardihood which irritated Scarlett more than the nagging whining voices of the others. She could--and did--shout them down with
bitter  sarcasm  but  before Melanie's unselfishness she was helpless, helpless and resentful. Gerald, the negroes and Wade clung to Melanie now,
because even in her weakness she was kind and sympathetic, and these days Scarlett was neither.

Wade  especially  haunted  Melanie's  room.  There was something wrong with Wade, but just what it was Scarlett had no time to discover. She took
Mammy's  word  that  the  little  boy  had  worms  and  dosed  him  with  the mixture of dried herbs and bark which Ellen always used to worm the
pickaninnies.  But  the  vermifuge  only  made  the child look paler. These days Scarlett hardly thought of Wade as a person. He was only another
worry,  another  mouth to feed. Some day when the present emergency was over, she would play with him, tell him stories and teach him his A B C's
but  now  she  did not have the time or the soul or the inclination. And, because he always seemed underfoot when she was most weary and worried,
she often spoke sharply to him.

It  annoyed her that her quick reprimands brought such acute fright to his round eyes, for he looked so simple minded when he was frightened. She
did  not realize that the little boy lived shoulder to shoulder with terror too great for an adult to comprehend. Fear lived with Wade, fear that
shook  his  soul  and  made  him wake screaming in the night. Any unexpected noise or sharp word set him to trembling, for in his mind noises and
harsh words were inextricably mixed with Yankees and he was more afraid of Yankees than of Prissy's hants.

Until  the  thunders  of  the  siege  began,  he had never known anything but a happy, placid, quiet life. Even though his mother paid him little
attention,  he  had  known  nothing but petting and kind words until the night when he was jerked from slumber to find the sky aflame and the air
deafening with explosions. In that night and the day which followed, he had been slapped by his mother for the first time and had heard her voice
raised  at  him in harsh words. Life in the pleasant brick house on Peachtree Street, the only life he knew, had vanished that night and he would
never  recover from its loss. In the flight from Atlanta, he had understood nothing except that the Yankees were after him and now he still lived
in  fear  that  the Yankees would catch him and cut him to pieces. Whenever Scarlett raised her voice in reproof, he went weak with fright as his
vague  childish  memory  brought up the horrors of the first time she had ever done it. Now, Yankees and a cross voice were linked forever in his
mind and he was afraid of his mother.

Scarlett  could  not  help  noticing that the child was beginning to avoid her and, in the rare moments when her unending duties gave her time to
think  about  it, it bothered her a great deal. It was even worse than having him at her skirts all the time and she was offended that his refuge
was  Melanie's  bed  where  he  played  quietly at games Melanie suggested or listened to stories she told. Wade adored "Auntee" who had a gentle
voice, who always smiled and who never said: "Hush, Wade! You give me a headache" or "Stop fidgeting, Wade, for Heaven's sake!"

Scarlett had neither the time nor the impulse to pet him but it made her jealous to see Melanie do it. When she found him one day standing on his
head in Melanie's bed and saw him collapse on her, she slapped him.

"Don't you know better than to jiggle Auntee like that when she's sick? Now, trot right out in the yard and play, and don't come in here again."

But Melanie reached out a weak arm and drew the wailing child to her.

"There,  there,  Wade.  You  didn't mean to jiggle me, did you? He doesn't bother me, Scarlett. Do let him stay with me. Let me take care of him.
It's the only thing I can do till I get well, and you've got your hands full enough without having to watch him."

"Don't  be  a goose, Melly," said Scarlett shortly. "You aren't getting well like you should and having Wade fall on your stomach won't help you.
Now, Wade, if I ever catch you on Auntee's bed again, I'll wear you out. And stop sniffling. You are always sniffling. Try to be a little man."

Wade  flew  sobbing to hide himself under the house. Melanie bit her lip and tears came to her eyes, and Mammy standing in the hall, a witness to
the  scene, scowled and breathed hard. But no one talked back to Scarlett these days. They were all afraid of her sharp tongue, all afraid of the
new person who walked in her body.

Scarlett  reigned  supreme  at  Tara  now  and,  like others suddenly elevated to authority, all the bullying instincts in her nature rose to the
surface. It was not that she was basically unkind. It was because she was so frightened and unsure of herself she was harsh lest others learn her
inadequacies  and  refuse her authority. Besides, there was some pleasure in shouting at people and knowing they were afraid. Scarlett found that
it  relieved  her  overwrought  nerves. She was not blind to the fact that her personality was changing. Sometimes when her curt orders made Pork
stick  out  his  under  lip  and  Mammy  mutter:  "Some folks rides mighty high dese days," she wondered where her good manners had gone. All the
courtesy, all the gentleness Ellen had striven to instill in her had fallen away from her as quickly as leaves fall from trees in the first chill
wind of autumn.

Time  and  again,  Ellen had said: "Be firm but be gentle with inferiors, especially darkies." But if she was gentle the darkies would sit in the
kitchen all day, talking endlessly about the good old days when a house nigger wasn't supposed to do a field hand's work.

"Love and cherish your sisters. Be kind to the afflicted," said Ellen. "Show tenderness to those in sorrow and in trouble."

She  couldn't love her sisters now. They were simply a dead weight on her shoulders. And as for cherishing them, wasn't she bathing them, combing
their  hair and feeding them, even at the expense of walking miles every day to find vegetables? Wasn't she learning to milk the cow, even though
her  heart was always in her throat when that fearsome animal shook its horns at her? And as for being kind, that was a waste of time. If she was
overly  kind  to  them, they'd probably prolong their stay in bed, and she wanted them on their feet again as soon as possible, so there would be
four more hands to help her.

They  were  convalescing  slowly  and  lay scrawny and weak in their bed. While they had been unconscious, the world had changed. The Yankees had
come,  the  darkies  had gone and Mother had died. Here were three unbelievable happenings and their minds could not take them in. Sometimes they
believed  they must still be delirious and these things had not happened at all. Certainly Scarlett was so changed she couldn't be real. When she
hung over the foot of their bed and outlined the work she expected them to do when they recovered, they looked at her as if she were a hobgoblin.
It  was beyond their comprehension that they no longer had a hundred slaves to do the work. It was beyond their comprehension that an O'Hara lady
should do manual labor.

"But, Sister," said Carreen, her sweet childish face blank with consternation. "I couldn't split kindling! It would ruin my hands!"

"Look at mine," answered Scarlett with a frightening smile as she pushed blistered and calloused palms toward her.

"I  think you are hateful to talk to Baby and me like this!" cried Suellen. "I think you are lying and trying to frighten us. If Mother were only
here, she wouldn't let you talk to us like this! Split kindling, indeed!"

Suellen  looked  with weak loathing at her older sister, feeling sure Scarlett said these things just to be mean. Suellen had nearly died and she
had lost her mother and she was lonely and scared and she wanted to be petted and made much of. Instead, Scarlett looked over the foot of the bed
each day, appraising their improvement with a hateful new gleam in her slanting green eyes and talked about making beds, preparing food, carrying
water buckets and splitting kindling. And she looked as if she took a pleasure in saying such awful things.

Scarlett  did  take  pleasure  in  it.  She bullied the negroes and harrowed the feelings of her sisters not only because she was too worried and
strained  and tired to do otherwise but because it helped her to forget her own bitterness that everything her mother had told her about life was
wrong.

Nothing  her  mother had taught her was of any value whatsoever now and Scarlett's heart was sore and puzzled. It did not occur to her that Ellen
could  not  have foreseen the collapse of the civilization in which she raised her daughters, could not have anticipated the disappearings of the
places in society for which she trained them so well. It did not occur to her that Ellen had looked down a vista of placid future years, all like
the  uneventful  years  of her own life, when she had taught her to be gentle and gracious, honorable and kind, modest and truthful. Life treated
women well when they had learned those lessons, said Ellen.

Scarlett  thought  in  despair:  "Nothing,  no,  nothing,  she  taught  me is of any help to me! What good will kindness do me now? What value is
gentleness? Better that I'd learned to plow or chop cotton like a darky. Oh, Mother, you were wrong!"

She did not stop to think that Ellen's ordered world was gone and a brutal world had taken its place, a world wherein every standard, every value
had  changed.  She only saw, or thought she saw, that her mother had been wrong, and she changed swiftly to meet this new world for which she was
not prepared.

Only her feeling for Tara had not changed. She never came wearily home across the fields and saw the sprawling white house that her heart did not
swell with love and the joy of homecoming. She never looked out of her window at green pastures and red fields and tall tangled swamp forest that
a  sense  of  beauty did not fill her. Her love for this land with its softly rolling hills of bright-red soil, this beautiful red earth that was
blood  colored,  garnet,  brick dust, vermilion, which so miraculously grew green bushes starred with white puffs, was one part of Scarlett which
did not change when all else was changing. Nowhere else in the world was there land like this.

When  she  looked  at  Tara she could understand, in part, why wars were fought. Rhett was wrong when he said men fought wars for money. No, they
fought  for  swelling  acres,  softly furrowed by the plow, for pastures green with stubby cropped grass, for lazy yellow rivers and white houses
that  were  cool  amid magnolias. These were the only things worth fighting for, the red earth which was theirs and would be their sons', the red
earth which would bear cotton for their sons and their sons' sons.

The  trampled acres of Tara were all that was left to her, now that Mother and Ashley were gone, now that Gerald was senile from shock, and money
and  darkies and security and position had vanished overnight. As from another world she remembered a conversation with her father about the land
and  wondered  how  she could have been so young, so ignorant, as not to understand what he meant when he said that the land was the one thing in
the world worth fighting for.

"For  'tis  the  only  thing  in  the world that lasts . . . and to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their
mother. . . . 'Tis the only thing worth working for, fighting for, dying for."

Yes,  Tara was worth fighting for, and she accepted simply and without question the fight. No one was going to get Tara away from her. No one was
going to set her and her people adrift on the charity of relatives. She would hold Tara, if she had to break the back of every person on it.



CHAPTER XXVI


Scarlett  had  been  at  Tara two weeks since her return from Atlanta when the largest blister on her foot began to fester, swelling until it was
impossible  for  her to put on her shoe or do more than hobble about on her heel. Desperation plucked at her when she looked at the angry sore on
her  toe.  Suppose  it  should  gangrene like the soldiers' wounds and she should die, far away from a doctor? Bitter as life was now, she had no
desire to leave it. And who would look after Tara if she should die?

She  had  hoped  when  she  first came home that Gerald's old spirit would revive and he would take command, but in these two weeks that hope had
vanished.  She  knew  now that, whether she liked it or not, she had the plantation and all its people on her two inexperienced hands, for Gerald
still  sat  quietly, like a man in a dream, so frighteningly absent from Tara, so gentle. To her pleas for advice he gave as his only answer: "Do
what you think best, Daughter." Or worse still, "Consult with your mother, Puss."

He  never  would  be any different and now Scarlett realized the truth and accepted it without emotion--that until he died Gerald would always be
waiting for Ellen, always listening for her. He was in some dim borderline country where time was standing still and Ellen was always in the next
room.  The  mainspring  of his existence was taken away when she died and with it had gone his bounding assurance, his impudence and his restless
vitality.  Ellen was the audience before which the blustering drama of Gerald O'Hara had been played. Now the curtain had been rung down forever,
the footlights dimmed and the audience suddenly vanished, while the stunned old actor remained on his empty stage, waiting for his cues.

That  morning  the house was still, for everyone except Scarlett, Wade and the three sick girls was in the swamp hunting the sow. Even Gerald had
aroused a little and stumped off across the furrowed fields, one hand on Pork's arm and a coil of rope in the other. Suellen and Careen had cried
themselves  to  sleep,  as they did at least twice a day when they thought of Ellen, tears of grief and weakness oozing down their sunken cheeks.
Melanie,  who  had  been  propped up on pillows for the first time that day, lay covered with a mended sheet between two babies, the downy flaxen
head  of one cuddled in her arm, the kinky black head of Dilcey's child held as gently in the other. Wade sat at the bottom of the bed, listening
to a fairy story.

To  Scarlett,  the  stillness  at Tara was unbearable, for it reminded her too sharply of the deathlike stillness of the desolate country through
which she had passed that long day on her way home from Atlanta. The cow and the calf had made no sound for hours. There were no birds twittering
outside  her  window  and even the noisy family of mockers who had lived among the harshly rustling leaves of the magnolia for generations had no
song  that  day.  She had drawn a low chair close to the open window of her bedroom, looking out on the front drive, the lawn and the empty green
pasture across the road, and she sat with her skirts well above her knees and her chin resting on her arms on the window sill. There was a bucket
of  well  water  on  the  floor  beside  her  and every now and then she lowered her blistered foot into it, screwing up her face at the stinging
sensation.

Fretting,  she  dug her chin into her arm. Just when she needed her strength most, this toe had to fester. Those fools would never catch the sow.
It  had  taken  them a week to capture the pigs, one by one, and now after two weeks the sow was still at liberty. Scarlett knew that if she were
just  there  in  the  swamp  with  them,  she  could tuck up her dress to her knees and take the rope and lasso the sow before you could say Jack
Robinson.

But  even  after the sow was caught--if she were caught? What then, after she and her litter were eaten? Life would go on and so would appetites.
Winter was coming and there would be no food, not even the poor remnants of the vegetables from the neighbors' gardens. They must have dried peas
and  sorghum  and  meal and rice and--and--oh, so many things. Corn and cotton seed for next spring's planting, and new clothes too. Where was it
all to come from and how would she pay for it?

She  had  privately  gone  through  Gerald's  pockets  and his cash box and all she could find was stacks of Confederate bonds and three thousand
dollars  in  Confederate bills. That was about enough to buy one square meal for them all, she thought ironically, now that Confederate money was
worth almost less than nothing at all. But if she did have money and could find food, how would she haul it home to Tara? Why had God let the old
horse  die?  Even that sorry animal Rhett had stolen would make all the difference in the world to them. Oh, those fine sleek mules which used to
kick  up  their  heels  in  the  pasture  across  the road, and the handsome carriage horses, her little mare, the girls' ponies and Gerald's big
stallion racing about and tearing up the turf-- Oh, for one of them, even the balkiest mule!

But,  no  matter--when  her foot healed she would walk to Jonesboro. It would be the longest walk she had ever taken in her life, but walk it she
would.  Even  if the Yankees had burned the town completely, she would certainly find someone in the neighborhood who could tell her where to get
food. Wade's pinched face rose up before her eyes. He didn't like yams, he repeated; wanted a drumstick and some rice and gravy.

The  bright  sunlight in the front yard suddenly clouded and the trees blurred through tears. Scarlett dropped her head on her arms and struggled
not to cry. Crying was so useless now. The only time crying ever did any good was when there was a man around from whom you wished favors. As she
crouched  there,  squeezing  her eyes tightly to keep back the tears, she was startled by the sound of trotting hooves. But she did not raise her
head.  She  had  imagined  that  sound too often in the nights and days of these last two weeks, just as she had imagined she heard the rustle of
Ellen's skirts. Her heart hammered, as it always did at such moments, before she told herself sternly: "Don't be a fool."

But  the hooves slowed down in a startlingly natural way to the rhythm of a walk and there was the measured scrunch-scrunch on the gravel. It was
a horse--the Tarletons, the Fontaines! She looked up quickly. It was a Yankee cavalryman.

Automatically,  she  dodged  behind the curtain and peered fascinated at him through the dim folds of the cloth, so startled that the breath went
out of her lungs with a gasp.

He  sat  slouched in the saddle, a thick, rough-looking man with an unkempt black beard straggling over his unbuttoned blue jacket. Little close-
set  eyes, squinting in the sun glare, calmly surveyed the house from beneath the visor of his tight blue cap. As he slowly dismounted and tossed
the bridle reins over the hitching post, Scarlett's breath came back to her as suddenly and painfully as after a blow in the stomach. A Yankee, a
Yankee with a long pistol on his hip! And she was alone in the house with three sick girls and the babies!

As  he  lounged  up the walk, hand on holster, beady little eyes glancing to right and left, a kaleidoscope of jumbled pictures spun in her mind,
stories  Aunt  Pittypat  had  whispered  of  attacks on unprotected women, throat cuttings, houses burned over the heads of dying women, children
bayoneted because they cried, all of the unspeakable horrors that lay bound up in the name of "Yankee."

Her  first terrified impulse was to hide in the closet, crawl under the bed, fly down the back stairs and run screaming to the swamp, anything to
escape  him.  Then  she heard his cautious feet on the front steps and his stealthy tread as he entered the hall and she knew that escape was cut
off.  Too  cold  with  fear to move, she heard his progress from room to room downstairs, his steps growing louder and bolder as he discovered no
one. Now he was in the dining room and in a moment he would walk out into the kitchen.

At the thought of the kitchen, rage suddenly leaped up in Scarlett's breast, so sharply that it jabbed at her heart like a knife thrust, and fear
fell  away  before  her  overpowering  fury. The kitchen! There, over the open kitchen fire were two pots, one filled with apples stewing and the
other  with a hodgepodge of vegetables brought painfully from Twelve Oaks and the MacIntosh garden--dinner that must serve for nine hungry people
and  hardly  enough  for  two.  Scarlett had been restraining her appetite for hours, waiting for the return of the others and the thought of the
Yankee eating their meager meal made her shake with anger.

God  damn them all! They descended like locusts and left Tara to starve slowly and now they were back again to steal the poor leavings. Her empty
stomach writhed within her. By God, this was one Yankee who would do no more stealing!

She  slipped  off her worn shoe and, barefooted, she pattered swiftly to the bureau, not even feeling her festered toe. She opened the top drawer
soundlessly  and caught up the heavy pistol she had brought from Atlanta, the weapon Charles had worn but never fired. She fumbled in the leather
box  that  hung  on  the  wall  below  his  saber  and  brought  out a cap. She slipped it into place with a hand that did not shake. Quickly and
noiselessly,  she  ran  into the upper hall and down the stairs, steadying herself on the banisters with one hand and holding the pistol close to
her thigh in the folds of her skirt.

"Who's  there?"  cried  a nasal voice and she stopped on the middle of the stairs, the blood thudding in her ears so loudly she could hardly hear
him. "Halt or I'll shoot!" came the voice.

He  stood  in  the door of the dining room, crouched tensely, his pistol in one hand and, in the other, the small rosewood sewing box fitted with
gold  thimble,  gold-handled  scissors  and  tiny  gold-topped acorn of emery. Scarlett's legs felt cold to the knees but rage scorched her face.
Ellen's  sewing  box in his hands. She wanted to cry: "Put it down! Put it down, you dirty--" but words would not come. She could only stare over
the banisters at him and watch his face change from harsh tenseness to a half-contemptuous, half-ingratiating smile.

"So  there  is somebody ter home," he said, slipping his pistol back into its holster and moving into the hall until he stood directly below her.
"All alone, little lady?"

Like  lightning, she shoved her weapon over the banisters and into the startled bearded face. Before he could even fumble at his belt, she pulled
the  trigger. The back kick of the pistol made her reel, as the roar of the explosion filled her ears and the acrid smoke stung her nostrils. The
man crashed backwards to the floor, sprawling into the dining room with a violence that shook the furniture. The box clattered from his hand, the
contents spilling about him. Hardly aware that she was moving, Scarlett ran down the stairs and stood over him, gazing down into what was left of
the face above the beard, a bloody pit where the nose had been, glazing eyes burned with powder. As she looked, two streams of blood crept across
the shining floor, one from his face and one from the back of his head.

Yes, he was dead. Undoubtedly. She had killed a man.

The  smoke  curled  slowly  to the ceiling and the red streams widened about her feet. For a timeless moment she stood there and in the still hot
hush  of the summer morning every irrelevant sound and scent seemed magnified, the quick thudding of her heart, like a drumbeat, the slight rough
rustling of the magnolia leaves, the far-off plaintive sound of a swamp bird and the sweet smell of the flowers outside the window.

She  had  killed a man, she who took care never to be in at the kill on a hunt, she who could not bear the squealing of a hog at slaughter or the
squeak  of a rabbit in a snare. Murder! she thought dully. I've done murder. Oh, this can't be happening to me! Her eyes went to the stubby hairy
hand  on  the  floor  so  close to the sewing box and suddenly she was vitally alive again, vitally glad with a cool tigerish joy. She could have
ground  her  heel  into the gaping wound which had been his nose and taken sweet pleasure in the feel of his warm blood on her bare feet. She had
struck a blow of revenge for Tara--and for Ellen.

There  were  hurried stumbling steps in the upper hall, a pause and then more steps, weak dragging steps now, punctuated by metallic clankings. A
sense  of time and reality coming back to her, Scarlett looked up and saw Melanie at the top of the stairs, clad only in the ragged chemise which
served  her  as a nightgown, her weak arm weighed down with Charles' saber. Melanie's eyes took in the scene below in its entirety, the sprawling
blue-clad body in the red pool, the sewing box beside him, Scarlett, barefooted and gray-faced, clutching the long pistol.

In  silence  her  eyes  met Scarlett's. There was a glow of grim pride in her usually gentle face, approbation and a fierce joy in her smile that
equaled the fiery tumult in Scarlett's own bosom.

"Why--why--she's like me! She understands how I feel!" thought Scarlett in that long moment. "She'd have done the same thing!"

With  a  thrill  she  looked  up  at  the frail swaying girl for whom she had never had any feelings but of dislike and contempt. Now, struggling
against  hatred  for  Ashley's  wife,  there surged a feeling of admiration and comradeship. She saw in a flash of clarity untouched by any petty
emotion  that beneath the gentle voice and the dovelike eyes of Melanie there was a thin flashing blade of unbreakable steel, felt too that there
were banners and bugles of courage in Melanie's quiet blood.

"Scarlett!  Scarlett!"  shrilled  the  weak  frightened  voices  of  Suellen and Carreen, muffled by their closed door, and Wade's voice screamed
"Auntee!  Auntee!" Swiftly Melanie put her finger to her lips and, laying the sword on the top step, she painfully made her way down the upstairs
hall and opened the door of the sick room.

"Don't  be  scared,  chickens!" came her voice with teasing gaiety. "Your big sister was trying to clean the rust off Charles' pistol and it went
off  and nearly scared her to death!" . . . "Now, Wade Hampton, Mama just shot off your dear Papa's pistol! When you are bigger, she will let you
shoot it."

"What a cool liar!" thought Scarlett with admiration. "I couldn't have thought that quickly. But why lie? They've got to know I've done it."

She  looked  down  at  the  body again and now revulsion came over her as her rage and fright melted away, and her knees began to quiver with the
reaction.  Melanie  dragged  herself  to  the  top step again and started down, holding onto the banisters, her pale lower lip caught between her
teeth.

"Go back to bed, silly, you'll kill yourself!" Scarlett cried, but the half-naked Melanie made her painful way down into the lower hall.

"Scarlett,"  she  whispered,  "we must get him out of here and bury him. He may not be alone and if they find him here--" She steadied herself on
Scarlett's arm.

"He must be alone," said Scarlett. "I didn't see anyone else from the upstairs window. He must be a deserter."

"Even if he is alone, no one must know about it. The negroes might talk and then they'd come and get you. Scarlett, we must get him hidden before
the folks come back from the swamp."

Her mind prodded to action by the feverish urgency of Melanie's voice, Scarlett thought hard.

"I  could  bury him in the corner of the garden under the arbor--the ground is soft there where Pork dug up the whisky barrel. But how will I get
him there?"

"We'll both take a leg and drag him," said Melanie firmly.

Reluctantly, Scarlett's admiration went still higher.

"You  couldn't  drag a cat. I'll drag him," she said roughly. "You go back to bed. You'll kill yourself. Don't dare try to help me either or I'll
carry you upstairs myself."

Melanie's  white  face  broke  into  a  sweet  understanding  smile.  "You are very dear, Scarlett," she said and softly brushed her lips against
Scarlett's  cheek.  Before  Scarlett could recover from her surprise, Melanie went on: "If you can drag him out, I'll mop up the--the mess before
the folks get home, and Scarlett--"

"Yes?"

"Do you suppose it would be dishonest to go through his knapsack? He might have something to eat."

"I do not," said Scarlett, annoyed that she had not thought of this herself. "You take the knapsack and I'll go through his pockets."

Stooping over the dead man with distaste, she unbuttoned the remaining buttons of his jacket and systematically began rifling his pockets.

"Dear God," she whispered, pulling out a bulging wallet, wrapped about with a rag. "Melanie--Melly, I think it's full of money!"

Melanie said nothing but abruptly sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall.

"You look," she said shakily. "I'm feeling a little weak."

Scarlett tore off the rag and with trembling hands opened the leather folds.

"Look, Melly--just look!"

Melanie looked and her eyes dilated. Jumbled together was a mass of bills, United States greenbacks mingling with Confederate money and, glinting
from between them, were one ten-dollar gold piece and two five-dollar gold pieces.

"Don't stop to count it now," said Melanie as Scarlett began fingering the bills. "We haven't time--"

"Do you realize, Melanie, that this money means that we'll eat?"

"Yes, yes, dear. I know but we haven't time now. You look in his other pockets and I'll take the knapsack."

Scarlett  was loath to put down the wallet. Bright vistas opened before her--real money, the Yankee's horse, food! There was a God after all, and
He  did  provide, even if He did take very odd ways of providing. She sat on her haunches and stared at the wallet smiling. Food! Melanie plucked
it from her hands--

"Hurry!" she said.

The  trouser  pockets yielded nothing except a candle end, a jackknife, a plug of tobacco and a bit of twine. Melanie removed from the knapsack a
small  package  of coffee which she sniffed as if it were the sweetest of perfumes, hardtack and, her face changing, a miniature of a little girl
in  a  gold  frame set with seed pearls, a garnet brooch, two broad gold bracelets with tiny dangling gold chains, a gold thimble, a small silver
baby's  cup,  gold  embroidery  scissors,  a  diamond  solitaire  ring and a pair of earrings with pendant pear-shaped diamonds, which even their
unpracticed eyes could tell were well over a carat each.

"A thief!" whispered Melanie, recoiling from the still body. "Scarlett, he must have stolen all of this!"

"Of course," said Scarlett. "And he came here hoping to steal more from us."

"I'm glad you killed him," said Melanie her gentle eyes hard. "Now hurry, darling, and get him out of here."

Scarlett  bent  over, caught the dead man by his boots and tugged. How heavy he was and how weak she suddenly felt. Suppose she shouldn't be able
to  move him? Turning so that she backed the corpse, she caught a heavy boot under each arm and threw her weight forward. He moved and she jerked
again.  Her  sore  foot,  forgotten in the excitement, now gave a tremendous throb that made her grit her teeth and shift her weight to the heel.
Tugging and straining, perspiration dripping from her forehead, she dragged him down the hall, a red stain following her path.

"If he bleeds across the yard, we can't hide it," she gasped. "Give me your shimmy, Melanie, and I'll wad it around his head."

Melanie's white face went crimson.

"Don't be silly, I won't look at you," said Scarlett. "If I had on a petticoat or pantalets I'd use them."

Crouching  back  against the wall, Melanie pulled the ragged linen garment over her head and silently tossed it to Scarlett, shielding herself as
best she could with her arms.

"Thank  God, I'm not that modest," thought Scarlett, feeling rather than seeing Melanie's agony of embarrassment, as she wrapped the ragged cloth
about the shattered face.

By  a  series  of  limping  jerks, she pulled the body down the hall toward the back porch and, pausing to wipe her forehead with the back of her
hand,  glanced  back  toward  Melanie,  sitting against the wall hugging her thin knees to her bare breasts. How silly of Melanie to be bothering
about  modesty  at  a time like this, Scarlett thought irritably. It was just part of her nicey-nice way of acting which had always made Scarlett
despise  her.  Then shame rose in her. After all--after all, Melanie had dragged herself from bed so soon after having a baby and had come to her
aid with a weapon too heavy even for her to lift. That had taken courage, the kind of courage Scarlett honestly knew she herself did not possess,
the  thin-steel,  spun-silk courage which had characterized Melanie on the terrible night Atlanta fell and on the long trip home. It was the same
intangible,  unspectacular  courage  that  all the Wilkeses possessed, a quality which Scarlett did not understand but to which she gave grudging
tribute.

"Go back to bed," she threw over her shoulder. "You'll be dead if you don't. I'll clean up the mess after I've buried him."

"I'll do it with one of the rag rugs," whispered Melanie, looking at the pool of blood with a sick face.

"Well,  kill  yourself  then  and  see if I care! And if any of the folks come back before I'm finished, keep them in the house and tell them the
horse just walked in from nowhere."

Melanie  sat  shivering in the morning sunlight and covered her ears against the sickening series of thuds as the dead man's head bumped down the
porch steps.

No  one questioned whence the horse had come. It was so obvious he was a stray from the recent battle and they were well pleased to have him. The
Yankee  lay in the shallow pit Scarlett had scraped out under the scuppernong arbor. The uprights which held the thick vines were rotten and that
night  Scarlett  hacked at them with the kitchen knife until they fell and the tangled mass ran wild over the grave. The replacing of these posts
was one bit of repair work Scarlett did not suggest and, if the negroes knew why, they kept their silence.

No  ghost  rose  from  that shallow grave to haunt her in the long nights when she lay awake, too tired to sleep. No feeling of horror or remorse
assailed  her  at  the memory. She wondered why, knowing that even a month before she could never have done the deed. Pretty young Mrs. Hamilton,
with  her  dimple  and  her  jingling  earbobs  and  her  helpless  little ways, blowing a man's face to a pulp and then burying him in a hastily
scratched-out hole! Scarlett grinned a little grimly thinking of the consternation such an idea would bring to those who knew her.

"I  won't  think  about  it any more," she decided. "It's over and done with and I'd have been a ninny not to kill him. I reckon--I reckon I must
have changed a little since coming home or else I couldn't have done it."

She did not think of it consciously but in the back of her mind, whenever she was confronted by an unpleasant and difficult task, the idea lurked
giving her strength: "I've done murder and so I can surely do this."

She  had  changed more than she knew and the shell of hardness which had begun to form about her heart when she lay in the slave garden at Twelve
Oaks was slowly thickening.



Now  that  she  had  a  horse,  Scarlett  could  find  out for herself what had happened to their neighbors. Since she came home she had wondered
despairingly  a  thousand times: "Are we the only folks left in the County? Has everybody else been burned out? Have they all refugeed to Macon?"
With  the  memory  of  the ruins of Twelve Oaks, the MacIntosh place and the Slattery shack fresh in her mind, she almost dreaded to discover the
truth.  But  it  was  better  to  know  the  worst than to wonder. She decided to ride to the Fontaines' first, not because they were the nearest
neighbors  but because old Dr. Fontaine might be there. Melanie needed a doctor. She was not recovering as she should and Scarlett was frightened
by her white weakness.

So on the first day when her foot had healed enough to stand a slipper, she mounted the Yankee's horse. One foot in the shortened stirrup and the
other leg crooked about the pommel in an approximation of a side saddle, she set out across the fields toward Mimosa, steeling herself to find it
burned.

To  her  surprise  and  pleasure,  she  saw  the  faded yellow-stucco house standing amid the mimosa trees, looking as it had always looked. Warm
happiness,  happiness  that  almost brought tears, flooded her when the three Fontaine women came out of the house to welcome her with kisses and
cries of joy.

But  when  the  first  exclamations of affectionate greeting were over and they all had trooped into the dining room to sit down, Scarlett felt a
chill.  The Yankees had not reached Mimosa because it was far off the main road. And so the Fontaines still had their stock and their provisions,
but  Mimosa was held by the same strange silence that hung over Tara, over the whole countryside. All the slaves except four women house servants
had  run away, frightened by the approach of the Yankees. There was not a man on the place unless Sally's little boy, Joe, hardly out of diapers,
could be counted as a man. Alone in the big house were Grandma Fontaine, in her seventies, her daughter-in-law who would always be known as Young
Miss, though she was in her fifties, and Sally, who had barely turned twenty. They were far away from neighbors and unprotected, but if they were
afraid  it  did  not  show  on  their  faces. Probably, thought Scarlett, because Sally and Young Miss were too afraid of the porcelain-frail but
indomitable  old  Grandma  to dare voice any qualms. Scarlett herself was afraid of the old lady, for she had sharp eyes and a sharper tongue and
Scarlett had felt them both in the past.

Though  unrelated  by blood and far apart in age, there was a kinship of spirit and experience binding these women together. All three wore home-
dyed  mourning, all were worn, sad, worried, all bitter with a bitterness that did not sulk or complain but, nevertheless, peered out from behind
their  smiles and their words of welcome. For their slaves were gone, their money was worthless, Sally's husband, Joe, had died at Gettysburg and
Young  Miss  was  also  a  widow, for young Dr. Fontaine had died of dysentery at Vicksburg. The other two boys, Alex and Tony, were somewhere in
Virginia and nobody knew whether they were alive or dead; and old Dr. Fontaine was off somewhere with Wheeler's cavalry.

"And  the  old fool is seventy-three years old though he tries to act younger and he's as full of rheumatism as a hog is of fleas," said Grandma,
proud of her husband, the light in her eyes belying her sharp words.

"Have  you  all had any news of what's been happening in Atlanta?" asked Scarlett when they were comfortably settled. "We're completely buried at
Tara."

"Law, child," said Old Miss, taking charge of the conversation, as was her habit, "we're in the same fix as you are. We don't know a thing except
that Sherman finally got the town."

"So he did get it. What's he doing now? Where's the fighting now?"

"And  how  would  three lone women out here in the country know about the war when we haven't seen a letter or a newspaper m weeks?" said the old
lady  tartly.  "One  of  our darkies talked to a darky who'd seen a darky who'd been to Jonesboro, and except for that we haven't heard anything.
What  they said was that the Yankees were just squatting in Atlanta resting up their men and their horses, but whether it's true or not you're as
good a judge as I am. Not that they wouldn't need a rest, after the fight we gave them."

"To  think  you've  been  at Tara all this time and we didn't know!" Young Miss broke in. "Oh, how I blame myself for not riding over to see! But
there's  been  so  much  to  do  here  with most all the darkies gone that I just couldn't get away. But I should have made time to go. It wasn't
neighborly  of  me.  But, of course, we thought the Yankees had burned Tara like they did Twelve Oaks and the MacIntosh house and that your folks
had gone to Macon. And we never dreamed you were home, Scarlett."

"Well,  how  were we to know different when Mr. O'Hara's darkies came through here so scared they were popeyed and told us the Yankees were going
to burn Tara?" Grandma interrupted.

"And we could see--" Sally began.

"I'm  telling  this,  please,"  said  Old  Miss shortly. "And they said the Yankees were camped all over Tara and your folks were fixing to go to
Macon.  And  then that night we saw the glare of fire over toward Tara and it lasted for hours and it scared our fool darkies so bad they all ran
off. What burned?"

"All our cotton--a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth," said Scarlett bitterly.

"Be  thankful  it wasn't your house," said Grandma, leaning her chin on her cane. "You can always grow more cotton and you can't grow a house. By
the bye, had you all started picking your cotton?"

"No,"  said  Scarlett,  "and now most of it is ruined. I don't imagine there's more than three bales left standing, in the far field in the creek
bottom, and what earthly good will it do? All our field hands are gone and there's nobody to pick it."

"Mercy  me,  all  our  field hands are gone and there's nobody to pick it!" mimicked Grandma and bent a satiric glance on Scarlett. "What's wrong
with your own pretty paws, Miss, and those of your sisters?"

"Me?  Pick cotton?" cried Scarlett aghast, as if Grandma had been suggesting some repulsive crime. "Like a field hand? Like white trash? Like the
Slattery women?"

"White  trash, indeed! Well, isn't this generation soft and ladylike! Let me tell you, Miss, when I was a girl my father lost all his money and I
wasn't  above doing honest work with my hands and in the fields too, till Pa got enough money to buy some more darkies. I've hoed my row and I've
picked my cotton and I can do it again if I have to. And it looks like I'll have to. White trash, indeed!"

"Oh,  but  Mama  Fontaine,"  cried her daughter-in-law, casting imploring glances at the two girls, urging them to help her smooth the old lady's
feathers. "That was so long ago, a different day entirely, and times have changed."

"Times never change when there's a need for honest work to be done," stated the sharp-eyed old lady, refusing to be soothed. "And I'm ashamed for
your  mother,  Scarlett,  to  hear  you stand there and talk as though honest work made white trash out of nice people. 'When Adam delved and Eve
span'--"

To  change  the  subject,  Scarlett  hastily  questioned: "What about the Tarletons and the Calverts? Were they burned out? Have they refugeed to
Macon?"

"The  Yankees never got to the Tarletons. They're off the main road, like we are, but they did get to the Calverts and they stole all their stock
and poultry and got all the darkies to run off with them--" Sally began.

Grandma interrupted.

"Hah!  They  promised  all  the black wenches silk dresses and gold earbobs--that's what they did. And Cathleen Calvert said some of the troopers
went  off  with  the black fools behind them on their saddles. Well, all they'll get will be yellow babies and I can't say that Yankee blood will
improve the stock."

"Oh, Mama Fontaine!"

"Don't pull such a shocked face, Jane. We're all married, aren't we? And, God knows, we've seen mulatto babies before this."

"Why didn't they burn the Calverts' house?"

"The  house  was  saved  by  the combined accents of the second Mrs. Calvert and that Yankee overseer of hers, Hilton," said Old Miss, who always
referred to the ex-governess as the "second Mrs. Calvert," although the first Mrs. Calvert had been dead twenty years.

"'We are staunch Union sympathizers,'" mimicked the old lady, twanging the words through her long thin nose. "Cathleen said the two of them swore
up  hill and down dale that the whole passel of Calverts were Yankees. And Mr. Calvert dead in the Wilderness! And Raiford at Gettysburg and Cade
in  Virginia with the army! Cathleen was so mortified she said she'd rather the house had been burned. She said Cade would bust when he came home
and  heard about it. But then, that's what a man gets for marrying a Yankee woman--no pride, no decency, always thinking about their own skins. .
. . How come they didn't burn Tara, Scarlett?"

For  a  moment  Scarlett  paused  before  answering.  She knew the very next question would be: "And how are all your folks? And how is your dear
mother?"  She  knew  she  could  not  tell  them  Ellen was dead. She knew that if she spoke those words or even let herself think of them in the
presence of these sympathetic women, she would burst into a storm of tears and cry until she was sick. And she could not let herself cry. She had
not  really cried since she came home and she knew that if she once let down the floodgates, her closely husbanded courage would all be gone. But
she  knew, too, looking with confusion at the friendly faces about her, that if she withheld the news of Ellen's death, the Fontaines would never
forgive  her.  Grandma  in  particular was devoted to Ellen and there were very few people in the County for whom the old lady gave a snap of her
skinny fingers.

"Well, speak up," said Grandma, looking sharply at her. "Don't you know, Miss?"

"Well,  you  see,  I didn't get home till the day after the battle," she answered hastily. "The Yankees were all gone then. Pa--Pa told me that--
that he got them not to burn the house because Suellen and Carreen were so ill with typhoid they couldn't be moved."

"That's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  a  Yankee doing a decent thing," said Grandma, as if she regretted hearing anything good about the
invaders. "And how are the girls now?"

"Oh,  they  are  better,  much  better,  almost well but quite weak," answered Scarlett. Then, seeing the question she feared hovering on the old
lady's lips, she cast hastily about for some other topic of conversation.

"I--I  wonder  if  you could lend us something to eat? The Yankees cleaned us out like a swarm of locusts. But, if you are on short rations, just
tell me so plainly and--"

"Send  over Pork with a wagon and you shall have half of what we've got, rice, meal, ham, some chickens," said Old Miss, giving Scarlett a sudden
keen look.

"Oh, that's too much! Really, I--"

"Not a word! I won't hear it. What are neighbors for?"

"You are so kind that I can't-- But I have to be going now. The folks at home will be worrying about me."

Grandma rose abruptly and took Scarlett by the arm.

"You  two  stay  here,"  she  commanded,  pushing  Scarlett toward the back porch. "I have a private word for this child. Help me down the steps,
Scarlett."

Young  Miss  and  Sally said good-by and promised to come calling soon. They were devoured by curiosity as to what Grandma had to say to Scarlett
but  unless she chose to tell them, they would never know. Old ladies were so difficult, Young Miss whispered to Sally as they went back to their
sewing.

Scarlett stood with her hand on the horse's bridle, a dull feeling at her heart.

"Now," said Grandma, peering into her face, "what's wrong at Tara? What are you keeping back?"

Scarlett  looked up into the keen old eyes and knew she could tell the truth, without tears. No one could cry in the presence of Grandma Fontaine
without her express permission.

"Mother is dead," she said flatly.

The hand on her arm tightened until it pinched and the wrinkled lids over the yellow eyes blinked.

"Did the Yankees kill her?"

"She died of typhoid. Died--the day before I came home."

"Don't think about it," said Grandma sternly and Scarlett saw her swallow. "And your Pa?"

"Pa is--Pa is not himself."

"What do you mean? Speak up. Is he ill?"

"The shock--he is so strange--he is not--"

"Don't tell me he's not himself. Do you mean his mind is unhinged?"

It was a relief to hear the truth put so baldly. How good the old lady was to offer no sympathy that would make her cry.

"Yes,"  she  said  dully, "he's lost his mind. He acts dazed and sometimes he can't seem to remember that Mother is dead. Oh, Old Miss, it's more
than  I  can  stand to see him sit by the hour, waiting for her and so patiently too, and he used to have no more patience than a child. But it's
worse when he does remember that she's gone. Every now and then, after he's sat still with his ear cocked listening for her, he jumps up suddenly
and stumps out of the house and down to the burying ground. And then he comes dragging back with the tears all over his face and he says over and
over  till  I  could  scream: 'Katie Scarlett, Mrs. O'Hara is dead. Your mother is dead,' and it's just like I was hearing it again for the first
time. And sometimes, late at night, I hear him calling her and I get out of bed and go to him and tell him she's down at the quarters with a sick
darky.  And  he  fusses because she's always tiring herself out nursing people. And it's so hard to get him back to bed. He's like a child. Oh, I
wish Dr. Fontaine was here! I know he could do something for Pa! And Melanie needs a doctor too. She isn't getting over her baby like she should-
-"

"Melly--a baby? And she's with you?"

"Yes."

"What's  Melly  doing  with you? Why isn't she in Macon with her aunt and her kinfolks? I never thought you liked her any too well, Miss, for all
she was Charles' sister. Now, tell me all about it."

"It's a long story, Old Miss. Don't you want to go back in the house and sit down?"

"I  can  stand,"  said  Grandma  shortly.  "And  if  you  told your story in front of the others, they'd be bawling and making you feel sorry for
yourself. Now, let's have it."

Scarlett  began  haltingly with the siege and Melanie's condition, but as her story progressed beneath the sharp old eyes which never faltered in
their  gaze, she found words, words of power and horror. It all came back to her, the sickeningly hot day of the baby's birth, the agony of fear,
the  flight  and Rhett's desertion. She spoke of the wild darkness of the night, the blazing camp fires which might be friends or foes, the gaunt
chimneys  which  met her gaze in the morning sun, the dead men and horses along the road, the hunger, the desolation, the fear that Tara had been
burned.

"I  thought  if  I  could just get home to Mother, she could manage everything and I could lay down the weary load. On the way home I thought the
worst had already happened to me, but when I knew she was dead I knew what the worst really was."

She  dropped  her  eyes  to the ground and waited for Grandma to speak. The silence was so prolonged she wondered if Grandma could have failed to
comprehend  her  desperate plight. Finally the old voice spoke and her tones were kind, kinder than Scarlett had ever heard her use in addressing
anyone.

"Child,  it's  a  very  bad thing for a woman to face the worst that can happen to her, because after she's faced the worst she can't ever really
fear  anything  again. And it's very bad for a woman not to be afraid of something. You think I don't understand what you've told me--what you've
been  through? Well, I understand very well. When I was about your age I was in the Creek uprising, right after the Fort Mims massacre--yes," she
said  in  a  far-away voice, "just about your age for that was fifty-odd years ago. And I managed to get into the bushes and hide and I lay there
and  saw  our  house  burn  and I saw the Indians scalp my brothers and sisters. And I could only lie there and pray that the light of the flames
wouldn't  show  up my hiding place. And they dragged Mother out and killed her about twenty feet from where I was lying. And scalped her too. And
ever  so  often  one Indian would go back to her and sink his tommyhawk into her skull again. I--I was my mother's pet and I lay there and saw it
all. And in the morning I set out for the nearest settlement and it was thirty miles away. It took me three days to get there, through the swamps
and  the  Indians, and afterward they thought I'd lose my mind. . . . That's where I met Dr. Fontaine. He looked after me. . . . Ah, well, that's
been  fifty years ago, as I said, and since that time I've never been afraid of anything or anybody because I'd known the worst that could happen
to  me.  And  that  lack  of  fear  has gotten me into a lot of trouble and cost me a lot of happiness. God intended women to be timid frightened
creatures  and  there's  something  unnatural  about  a  woman  who isn't afraid. . . . Scarlett, always save something to fear--even as you save
something to love. . . ."

Her  voice  trailed  off  and  she  stood  silent  with eyes looking back over half a century to the day when she had been afraid. Scarlett moved
impatiently.  She  had thought Grandma was going to understand and perhaps show her some way to solve her problems. But like all old people she'd
gotten  to  talking  about  things that happened before anyone was born, things no one was interested in. Scarlett wished she had not confided in
her.

"Well,  go home, child, or they'll be worrying about you," she said suddenly. "Send Pork with the wagon this afternoon. . . . And don't think you
can lay down the load, ever. Because you can't. I know."



Indian summer lingered into November that year and the warm days were bright days for those at Tara. The worst was over. They had a horse now and
they  could  ride instead of walk. They had fried eggs for breakfast and fried ham for supper to vary the monotony of the yams, peanuts and dried
apples,  and  on  one festal occasion they even had roast chicken. The old sow had finally been captured and she and her brood rooted and grunted
happily  under the house where they were penned. Sometimes they squealed so loudly no one in the house could talk but it was a pleasant sound. It
meant fresh pork for the white folks and chitterlings for the negroes when cold weather and hog-killing time should arrive, and it meant food for
the winter for all.

Scarlett's  visit  to  the Fontaines had heartened her more than she realized. Just the knowledge that she had neighbors, that some of the family
friends  and  old  homes  had survived, drove out the terrible loss and alone feeling which had oppressed her in her first weeks at Tara. And the
Fontaines  and  Tarletons, whose plantations had not been in the path of the army, were most generous in sharing what little they had. It was the
tradition  of  the  County that neighbor helped neighbor and they refused to accept a penny from Scarlett, telling her that she would do the same
for them and she could pay them back, in kind, next year when Tara was again producing.

Scarlett  now  had  food for her household, she had a horse, she had the money and jewelry taken from the Yankee straggler, and the greatest need
was  new  clothing.  She knew it would be risky business sending Pork south to buy clothes, when the horse might be captured by either Yankees or
Confederates.  But,  at  least,  she had the money with which to buy the clothes, a horse and wagon for the trip, and perhaps Pork could make the
trip without getting caught. Yes, the worst was over.

Every  morning  when  Scarlett  arose she thanked God for the pale-blue sky and the warm sun, for each day of good weather put off the inevitable
time when warm clothing would be needed. And each warm day saw more and more cotton piling up in the empty slave quarters, the only storage place
left  on  the  plantation.  There was more cotton in the fields than she or Pork had estimated, probably four bales, and soon the cabins would be
full.

Scarlett  had  not  intended  to do any cotton picking herself, even after Grandma Fontaine's tart remark. It was unthinkable that she, an O'Hara
lady,  now  the mistress of Tara, should work in the fields. It put her on the same level with the snarly haired Mrs. Slattery and Emmie. She had
intended  that the negroes should do the field work, while she and the convalescent girls attended to the house, but here she was confronted with
a  caste  feeling  even  stronger than her own. Pork, Mammy and Prissy set up outcries at the idea of working in the fields. They reiterated that
they were house niggers, not field hands. Mammy, in particular, declared vehemently that she had never even been a yard nigger. She had been born
in  the Robillard great house, not in the quarters, and had been raised in Ole Miss' bedroom, sleeping on a pallet at the foot of the bed. Dilcey
alone said nothing and she fixed her Prissy with an unwinking eye that made her squirm.

Scarlett  refused  to  listen  to  the  protests  and  drove  them all into the cotton rows. But Mammy and Pork worked so slowly and with so many
lamentations  that  Scarlett  sent  Mammy back to the kitchen to cook and Pork to the woods and the river with snares for rabbits and possums and
lines for fish. Cotton picking was beneath Pork's dignity but hunting and fishing were not.

Scarlett  next  had  tried her sisters and Melanie in the fields, but that had worked no better. Melanie had picked neatly, quickly and willingly
for  an  hour in the hot sun and then fainted quietly and had to stay in bed for a week. Suellen, sullen and tearful, pretended to faint too, but
came back to consciousness spitting like an angry cat when Scarlett poured a gourdful of water in her face. Finally she refused point-blank.

"I  won't work in the fields like a darky! You can't make me. What if any of our friends ever heard of it? What if--if Mr. Kennedy ever knew? Oh,
if Mother knew about this--"

"You  just mention Mother's name once more, Suellen O'Hara, and I'll slap you flat," cried Scarlett. "Mother worked harder than any darky on this
place and you know it, Miss Fine Airs!"

"She did not! At least, not in the fields. And you can't make me. I'll tell Papa on you and he won't make me work!"

"Don't you dare go bothering Pa with any of our troubles!" cried Scarlett, distracted between indignation at her sister and fear for Gerald.

"I'll help you, Sissy," interposed Carreen docilely. "I'll work for Sue and me too. She isn't well yet and she shouldn't be out in the sun."

Scarlett said gratefully: "Thank you, Sugarbaby," but looked worriedly at her younger sister. Carreen, who had always been as delicately pink and
white  as  the  orchard  blossoms  that  are  scattered  by the spring wind, was no longer pink but still conveyed in her sweet thoughtful face a
blossomlike  quality.  She  had  been silent, a little dazed since she came back to consciousness and found Ellen gone, Scarlett a termagant, the
world changed and unceasing labor the order of the new day. It was not in Carreen's delicate nature to adjust herself to change. She simply could
not  comprehend what had happened and she went about Tara like a sleepwalker, doing exactly what she was told. She looked, and was, frail but she
was  willing,  obedient and obliging. When she was not doing Scarlett's bidding, her rosary beads were always in her hands and her lips moving in
prayers  for her mother and for Brent Tarleton. It did not occur to Scarlett that Carreen had taken Brent's death so seriously and that her grief
was unhealed. To Scarlet, Carreen was still "baby sister," far too young to have had a really serious love affair.

Scarlett, standing in the sun in the cotton rows, her back breaking from the eternal bending and her hands roughened by the dry bolls, wished she
had a sister who combined Suellen's energy and strength with Carreen's sweet disposition. For Carreen picked diligently and earnestly. But, after
she  had  labored  for  an hour it was obvious that she, and not Suellen, was the one not yet well enough for such work. So Scarlett sent Carreen
back to the house too.

There  remained with her now in the long rows only Dilcey and Prissy. Prissy picked lazily, spasmodically, complaining of her feet, her back, her
internal  miseries, her complete weariness, until her mother took a cotton stalk to her and whipped her until she screamed. After that she worked
a little better, taking care to stay far from her mother's reach.

Dilcey worked tirelessly, silently, like a machine, and Scarlett, with her back aching and her shoulder raw from the tugging weight of the cotton
bag she carried, thought that Dilcey was worth her weight in gold.

"Dilcey," she said, "when good times come back, I'm not going to forget how you've acted. You've been mighty good."

The  bronze  giantess did not grin pleasedly or squirm under praise like the other negroes. She turned an immobile face to Scarlett and said with
dignity:  "Thankee, Ma'm. But Mist' Gerald and Miss Ellen been good to me. Mist' Gerald buy my Prissy so I wouldn' grieve and I doan forgit it. I
is part Indian and Indians doan forgit them as is good to them. I sorry 'bout my Prissy. She mighty wuthless. Look lak she all nigger lak her pa.
Her pa was mighty flighty."

In  spite  of  Scarlett's  problem  of  getting help from the others in the picking and in spite of the weariness of doing the labor herself, her
spirits  lifted as the cotton slowly made its way from the fields to the cabins. There was something about cotton that was reassuring, steadying.
Tara had risen to riches on cotton, even as the whole South had risen, and Scarlett was Southerner enough to believe that both Tara and the South
would rise again out of the red fields.

Of  course,  this  little cotton she had gathered was not much but it was something. It would bring a little in Confederate money and that little
would  help  her to save the hoarded greenbacks and gold in the Yankee's wallet until they had to be spent. Next spring she would try to make the
Confederate  government send back Big Sam and the other field hands they had commandeered, and if the government wouldn't release them, she'd use
the  Yankee's  money  to  hire field hands from the neighbors. Next spring, she would plant and plant. . . . She straightened her tired back and,
looking over the browning autumn fields, she saw next year's crop standing sturdy and green, acre upon acre.

Next  spring!  Perhaps by next spring the war would be over and good times would be back. And whether the Confederacy won or lost, times would be
better.  Anything was better than the constant danger of raids from both armies. When the war was over, a plantation could earn an honest living.
Oh, if the war were only over! Then people could plant crops with some certainty of reaping them!

There  was  hope  now.  The  war couldn't last forever. She had her little cotton, she had food, she had a horse, she had her small but treasured
hoard of money. Yes, the worst was over!



CHAPTER XXVII


On  a  noonday in mid-November, they all sat grouped about the dinner table, eating the last of the dessert concocted by Mammy from corn meal and
dried  huckleberries,  sweetened  with  sorghum.  There was a chill in the air, the first chill of the year, and Pork, standing behind Scarlett's
chair, rubbed his hands together in glee and questioned: "Ain' it 'bout time fer de hawg killin', Miss Scarlett?"

"You can taste those chitlins already, can't you?" said Scarlett with a grin. "Well, I can taste fresh pork myself and if the weather holds for a
few days more, we'll--"

Melanie interrupted, her spoon at her lips,

"Listen, dear! Somebody's coming!"

"Somebody hollerin'," said Pork uneasily.

On  the  crisp  autumn  air came clear the sound of horse's hooves, thudding as swiftly as a frightened heart, and a woman's voice, high pitched,
screaming: "Scarlett! Scarlett!"

Eye  met  eye for a dreadful second around the table before chairs were pushed back and everyone leaped up. Despite the fear that made it shrill,
they  recognized the voice of Sally Fontaine who, only an hour before, had stopped at Tara for a brief chat on her way to Jonesboro. Now, as they
all  rushed pell-mell to crowd the front door, they saw her coming up the drive like the wind on a lathered horse, her hair streaming behind her,
her  bonnet  dangling  by  its ribbons. She did not draw rein but as she galloped madly toward them, she waved her arm back in the direction from
which she had come.

"The Yankees are coming! I saw them! Down the road! The Yankees--"

She  sawed  savagely  at  the horse's mouth just in time to swerve him from leaping up the front steps. He swung around sharply, covered the side
lawn  in  three leaps and she put him across the four-foot hedge as if she were on the hunting field. They heard the heavy pounding of his hooves
as  he  went  through  the  back  yard  and down the narrow lane between the cabins of the quarters and knew she was cutting across the fields to
Mimosa.

For a moment they stood paralyzed and then Suellen and Carreen began to sob and clutch each other's fingers. Little Wade stood rooted, trembling,
unable to cry. What he had feared since the night he left Atlanta had happened. The Yankees were coming to get him.

"Yankees?" said Gerald vaguely. "But the Yankees have already been here."

"Mother  of God!" cried Scarlett, her eyes meeting Melanie's frightened eyes. For a swift instant there went through her memory again the horrors
of  her  last  night  in Atlanta, the ruined homes that dotted the countryside, all the stories of rape and torture and murder. She saw again the
Yankee  soldier  standing  in  the hall with Ellen's sewing box in his hand. She thought: "I shall die. I shall die right here. I thought we were
through with all that. I shall die. I can't stand any more."

Then  her  eyes  fell  on  the horse saddled and hitched and waiting for Pork to ride him to the Tarleton place on an errand. Her horse! Her only
horse! The Yankees would take him and the cow and the calf. And the sow and her litter-- Oh, how many tiring hours it had taken to catch that sow
and  her  agile young! And they'd take the rooster and the setting hens and the ducks the Fontaines had given her. And the apples and the yams in
the  pantry  bins.  And the flour and rice and dried peas. And the money in the Yankee soldier's wallet. They'd take everything and leave them to
starve.

"They  shan't  have them!" she cried aloud and they all turned startled faces to her, fearful her mind had cracked under the tidings. "I won't go
hungry! They shan't have them!"

"What is it, Scarlett? What is it?"

"The horse! The cow! The pigs! They shan't have them! I won't let them have them!"

She turned swiftly to the four negroes who huddled in the doorway, their black faces a peculiarly ashen shade.

"The swamp," she said rapidly.

"Whut swamp?"

"The  river  swamp,  you fools! Take the pigs to the swamp. All of you. Quickly. Pork, you and Prissy crawl under the house and get the pigs out.
Suellen,  you  and Carreen fill the baskets with as much food as you can carry and get to the woods. Mammy, put the silver in the well again. And
Pork! Pork, listen to me, don't stand there like that! Take Pa with you. Don't ask me where! Anywhere! Go with Pork, Pa. That's a sweet pa."

Even in her frenzy she thought what the sight of bluecoats might do to Gerald's wavering mind. She stopped and wrung her hands and the frightened
sobbing of little Wade who was clutching Melanie's skirt added to her panic.

"What  shall  I  do,  Scarlett?"  Melanie's voice was calm amid the wailing and tears and scurrying feet. Though her face was paper white and her
whole body trembled, the very quietness of her voice steadied Scarlett, revealing to her that they all looked to her for commands, for guidance.

"The cow and the calf," she said quickly. "They're in the old pasture. Take the horse and drive them into the swamp and--"

Before she could finish her sentence, Melanie shook off Wade's clutches and was down the front steps and running toward the horse, pulling up her
wide  skirts as she ran. Scarlett caught a flashing glimpse of thin legs, a flurry of skirts and underclothing and Melanie was in the saddle, her
feet dangling far above the stirrups. She gathered up the reins and clapped her heels against the animal's sides and then abruptly pulled him in,
her face twisting with horror.

"My baby!" she cried. "Oh, my baby! The Yankees will kill him! Give him to me!"

Her hand was on the pommel and she was preparing to slide off but Scarlett screamed at her.

"Go on! Go on! Get the cow! I'll look after the baby! Go on, I tell you! Do you think I'd let them get Ashley's baby? Go on!"

Melly  looked  despairingly  backward  but  hammered her heels into the horse and, with a scattering of gravel, was off down the drive toward the
pasture.

Scarlett  thought:  "I never expected to see Melly Hamilton straddling a horse!" and then she ran into the house. Wade was at her heels, sobbing,
trying  to catch her flying skirts. As she went up the steps, three at a bound, she saw Suellen and Carreen with split-oak baskets on their arms,
running  toward the pantry, and Pork tugging none too gently at Gerald's arm, dragging him toward the back porch. Gerald was mumbling querulously
and pulling away like a child.

From  the back yard she heard Mammy's strident voice: "You, Priss! You git unner dat house an' han' me dem shoats! You knows mighty well Ah's too
big ter crawl thoo dem lattices. Dilcey, comyere an' mek dis wuthless chile--"

"And  I  thought  it was such a good idea to keep the pigs under the house, so nobody could steal them," thought Scarlett, running into her room.
"Why, oh, why didn't I build a pen for them down in the swamp?"

She  tore  open  her  top  bureau drawer and scratched about in the clothing until the Yankee's wallet was in her hand. Hastily she picked up the
solitaire ring and the diamond earbobs from where she had hidden them in her sewing basket and shoved them into the wallet. But where to hide it?
In  the  mattress?  Up the chimney? Throw it in the well? Put it in her bosom? No, never there! The outlines of the wallet might show through her
basque and if the Yankees saw it they would strip her naked and search her.

"I shall die if they do!" she thought wildly.

Downstairs  there  was  a pandemonium of racing feet and sobbing voices. Even in her frenzy, Scarlett wished she had Melanie with her, Melly with
her  quiet  voice,  Melly who was so brave the day she shot the Yankee. Melly was worth three of the others. Melly--what had Melly said? Oh, yes,
the baby!

Clutching  the wallet to her, Scarlett ran across the hall to the room where little Beau was sleeping in the low cradle. She snatched him up into
her arms and he awoke, waving small fists and slobbering sleepily.

She  heard  Suellen  crying: "Come on, Carreen! Come on! We've got enough. Oh, Sister, hurry!" There were wild squealings, indignant gruntings in
the  back  yard  and,  running to the widow, Scarlett saw Mammy waddling hurriedly across the cotton field with a struggling young pig under each
arm. Behind her was Pork also carrying two pigs and pushing Gerald before him. Gerald was stumping across the furrows, waving his cane.

Leaning out of the window Scarlett yelled: "Get the sow, Dilcey! Make Prissy drive her out. You can chase her across the fields!"

Dilcey looked up, her bronzed face harassed. In her apron was a pile of silver tableware. She pointed under the house.

"The sow done bit Prissy and got her penned up unner the house."

"Good  for  the  sow,"  thought  Scarlett.  She  hurried  back  into her room and hastily gathered from their hiding place the bracelets, brooch,
miniature  and  cup  she had found on the dead Yankee. But where to hide them? It was awkward, carrying little Beau in one arm and the wallet and
the trinkets in the other. She started to lay him on the bed.

He set up a wail at leaving her arms and a welcome thought came to her. What better hiding place could there be than a baby's diaper? She quickly
turned  him  over,  pulled  up  his  dress and thrust the wallet down the diaper next to his backside. He yelled louder at this treatment and she
hastily tightened the triangular garment about his threshing legs.

"Now," she thought, drawing a deep breath, "now for the swamp!"

Tucking  him  screaming under one arm and clutching the jewelry to her with the other, she raced into the upstairs hall. Suddenly her rapid steps
paused,  fright weakening her knees. How silent the house was! How dreadfully still! Had they all gone off and left her? Hadn't anyone waited for
her? She hadn't meant for them to leave her here alone. These days anything could happen to a lone woman and with the Yankees coming--

She  jumped  as  a  slight noise sounded and, turning quickly, saw crouched by the banisters her forgotten son, his eyes enormous with terror. He
tried to speak but his throat only worked silently.

"Get up, Wade Hampton," she commanded swiftly. "Get up and walk. Mother can't carry you now."

He  ran  to  her,  like  a  small  frightened animal, and clutching her wide skirt, buried his face in it. She could feel his small hands groping
through  the  folds for her legs. She started down the stairs, each step hampered by Wade's dragging hands and she said fiercely: "Turn me loose,
Wade! Turn me loose and walk!" But the child only clung the closer.

As she reached the landing, the whole lower floor leaped up at her. All the homely, well-loved articles of furniture seemed to whisper: "Good-by!
Good-by!" A sob rose in her throat. There was the open door of the office where Ellen had labored so diligently and she could glimpse a corner of
the  old  secretary.  There was the dining room, with chairs pushed awry and food still on the plates. There on the floor were the rag rugs Ellen
had  dyed  and  woven  herself.  And there was the old portrait of Grandma Robillard, with bosoms half bared, hair piled high and nostrils cut so
deeply  as  to  give  her face a perpetual well-bred sneer. Everything which had been part of her earliest memories, everything bound up with the
deepest roots in her: "Good-by! Good-by, Scarlett O'Hara!"

The Yankees would burn it all--all!

This  was  her  last view of home, her last view except what she might see from the cover of the woods or the swamp, the tall chimneys wrapped in
smoke, the roof crashing in flame.

"I  can't  leave you," she thought and her teeth chattered with fear. "I can't leave you. Pa wouldn't leave you. He told them they'd have to burn
you over his head. Then, they'll burn you over my head for I can't leave you either. You're all I've got left."

With  the  decision, some of her fear fell away and there remained only a congealed feeling in her breast, as if all hope and fear had frozen. As
she stood there, she heard from the avenue the sound of many horses' feet, the jingle of bridle bits and sabers rattling in scabbards and a harsh
voice crying a command: "Dismount!" Swiftly she bent to the child beside her and her voice was urgent but oddly gentle.

"Turn  me  loose,  Wade, honey! You run down the stairs quick and through the back yard toward the swamp. Mammy will be there and Aunt Melly. Run
quickly, darling, and don't be afraid."

At the change in her tone, the boy looked up and Scarlett was appalled at the look in his eyes, like a baby rabbit in a trap.

"Oh,  Mother  of  God!"  she prayed. "Don't let him have a convulsion! Not--not before the Yankees. They mustn't know we are afraid." And, as the
child only gripped her skirt the tighter, she said clearly: "Be a little man, Wade. They're only a passel of damn Yankees!"

And she went down the steps to meet them.



Sherman was marching through Georgia, from Atlanta to the sea. Behind him lay the smoking ruins of Atlanta to which the torch had been set as the
blue army tramped out. Before him lay three hundred miles of territory virtually undefended save by a few state militia and the old men and young
boys of the Home Guard.

Here  lay  the  fertile  state, dotted with plantations, sheltering the women and children, the very old and the negroes. In a swath eighty miles
wide  the  Yankees  were  looting and burning. There were hundreds of homes in flames, hundreds of homes resounding with their footsteps. But, to
Scarlett,  watching  the  bluecoats pour into the front hall, it was not a countrywide affair. It was entirely personal, a malicious action aimed
directly at her and hers.

She stood at the foot of the stairs, the baby in her arms, Wade pressed tightly against her, his head hidden in her skirts as the Yankees swarmed
through  the  house, pushing roughly past her up the stairs, dragging furniture onto the front porch, running bayonets and knives into upholstery
and  digging inside for concealed valuables. Upstairs they were ripping open mattresses and feather beds until the air in the hall was thick with
feathers  that  floated  softly  down  on her head. Impotent rage quelled what little fear was left in her heart as she stood helpless while they
plundered and stole and ruined.

The  sergeant in charge was a bow-legged, grizzled little man with a large wad of tobacco in his cheek. He reached Scarlett before any of his men
and, spitting freely on the floor and her skirts, said briefly:

"Lemme have what you got in yore hand, lady."

She had forgotten the trinkets she had intended to hide and, with a sneer which she hoped was as eloquent as that pictured on Grandma Robillard's
face, she flung the articles to the floor and almost enjoyed the rapacious scramble that ensued.

"I'll trouble you for thet ring and them earbobs."

Scarlett  tucked the baby more securely under her arm so that he hung face downward, crimson and screaming, and removed the garnet earrings which
had been Gerald's wedding present to Ellen. Then she stripped off the large sapphire solitaire which Charles had given her as an engagement ring.

"Don't  throw  um. Hand um to me," said the sergeant, putting out his hands. "Them bastards got enough already. What else have you got?" His eyes
went over her basque sharply.

For a moment Scarlett went faint, already feeling rough hands thrusting themselves into her bosom, fumbling at her garters.

"That is all, but I suppose it is customary to strip your victims?"

"Oh, I'll take your word," said the sergeant good-naturedly, spitting again as he turned away. Scarlett righted the baby and tried to soothe him,
holding her hand over the place on the diaper where the wallet was hidden, thanking God that Melanie had a baby and that baby had a diaper.

Upstairs  she  could  hear heavy boots trampling, the protesting screech of furniture pulled across the floor, the crashing of china and mirrors,
the curses when nothing of value appeared. From the yard came loud cries: "Head um off! Don't let um get away!" and the despairing squawks of the
hens  and quacking and honking of the ducks and geese. A pang went through her as she heard an agonized squealing which was suddenly stilled by a
pistol  shot  and she knew that the sow was dead. Damn Prissy! She had run off and left her. If only the shoats were safe! If only the family had
gotten safely to the swamp! But there was no way of knowing.

She  stood  quietly  in the hall while the soldiers boiled about her, shouting and cursing. Wade's fingers were in her skirt in a terrified grip.
She  could  feel  his  body  shaking  as he pressed against her but she could not bring herself to speak reassuringly to him. She could not bring
herself to utter any word to the Yankees, either of pleading, protest or anger. She could only thank God that her knees still had the strength to
support  her,  that  her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. But when a squad of bearded men came lumbering down the steps, laden
with an assortment of stolen articles and she saw Charles' sword in the hands of one, she did cry out.

That  sword  was  Wade's.  It had been his father's and his grandfather's sword and Scarlett had given it to the little boy on his last birthday.
They  had made quite a ceremony of it and Melanie had cried, cried with tears of pride and sorrowful memory, and kissed him and said he must grow
up to be a brave soldier like his father and his grandfather. Wade was very proud of it and often climbed upon the table beneath where it hung to
pat  it. Scarlett could endure seeing her own possessions going out of the house in hateful alien hands but not this--not her little boy's pride.
Wade,  peering  from  the  protection of her skirts at the sound of her cry, found speech and courage in a mighty sob. Stretching out one hand he
cried:

"Mine!"

"You can't take that!" said Scarlett swiftly, holding out her hand too.

"I can't, hey?" said the little soldier who held it, grinning impudently at her. "Well, I can! It's a Rebel sword!"

"It's--it's not. It's a Mexican War sword. You can't take it. It's my little boy's. It was his grandfather's! Oh, Captain," she cried, turning to
the sergeant, "please make him give it to me!"

The sergeant, pleased at his promotion, stepped forward.

"Lemme see thet sword, Bub," he said.

Reluctantly, the little trooper handed it to him. "It's got a solid-gold hilt," he said.

The sergeant turned it in his hand, held the hilt up to the sunlight to read the engraved inscription.

"'To Colonel William R. Hamilton,'" he deciphered. "'From His Staff. For Gallantry. Buena Vista. 1847.'"

"Ho, lady," he said, "I was at Buena Vista myself."

"Indeed," said Scarlett icily.

"Was  I?  Thet was hot fightin', lemme tell you. I ain't seen such hot fightin' in this war as we seen in thet one. So this sword was this little
tyke's grandaddy's?"

"Yes."

"Well, he can have it," said the sergeant, who was satisfied enough with the jewelry and trinkets tied up in his handkerchief.

"But it's got a solid-gold hilt," insisted the little trooper.

"We'll leave her thet to remember us by," grinned the sergeant.

Scarlett  took  the  sword,  not  even saying "Thank you." Why should she thank these thieves for returning her own property to her? She held the
sword against her while the little cavalryman argued and wrangled with the sergeant.

"By  God,  I'll  give these damn Rebels something to remember me by," shouted the private finally when the sergeant, losing his good nature, told
him  to  go to hell and not talk back. The little man went charging toward the back of the house and Scarlett breathed more easily. They had said
nothing  about burning the house. They hadn't told her to leave so they could fire it. Perhaps--perhaps--The men came rambling into the hall from
the upstairs and the out of doors.

"Anything?" questioned the sergeant.

"One hog and a few chickens and ducks."

"Some corn and a few yams and beans. That wildcat we saw on the horse must have given the alarm, all right."

"Regular Paul Revere, eh?"

"Well, there ain't much here, Sarge. You got the pickin's. Let's move on before the whole country gets the news we're comin'."

"Didja dig under the smokehouse? They generally buries things there."

"Ain't no smokehouse."

"Didja dig in the nigger cabins?"

"Nothin' but cotton in the cabins. We set fire to it."

For  a  brief  instant Scarlett saw the long hot days in the cotton field, felt again the terrible ache in her back, the raw bruised flesh of her
shoulders. All for nothing. The cotton was gone.

"You ain't got much, for a fac', have you, lady?"

"Your army has been here before," she said coolly.

"That's a fac'. We were in this neighborhood in September," said one of the men, turning something in his hand. "I'd forgot."

Scarlett  saw  it  was  Ellen's  gold  thimble that he held. How often she had seen it gleaming in and out of Ellen's fancy work. The sight of it
brought  back  too  many hurting memories of the slender hand which had worn it. There it lay in this stranger's calloused dirty palm and soon it
would find its way North and onto the finger of some Yankee woman who would be proud to wear stolen things. Ellen's thimble!

Scarlett dropped her head so the enemy could not see her cry and the tears fell slowly down on the baby's head. Through the blur, she saw the men
moving  toward  the  doorway,  heard the sergeant calling commands in a loud rough voice. They were going and Tara was safe, but with the pain of
Ellen's memory on her, she was hardly glad. The sound of the banging sabers and horses' hooves brought little relief and she stood, suddenly weak
and nerveless, as they moved off down the avenue, every man laden with stolen goods, clothing, blankets, pictures, hens and ducks, the sow.

Then  to  her  nostrils  was  borne the smell of smoke and she turned, too weak with lessening strain, to care about the cotton. Through the open
windows  of  the  dining room, she saw smoke drifting lazily out of the negro cabins. There went the cotton. There went the tax money and part of
the  money  which was to see them through this bitter winter. There was nothing she could do about it either, except watch. She had seen fires in
cotton  before  and  she knew how difficult they were to put out, even with many men laboring at it. Thank God, the quarters were so far from the
house! Thank God, there was no wind today to carry sparks to the roof of Tara!

Suddenly  she  swung about, rigid as a pointer, and stared with horror-struck eyes down the hall, down the covered passageway toward the kitchen.
There was smoke coming from the kitchen!

Somewhere between the hall and the kitchen, she laid the baby down. Somewhere she flung off Wade's grip, slinging him against the wall. She burst
into  the  smoke-filled kitchen and reeled back, coughing, her eyes streaming tears from the smoke. Again she plunged in, her skirt held over her
nose.

The  room  was  dark, lit as it was by one small window, and so thick with smoke that she was blinded, but she could hear the hiss and crackle of
flames.  Dashing  a  hand  across her eyes, she peered squinting and saw thin lines of flame creeping across the kitchen floor, toward the walls.
Someone  had  scattered  the blazing logs in the open fireplace across the whole room and the tinder-dry pine floor was sucking in the flames and
spewing them up like water.

Back she rushed to the dining room and snatched a rag rug from the floor, spilling two chairs with a crash.

"I'll  never beat it out--never, never! Oh, God, if only there was someone to help! Tara is gone--gone! Oh, God! This was what that little wretch
meant when he said he'd give me something to remember him by! Oh, if I'd only let him have the sword!"

In the hallway she passed her son lying in the corner with his sword. His eyes were closed and his face had a look of slack, unearthly peace.

"My  God!  He's  dead!  They've  frightened him to death!" she thought in agony but she raced by him to the bucket of drinking water which always
stood in the passageway by the kitchen door.

She  soused  the  end of the rug into the bucket and drawing a deep breath plunged again into the smoke-filled room slamming the door behind her.
For  an  eternity  she reeled and coughed, beating the rug against the lines of fire that shot swiftly beyond her. Twice her long skirt took fire
and  she slapped it out with her hands. She could smell the sickening smell of her hair scorching, as it came loose from its pins and swept about
her  shoulders.  The  flames  raced ever beyond her, toward the walls of the covered runway, fiery snakes that writhed and leaped and, exhaustion
sweeping her, she knew that it was hopeless.

Then  the  door swung open and the sucking draft flung the flames higher. It closed with a bang and, in the swirling smoke, Scarlett, half blind,
saw Melanie, stamping her feet on the flames, beating at them with something dark and heavy. She saw her staggering, heard her coughing, caught a
lightning-flash  glimpse of her set white face and eyes narrow to slits against the smoke, saw her small body curving back and forth as she swung
her  rug  up  and down. For another eternity they fought and swayed, side by side, and Scarlett could see that the lines of fire were shortening.
Then  suddenly  Melanie  turned toward her and, with a cry, hit her across the shoulders with all her might. Scarlett went down in a whirlwind of
smoke and darkness.

When  she opened her eyes she was lying on the back porch, her head pillowed comfortably on Melanie's lap, and the afternoon sunlight was shining
on  her  face.  Her hands, face and shoulders smarted intolerably from burns. Smoke was still rolling from the quarters, enveloping the cabins in
thick  clouds,  and  the smell of burning cotton was strong. Scarlett saw wisps of smoke drifting from the kitchen and she stirred frantically to
rise.

But she was pushed back as Melanie's calm voice said: "Lie still, dear. The fire's out."

She  lay  quiet  for  a  moment,  eyes closed, sighing with relief, and heard the slobbery gurgle of the baby near by and the reassuring sound of
Wade's  hiccoughing.  So  he wasn't dead, thank God! She opened her eyes and looked up into Melanie's face. Her curls were singed, her face black
with smut but her eyes were sparkling with excitement and she was smiling.

"You look like a nigger," murmured Scarlett, burrowing her head wearily into its soft pillow.

"And you look like the end man in a minstrel show," replied Melanie equably.

"Why did you have to hit me?"

"Because,  my darling, your back was on fire. I didn't dream you'd faint, though the Lord knows you've had enough today to kill you. . . . I came
back as soon as I got the stock safe in the woods. I nearly died, thinking about you and the baby alone. Did--the Yankees harm you?"

"If  you  mean  did  they rape me, no," said Scarlett, groaning as she tried to sit up. Though Melanie's lap was soft, the porch on which she was
lying was far from comfortable. "But they've stolen everything, everything. We've lost everything-- Well, what is there to look so happy about?"

"We haven't lost each other and our babies are all right and we have a roof over our heads," said Melanie and there was a lilt in her voice. "And
that's  all  anyone  can hope for now. . . . Goodness but Beau is wet! I suppose the Yankees even stole his extra diapers. He-- Scarlett, what on
earth is in his diaper?"

She  thrust  a suddenly frightened hand down the baby's back and brought up the wallet. For a moment she looked at it as if she had never seen it
before and then she began to laugh, peal on peal of mirth that had in it no hint of hysteria.

"Nobody  but  you  would  ever have thought of it," she cried and flinging her arms around Scarlett's neck she kissed her. "You are the beatenest
sister I ever had!"

Scarlett  permitted the embrace because she was too tired to struggle, because the words of praise brought balm to her spirit and because, in the
dark smoke-filled kitchen, there had been born a greater respect for her sister-in-law, a closer feeling of comradeship.

"I'll say this for her," she thought grudgingly, "she's always there when you need her."



CHAPTER XXVIII


Cold weather set in abruptly with a killing frost. Chilling winds swept beneath the doorsills and rattled the loose windowpanes with a monotonous
tinkling  sound.  The last of the leaves fell from the bare trees and only the pines stood clothed, black and cold against pale skies. The rutted
red roads were frozen to flintiness and hunger rode the winds through Georgia.

Scarlett  recalled bitterly her conversation with Grandma Fontaine. On that afternoon two months ago, which now seemed years in the past, she had
told  the  old lady she had already known the worst which could possibly happen to her, and she had spoken from the bottom of her heart. Now that
remark sounded like schoolgirl hyperbole. Before Sherman's men came through Tara the second time, she had her small riches of food and money, she
had  neighbors more fortunate than she and she had the cotton which would tide her over until spring. Now the cotton was gone, the food was gone,
the  money was of no use to her, for there was no food to buy with it, and the neighbors were in worse plight than she. At least, she had the cow
and  the  calf,  a few shoats and the horse, and the neighbors had nothing but the little they had been able to hide in the woods and bury in the
ground.

Fairhill,  the  Tarleton  home,  was  burned  to the foundations, and Mrs. Tarleton and the four girls were existing in the overseer's house. The
Munroe  house  near  Lovejoy  was leveled too. The wooden wing of Mimosa had burned and only the thick resistant stucco of the main house and the
frenzied work of the Fontaine women and their slaves with wet blankets and quilts had saved it. The Calverts' house had again been spared, due to
the intercession of Hilton, the Yankee overseer, but there was not a head of livestock, not a fowl, not an ear of corn left on the place.

At  Tara  and  throughout  the County, the problem was food. Most of the families had nothing at all but the remains of their yam crops and their
peanuts  and  such  game  as  they  could  catch  in  the woods. What they had, each shared with less fortunate friends, as they had done in more
prosperous days. But the time soon came when there was nothing to share.

At  Tara, they ate rabbit and possum and catfish, if Pork was lucky. On other days a small amount of milk, hickory nuts, roasted acorns and yams.
They  were  always hungry. To Scarlett it seemed that at every turn she met outstretched hands, pleading eyes. The sight of them drove her almost
to madness, for she was as hungry as they.

She  ordered the calf killed, because he drank so much of the precious milk, and that night everyone ate so much fresh veal all of them were ill.
She  knew  that she should kill one of the shoats but she put it off from day to day, hoping to raise them to maturity. They were so small. There
would  be  so  little  of  them  to eat if they were killed now and so much more if they could be saved a little longer. Nightly she debated with
Melanie  the  advisability  of  sending  Pork  abroad  on the horse with some greenbacks to try to buy food. But the fear that the horse might be
captured  and  the  money  taken  from  Pork deterred them. They did not know where the Yankees were. They might be a thousand miles away or only
across  the  river.  Once,  Scarlett,  in  desperation, started to ride out herself to search for food, but the hysterical outbursts of the whole
family fearful of the Yankees made her abandon the plan.

Pork foraged far, at times not coming home all night, and Scarlett did not ask him where he went. Sometimes he returned with game, sometimes with
a  few ears of corn, a bag of dried peas. Once he brought home a rooster which he said he found in the woods. The family ate it with relish but a
sense of guilt, knowing very well Pork had stolen it, as he had stolen the peas and corn. One night soon after this, he tapped on Scarlett's door
long  after the house was asleep and sheepishly exhibited a leg peppered with small shot. As she bandaged it for him, he explained awkwardly that
when  attempting  to  get into a hen coop at Fayetteville, he had been discovered. Scarlett did not ask whose hen coop but patted Pork's shoulder
gently, tears in her eyes. Negroes were provoking sometimes and stupid and lazy, but there was loyalty in them that money couldn't buy, a feeling
of oneness with their white folks which made them risk their lives to keep food on the table.

In  other  days  Pork's pilferings would have been a serious matter, probably calling for a whipping. In other days she would have been forced at
least  to  reprimand him severely. "Always remember, dear," Ellen had said, "you are responsible for the moral as well as the physical welfare of
the  darkies  God has intrusted to your care. You must realize that they are like children and must be guarded from themselves like children, and
you must always set them a good example."

But  now, Scarlett pushed that admonition into the back of her mind. That she was encouraging theft, and perhaps theft from people worse off than
she, was no longer a matter for conscience. In fact the morals of the affair weighed lightly upon her. Instead of punishment or reproof, she only
regretted he had been shot.

"You  must  be  more careful, Pork. We don't want to lose you. What would we do without you? You've been mighty good and faithful and when we get
some money again, I'm going to buy you a big gold watch and engrave on it something out of the Bible. 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'"

Pork beamed under the praise and gingerly rubbed his bandaged leg.

"Dat soun' mighty fine, Miss Scarlett. W'en you speckin' ter git dat money?"

"I  don't  know, Pork, but I'm going to get it some time, somehow." She bent on him an unseeing glance that was so passionately bitter he stirred
uneasily,  "Some  day,  when this war is over, I'm going to have lots of money, and when I do I'll never be hungry or cold again. None of us will
ever be hungry or cold. We'll all wear fine clothes and have fried chicken every day and--"

Then  she stopped. The strictest rule at Tara, one which she herself had made and which she rigidly enforced, was that no one should ever talk of
the fine meals they had eaten in the past or what they would eat now, if they had the opportunity.

Pork  slipped  from  the room as she remained staring moodily into the distance. In the old days, now dead and gone, life had been so complex, so
full  of  intricate  and  complicated  problems. There had been the problem of trying to win Ashley's love and trying to keep a dozen other beaux
dangling  and  unhappy. There had been small breaches of conduct to be concealed from her elders, jealous girls to be flouted or placated, styles
of  dresses  and  materials  to  be  chosen,  different coiffures to be tried and, oh, so many, many other matters to be decided! Now life was so
amazingly simple. Now all that mattered was food enough to keep off starvation, clothing enough to prevent freezing and a roof overhead which did
not leak too much.

It  was  during  these days that Scarlett dreamed and dreamed again the nightmare which was to haunt her for years. It was always the same dream,
the  details  never  varied, but the terror of it mounted each time it came to her and the fear of experiencing it again troubled even her waking
hours. She remembered so well the incidents of the day when she had first dreamed it.

Cold  rain  had  fallen  for  days and the house was chill with drafts and dampness. The logs in the fireplace were wet and smoky and gave little
heat. There had been nothing to eat except milk since breakfast, for the yams were exhausted and Pork's snares and fishlines had yielded nothing.
One  of  the  shoats would have to be killed the next day if they were to eat at all. Strained and hungry faces, black and white, were staring at
her,  mutely  asking  her to provide food. She would have to risk losing the horse and send Pork out to buy something. And to make matters worse,
Wade was ill with a sore throat and a raging fever and there was neither doctor nor medicine for him.

Hungry,  weary with watching her child, Scarlett left him to Melanie's care for a while and lay down on her bed to nap. Her feet icy, she twisted
and  turned, unable to sleep, weighed down with fear and despair. Again and again, she thought: "What shall I do? Where shall I turn? Isn't there
anybody  in  the  world who can help me?" Where had all the security of the world gone? Why wasn't there someone, some strong wise person to take
the burdens from her? She wasn't made to carry them. She did not know how to carry them. And then she fell into an uneasy doze.

She  was in a wild strange country so thick with swirling mist she could not see her hand before her face. The earth beneath her feet was uneasy.
It was a haunted land, still with a terrible stillness, and she was lost in it, lost and terrified as a child in the night. She was bitterly cold
and hungry and so fearful of what lurked in the mists about her that she tried to scream and could not. There were things in the fog reaching out
fingers  to  pluck at her skirt, to drag her down into the uneasy quaking earth on which she stood, silent, relentless, spectral hands. Then, she
knew  that  somewhere  in  the opaque gloom about her there was shelter, help, a haven of refuge and warmth. But where was it? Could she reach it
before the hands clutched her and dragged her down into the quicksands?

Suddenly she was running, running through the mist like a mad thing, crying and screaming, throwing out her arms to clutch only empty air and wet
mist. Where was the haven? It eluded her but it was there, hidden, somewhere. If she could only reach it! If she could only reach it she would be
safe!  But terror was weakening her legs, hunger making her faint. She gave one despairing cry and awoke to find Melanie's worried face above her
and Melanie's hand shaking her to wakefulness.

The  dream  returned again and again, whenever she went to sleep with an empty stomach. And that was frequently enough. It so frightened her that
she  feared  to sleep, although she feverishly told herself there was nothing in such a dream to be afraid of. There was nothing in a dream about
fog  to  scare  her  so.  Nothing  at all--yet the thought of dropping off into that mist-filled country so terrified her she began sleeping with
Melanie, who would wake her up when her moaning and twitching revealed that she was again in the clutch of the dream.

Under  the strain she grew white and thin. The pretty roundness left her face, throwing her cheek bones into prominence, emphasizing her slanting
green eyes and giving her the look of a prowling, hungry cat.

"Daytime  is  enough  like  a  nightmare  without my dreaming things," she thought desperately and began hoarding her daily ration to eat it just
before she went to sleep.



At Christmas time Frank Kennedy and a small troop from the commissary department jogged up to Tara on a futile hunt for grain and animals for the
army.  They  were  a ragged and ruffianly appearing crew, mounted on lame and heaving horses which obviously were in too bad condition to be used
for more active service. Like their animals the men had been invalided out of the front-line forces and, except for Frank, all of them had an arm
missing  or  an  eye  gone or stiffened joints. Most of them wore blue overcoats of captured Yankees and, for a brief instant of horror, those at
Tara thought Sherman's men had returned.

They  stayed the night on the plantation, sleeping on the floor in the parlor, luxuriating as they stretched themselves on the velvet rug, for it
had  been  weeks since they had slept under a roof or on anything softer than pine needles and hard earth. For all their dirty beards and tatters
they  were  a  well-bred  crowd,  full  of  pleasant small talk, jokes and compliments and very glad to be spending Christmas Eve in a big house,
surrounded by pretty women as they had been accustomed to do in days long past. They refused to be serious about the war, told outrageous lies to
make the girls laugh and brought to the bare and looted house the first lightness, the first hint of festivity it had known in many a day.

"It's  almost  like  the old days when we had house parties, isn't it?" whispered Suellen happily to Scarlett. Suellen was raised to the skies by
having  a  beau  of  her  own in the house again and she could hardly take her eyes off Frank Kennedy. Scarlett was surprised to see that Suellen
could be almost pretty, despite the thinness which had persisted since her illness. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a soft luminous look in
her eyes.

"She  really must care about him," thought Scarlett in contempt. "And I guess she'd be almost human if she ever had a husband of her own, even if
her husband was old fuss-budget Frank."

Carreen  had  brightened  a  little too, and some of the sleep-walking look left her eyes that night. She had found that one of the men had known
Brent Tarleton and had been with him the day he was killed, and she promised herself a long private talk with him after supper.

At  supper Melanie surprised them all by forcing herself out of her timidity and being almost vivacious. She laughed and joked and almost but not
quite  coquetted  with a one-eyed soldier who gladly repaid her efforts with extravagant gallantries. Scarlett knew the effort this involved both
mentally  and physically, for Melanie suffered torments of shyness in the presence of anything male. Moreover she was far from well. She insisted
she was strong and did more work even than Dilcey but Scarlett knew she was sick. When she lifted things her face went white and she had a way of
sitting  down  suddenly  after  exertions,  as  if  her  legs  would  no longer support her. But tonight she, like Suellen and Carreen, was doing
everything possible to make the soldiers enjoy their Christmas Eve. Scarlett alone took no pleasure in the guests.

The  troop  had  added  their  ration  of parched corn and side meat to the supper of dried peas, stewed dried apples and peanuts which Mammy set
before  them  and they declared it was the best meal they had had in months. Scarlett watched them eat and she was uneasy. She not only begrudged
them every mouthful they ate but she was on tenterhooks lest they discover somehow that Pork had slaughtered one of the shoats the day before. It
now  hung  in the pantry and she had grimly promised her household that she would scratch out the eyes of anyone who mentioned the shoat to their
guests  or  the presence of the dead pig's sisters and brothers, safe in their pen in the swamp. These hungry men could devour the whole shoat at
one  meal and, if they knew of the live hogs, they could commandeer them for the army. She was alarmed, too, for the cow and the horse and wished
they  were  hidden  in  the  swamp,  instead  of tied in the woods at the bottom of the pasture. If the commissary took her stock, Tara could not
possibly live through the winter. There would be no way of replacing them. As to what the army would eat, she did not care. Let the army feed the
army--if it could. It was hard enough for her to feed her own.

The men added as dessert some "ramrod rolls" from their knapsacks, and this was the first time Scarlett had ever seen this Confederate article of
diet  about which there were almost as many jokes as about lice. They were charred spirals of what appeared to be wood. The men dared her to take
a  bite  and,  when  she did, she discovered that beneath the smoke-blackened surface was unsalted corn bread. The soldiers mixed their ration of
corn  meal  with water, and salt too when they could get it, wrapped the thick paste about their ramrods and roasted the mess over camp fires. It
was  as  hard  as  rock  candy  and  as  tasteless  as sawdust and after one bite Scarlett hastily handed it back amid roars of laughter. She met
Melanie's eyes and the same thought was plain in both faces. . . . "How can they go on fighting if they have only this stuff to eat?"

The  meal was gay enough and even Gerald, presiding absently at the head of the table, managed to evoke from the back of his dim mind some of the
manner  of  a  host and an uncertain smile. The men talked, the women smiled and flattered--but Scarlett turning suddenly to Frank Kennedy to ask
him news of Miss Pittypat, caught an expression on his face which made her forget what she intended to say.

His eyes had left Suellen's and were wandering about the room, to Gerald's childlike puzzled eyes, to the floor, bare of rugs, to the mantelpiece
denuded  of its ornaments, the sagging springs and torn upholstery into which Yankee bayonets had ripped, the cracked mirror above the sideboard,
the  unfaded squares on the wall where pictures had hung before the looters came, the scant table service, the decently mended but old dresses of
the girls, the flour sack which had been made into a kilt for Wade.

Frank  was  remembering  the  Tara he had known before the war and on his face was a hurt look, a look of tired impotent anger. He loved Suellen,
liked  her  sisters, respected Gerald and had a genuine fondness for the plantation. Since Sherman had swept through Georgia, Frank had seen many
appalling  sights  as  he  rode  about  the  state trying to collect supplies, but nothing had gone to his heart as Tara did now. He wanted to do
something  for  the  O'Haras,  especially Suellen, and there was nothing he could do. He was unconsciously wagging his whiskered head in pity and
clicking  his  tongue against his teeth when Scarlett caught his eye. He saw the flame of indignant pride in them and he dropped his gaze quickly
to his plate in embarrassment.

The  girls  were hungry for news. There had been no mail service since Atlanta fell, now four months past, and they were in complete ignorance as
to  where  the Yankees were, how the Confederate Army was faring, what had happened to Atlanta and to old friends. Frank, whose work took him all
over  the  section,  was as good as a newspaper, better even, for he was kin to or knew almost everyone from Macon north to Atlanta, and he could
supply  bits  of  interesting personal gossip which the papers always omitted. To cover his embarrassment at being caught by Scarlett, he plunged
hastily  into  a  recital of news. The Confederates, he told them, had retaken Atlanta after Sherman marched out, but it was a valueless prize as
Sherman had burned it completely.

"But I thought Atlanta burned the night I left," cried Scarlett, bewildered. "I thought our boys burned it!"

"Oh,  no,  Miss  Scarlett!"  cried  Frank,  shocked. "We'd never burn one of our own towns with our own folks in it! What you saw burning was the
warehouses  and  the supplies we didn't want the Yankees to capture and the foundries and the ammunition. But that was all. When Sherman took the
town the houses and stores were standing there as pretty as you please. And he quartered his men in them."

"But what happened to the people? Did he--did he kill them?"

"He  killed  some--but not with bullets," said the one-eyed soldier grimly. "Soon's he marched into Atlanta he told the mayor that all the people
in  town would have to move out, every living soul. And there were plenty of old folks that couldn't stand the trip and sick folks that ought not
to have been moved and ladies who were--well, ladies who hadn't ought to be moved either. And he moved them out in the biggest rainstorm you ever
saw,  hundreds  and hundreds of them, and dumped them in the woods near Rough and Ready and sent word to General Hood to come and get them. And a
plenty of the folks died of pneumonia and not being able to stand that sort of treatment."

"Oh, but why did he do that? They couldn't have done him any harm," cried Melanie.

"He  said  he  wanted  the town to rest his men and horses in," said Frank. "And he rested them there till the middle of November and then he lit
out. And he set fire to the whole town when he left and burned everything."

"Oh, surely not everything!" cried the girls in dismay.

It  was inconceivable that the bustling town they knew, so full of people, so crowded with soldiers, was gone. All the lovely homes beneath shady
trees,  all  the  big  stores  and the fine hotels--surely they couldn't be gone! Melanie seemed ready to burst into tears, for she had been born
there and knew no other home. Scarlett's heart sank because she had come to love the place second only to Tara.

"Well,  almost everything," Frank amended hastily, disturbed by the expressions on their faces. He tried to look cheerful, for he did not believe
in  upsetting  ladies. Upset ladies always upset him and made him feel helpless. He could not bring himself to tell them the worst. Let them find
out from some one else.

He  could  not tell them what the army saw when it marched back into Atlanta, the acres and acres of chimneys standing blackly above ashes, piles
of  half-burned rubbish and tumbled heaps of brick clogging the streets, old trees dying from fire, their charred limbs tumbling to the ground in
the cold wind. He remembered how the sight had turned him sick, remembered the bitter curses of the Confederates when they saw the remains of the
town.  He hoped the ladies would never hear of the horrors of the looted cemetery, for they'd never get over that. Charlie Hamilton and Melanie's
mother  and  father  were  buried there. The sight of that cemetery still gave Frank nightmares. Hoping to find jewelry buried with the dead, the
Yankee  soldiers had broken open vaults, dug up graves. They had robbed the bodies, stripped from the coffins gold and silver name plates, silver
trimmings and silver handles. The skeletons and corpses, flung helterskelter among their splintered caskets, lay exposed and so pitiful.

And  Frank  couldn't tell them about the dogs and the cats. Ladies set such a store by pets. But the thousands of starving animals, left homeless
when  their  masters had been so rudely evacuated, had shocked him almost as much as the cemetery, for Frank loved cats and dogs. The animals had
been  frightened,  cold,  ravenous, wild as forest creatures, the strong attacking the weak, the weak waiting for the weaker to die so they could
eat them. And, above the ruined town, the buzzards splotched the wintry sky with graceful, sinister bodies.

Frank cast about in his mind for some mitigating information that would make the ladies feel better.

"There's  some  houses  still standing," he said, "houses that set on big lots away from other houses and didn't catch fire. And the churches and
the  Masonic  hall  are  left. And a few stores too. But the business section and all along the railroad tracks and at Five Points--well, ladies,
that part of town is flat on the ground."

"Then," cried Scarlett bitterly, "that warehouse Charlie left me, down on the tracks, it's gone too?"

"If  it was near the tracks, it's gone, but--" Suddenly he smiled. Why hadn't he thought of it before? "Cheer up, ladies! Your Aunt Pitty's house
is still standing. It's kind of damaged but there it is."

"Oh, how did it escape?"

"Well,  it's  made  of  brick and it's got about the only slate roof in Atlanta and that kept the sparks from setting it afire, I guess. And then
it's  about  the  last house on the north end of town and the fire wasn't so bad over that way. Of course, the Yankees quartered there tore it up
aplenty. They even burned the baseboard and the mahogany stair rail for firewood, but shucks! It's in good shape. When I saw Miss Pitty last week
in Macon--"

"You saw her? How is she?"

"Just  fine.  Just  fine. When I told her her house was still standing, she made up her mind to come home right away. That is--if that old darky,
Peter,  will let her come. Lots of the Atlanta people have already come back, because they got nervous about Macon. Sherman didn't take Macon but
everybody is afraid Wilson's raiders will get there soon and he's worse than Sherman."

"But how silly of them to come back if there aren't any houses! Where do they live?"

"Miss  Scarlett,  they're  living in tents and shacks and log cabins and doubling up six and seven families in the few houses still standing. And
they're trying to rebuild. Now, Miss Scarlett, don't say they are silly. You know Atlanta folks as well as I do. They are plumb set on that town,
most  as bad as Charlestonians are about Charleston, and it'll take more than Yankees and a burning to keep them away. Atlanta folks are--begging
your  pardon,  Miss  Melly--as stubborn as mules about Atlanta. I don't know why, for I always thought that town a mighty pushy, impudent sort of
place.  But  then,  I'm a countryman born and I don't like any town. And let me tell you, the ones who are getting back first are the smart ones.
The  ones  who  come  back  last  won't find a stick or stone or brick of their houses, because everybody's out salvaging things all over town to
rebuild  their  houses.  Just  day before yesterday, I saw Mrs. Merriwether and Miss Maybelle and their old darky woman out collecting brick in a
wheelbarrow.  And  Mrs. Meade told me she was thinking about building a log cabin when the doctor comes back to help her. She said she lived in a
log  cabin when she first came to Atlanta, when it was Marthasville, and it wouldn't bother her none to do it again. 'Course, she was only joking
but that shows you how they feel about it."

"I think they've got a lot of spirit," said Melanie proudly. "Don't you, Scarlett?"

Scarlett  nodded,  a  grim pleasure and pride in her adopted town filling her. As Frank said, it was a pushy, impudent place and that was why she
liked  it.  It  wasn't  hide-bound  and  stick-in-the-muddish  like the older towns and it had a brash exuberance that matched her own. "I'm like
Atlanta," she thought. "It takes more than Yankees or a burning to keep me down."

"If  Aunt  Pitty  is  going  back  to Atlanta, we'd better go back and stay with her, Scarlett," said Melanie, interrupting her train of thought.
"She'll die of fright alone."

"Now, how can I leave here, Melly?" Scarlett asked crossly. "If you are so anxious to go, go. I won't stop you."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way, darling," cried Melanie, flushing with distress. "How thoughtless of me! Of course, you can't leave Tara and--and
I guess Uncle Peter and Cookie can take care of Auntie."

"There's nothing to keep you from going," Scarlett pointed out, shortly.

"You know I wouldn't leave you," answered Melanie. "And I--I would be just frightened to death without you."

"Suit  yourself.  Besides, you wouldn't catch me going back to Atlanta. Just as soon as they get a few houses up, Sherman will come back and burn
it again."

"He  won't  be  back," said Frank and, despite his efforts, his face drooped. "He's gone on through the state to the coast. Savannah was captured
this week and they say the Yankees are going on up into South Carolina."

"Savannah taken!"

"Yes.  Why, ladies, Savannah couldn't help but fall. They didn't have enough men to hold it, though they used every man they could get--every man
who  could drag one foot after another. Do you know that when the Yankees were marching on Milledgeville, they called out all the cadets from the
military  academies, no matter how young they were, and even opened the state penitentiary to get fresh troops? Yes, sir, they turned loose every
convict  who was willing to fight and promised him a pardon if he lived through the war. It kind of gave me the creeps to see those little cadets
in the ranks with thieves and cutthroats."

"They turned loose the convicts on us!"

"Now,  Miss  Scarlett, don't you get upset. They're a long way off from here, and furthermore they're making good soldiers. I guess being a thief
don't keep a man from being a good soldier, does it?"

"I think it's wonderful," said Melanie softly.

"Well, I don't," said Scarlett flatly. "There's thieves enough running around the country anyway, what with the Yankees and--" She caught herself
in time but the men laughed.

"What with Yankees and our commissary department," they finished and she flushed.

"But where's General Hood's army?" interposed Melanie hastily. "Surely he could have held Savannah."

"Why,  Miss  Melanie,"  Frank  was  startled  and  reproachful,  "General  Hood hasn't been down in that section at all. He's been fighting up in
Tennessee, trying to draw the Yankees out of Georgia."

"And  didn't  his  little scheme work well!" cried Scarlett sarcastically. "He left the damn Yankees to go through us with nothing but schoolboys
and convicts and Home Guards to protect us."

"Daughter," said Gerald rousing himself, "you are profane. Your mother will be grieved."

"They are damn Yankees!" cried Scarlett passionately. "And I never expect to call them anything else."

At the mention of Ellen everyone felt queer and conversation suddenly ceased. Melanie again interposed.

"When you were in Macon did you see India and Honey Wilkes? Did they--had they heard anything of Ashley?"

"Now,  Miss Melly, you know if I'd had news of Ashley, I'd have ridden up here from Macon right away to tell you," said Frank reproachfully. "No,
they didn't have any news but--now, don't you fret about Ashley, Miss Melly. I know it's been a long time since you heard from him, but you can't
expect to hear from a fellow when he's in prison, can you? And things aren't as bad in Yankee prisons as they are in ours. After all, the Yankees
have plenty to eat and enough medicines and blankets. They aren't like we are--not having enough to feed ourselves, much less our prisoners."

"Oh,  the  Yankees  have  got plenty," cried Melanie, passionately bitter. "But they don't give things to the prisoners. You know they don't, Mr.
Kennedy.  You are just saying that to make me feel better. You know that our boys freeze to death up there and starve too and die without doctors
and  medicine,  simply  because  the  Yankees  hate us so much! Oh, if we could just wipe every Yankee off the face of the earth! Oh, I know that
Ashley is--"

"Don't  say  it!" cried Scarlett, her heart in her throat. As long as no one said Ashley was dead, there persisted in her heart a faint hope that
he lived, but she felt that if she heard the words pronounced, in that moment he would die.

"Now,  Mrs.  Wilkes,  don't  you bother about your husband," said the one-eyed man soothingly. "I was captured after first Manassas and exchanged
later and when I was in prison, they fed me off the fat of the land, fried chicken and hot biscuits--"

"I  think  you  are a liar," said Melanie with a faint smile and the first sign of spirit Scarlett had ever seen her display with a man. "What do
you think?"

"I think so too," said the one-eyed man and slapped his leg with a laugh.

"If you'll all come into the parlor, I'll sing you some Christmas carols," said Melanie, glad to change the subject. "The piano was one thing the
Yankees couldn't carry away. Is it terribly out of tune, Suellen?"

"Dreadfully," answered Suellen, happily beckoning with a smile to Frank.

But as they all passed from the room, Frank hung back, tugging at Scarlett's sleeve.

"May I speak to you alone?"

For an awful moment she feared he was going to ask about her livestock and she braced herself for a good lie.

When the room was cleared and they stood by the fire, all the false cheerfulness which had colored Frank's face in front of the others passed and
she  saw  that  he looked like an old man. His face was as dried and brown as the leaves that were blowing about the lawn of Tara and his ginger-
colored  whiskers  were  thin and scraggly and streaked with gray. He clawed at them absently and cleared his throat in an annoying way before he
spoke.

"I'm sorry about your ma, Miss Scarlett."

"Please don't talk about it."

"And your pa-- Has he been this way since--?"

"Yes--he's--he's not himself, as you can see."

"He sure set a store by her."

"Oh, Mr. Kennedy, please don't let's talk--"

"I'm  sorry,  Miss Scarlett," and he shuffled his feet nervously. "The truth is I wanted to take up something with your pa and now I see it won't
do any good."

"Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Kennedy. You see--I'm the head of the house now."

"Well, I," began Frank and again clawed nervously at his beard. "The truth is-- Well, Miss Scarlett, I was aiming to ask him for Miss Suellen."

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  cried  Scarlett in amused amazement, "that you haven't yet asked Pa for Suellen? And you've been courting her for
years!"

He flushed and grinned embarrassedly and in general looked like a shy and sheepish boy.

"Well, I--I didn't know if she'd have me. I'm so much older than she is and--there were so many good-looking young bucks hanging around Tara--"

"Hump!" thought Scarlett, "they were hanging around me, not her!"

"And I don't know yet if she'll have me. I've never asked her but she must know how I feel. I--I thought I'd ask Mr. O'Hara's permission and tell
him  the  truth.  Miss Scarlett, I haven't got a cent now. I used to have a lot of money, if you'll forgive me mentioning it, but right now all I
own  is my horse and the clothes I've got on. You see, when I enlisted I sold most of my land and I put all my money in Confederate bonds and you
know  what they're worth now. Less than the paper they're printed on. And anyway, I haven't got them now, because they burned up when the Yankees
burned my sister's house. I know I've got gall asking for Miss Suellen now when I haven't a cent but--well, it's this way. I got to thinking that
we  don't know how things are going to turn out about this war. It sure looks like the end of the world for me. There's nothing we can be sure of
and--and I thought it would be a heap of comfort to me and maybe to her if we were engaged. That would be something sure. I wouldn't ask to marry
her  till  I  could take care of her, Miss Scarlett, and I don't know when that will be. But if true love carries any weight with you, you can be
certain Miss Suellen will be rich in that if nothing else."

He  spoke  the  last  words with a simple dignity that touched Scarlett, even in her amusement. It was beyond her comprehension that anyone could
love Suellen. Her sister seemed to her a monster of selfishness, of complaints and of what she could only describe as pure cussedness.

"Why,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said  kindly, "it's quite all right. I'm sure I can speak for Pa. He always set a store by you and he always expected
Suellen to marry you."

"Did he now?" cried Frank, happiness in his face.

"Indeed  yes,"  answered  Scarlett,  concealing  a  grin  as  she remembered how frequently Gerald had rudely bellowed across the supper table to
Suellen: "How now, Missy! Hasn't your ardent beau popped the question yet? Shall I be asking him his intentions?"

"I shall ask her tonight," he said, his face quivering, and he clutched her hand and shook it. "You're so kind, Miss Scarlett."

"I'll  send her to you," smiled Scarlett, starting for the parlor. Melanie was beginning to play. The piano was sadly out of tune but some of the
chords were musical and Melanie was raising her voice to lead the others in "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!"

Scarlett  paused. It did not seem possible that war had swept over them twice, that they were living in a ravaged country, close to the border of
starvation, when this old sweet Christmas hymn was being sung. Abruptly she turned to Frank.

"What did you mean when you said it looked like the end of the world to you?"

"I'll  talk  frankly," he said slowly, "but I wouldn't want you to be alarming the other ladies with what I say. The war can't go on much longer.
There  aren't  any  fresh  men to fill the ranks and the desertions are running high--higher than the army likes to admit. You see, the men can't
stand  to  be  away  from  their  families when they know they're starving, so they go home to try to provide for them. I can't blame them but it
weakens the army. And the army can't fight without food and there isn't any food. I know because, you see, getting food is my business. I've been
all up and down this section since we retook Atlanta and there isn't enough to feed a jaybird. It's the same way for three hundred miles south to
Savannah.  The  folks  are starving and the railroads are torn up and there aren't any new rifles and the ammunition is giving out and there's no
leather at all for shoes. . . . So, you see, the end is almost here."

But the fading hopes of the Confederacy weighed less heavily on Scarlett than his remark about the scarcity of food. It had been her intention to
send  Pork  out  with  the  horse and wagon, the gold pieces and the United States money to scour the countryside for provisions and material for
clothes. But if what Frank said was true--

But Macon hadn't fallen. There must be food in Macon. Just as soon as the commissary department was safely on its way, she'd start Pork for Macon
and take the chance of having the precious horse picked up by the army. She'd have to risk it.

"Well,  let's don't talk about unpleasant things tonight, Mr. Kennedy," she said. "You go and sit in Mother's little office and I'll send Suellen
to you so you can--well, so you'll have a little privacy."

Blushing, smiling, Frank slipped out of the room and Scarlett watched him go.

"What a pity he can't marry her now," she thought. "That would be one less mouth to feed."



CHAPTER XXIX


The  following  April General Johnston, who had been given back the shattered remnants of his old command, surrendered them in North Carolina and
the  war  was  over.  But  not until two weeks later did the news reach Tara. There was too much to do at Tara for anyone to waste time traveling
abroad and hearing gossip and, as the neighbors were just as busy as they, there was little visiting and news spread slowly.

Spring  plowing  was at its height and the cotton and garden seed Pork had brought from Macon was being put into the ground. Pork had been almost
worthless since the trip, so proud was he of returning safely with his wagon-load of dress goods, seed, fowls, hams, side meat and meal. Over and
over,  he told the story of his many narrow escapes, of the bypaths and country lanes he had taken on his return to Tara, the unfrequented roads,
the  old  trails,  the bridle paths. He had been five weeks on the road, agonizing weeks for Scarlett. But she did not upbraid him on his return,
for  she  was  happy  that  he  had made the trip successfully and pleased that he brought back so much of the money she had given him. She had a
shrewd  suspicion  that the reason he had so much money left over was that he had not bought the fowls or most of the food. Pork would have taken
shame to himself had he spent her money when there were unguarded hen coops along the road and smokehouses handy.

Now that they had a little food, everyone at Tara was busy trying to restore some semblance of naturalness to life. There was work for every pair
of hands, too much work, never-ending work. The withered stalks of last year's cotton had to be removed to make way for this year's seeds and the
balky  horse,  unaccustomed  to  the  plow, dragged unwillingly through the fields. Weeds had to be pulled from the garden and the seeds planted,
firewood had to be cut, a beginning had to be made toward replacing the pens and the miles and miles of fences so casually burned by the Yankees.
The  snares  Pork set for rabbits had to be visited twice a day and the fishlines in the river rebaited. There were beds to be made and floors to
be  swept,  food  to  be  cooked and dishes washed, hogs and chickens to be fed and eggs gathered. The cow had to be milked and pastured near the
swamp  and  someone  had  to  watch  her  all day for fear the Yankees or Frank Kennedy's men would return and take her. Even little Wade had his
duties. Every morning he went out importantly with a basket to pick up twigs and chips to start the fires with.

It  was  the  Fontaine boys, the first of the County men home from the war, who brought the news of the surrender. Alex, who still had boots, was
walking  and  Tony,  barefooted,  was  riding on the bare back of a mule. Tony always managed to get the best of things in that family. They were
swarthier than ever from four years' exposure to sun and storm, thinner, more wiry, and the wild black beards they brought back from the war made
them seem like strangers.

On  their  way to Mimosa and eager for home, they only stopped a moment at Tara to kiss the girls and give them news of the surrender. It was all
over,  they  said, all finished, and they did not seem to care much or want to talk about it. All they wanted to know was whether Mimosa had been
burned.  On  the way south from Atlanta, they had passed chimney after chimney where the homes of friends had stood and it seemed almost too much
to  hope  that their own house had been spared. They sighed with relief at the welcome news and laughed, slapping their thighs when Scarlett told
them of Sally's wild ride and how neatly she had cleared their hedge.

"She's a spunky girl," said Tony, "and it's rotten luck for her, Joe getting killed. You all got any chewing tobacco, Scarlett?"

"Nothing but rabbit tobacco. Pa smokes it in a corn cob."

"I haven't fallen that low yet," said Tony, "but I'll probably come to it."

"Is  Dimity  Munroe  all  right?"  asked  Alex, eagerly but a little embarrassed, and Scarlett recalled vaguely that he had been sweet on Sally's
younger sister.

"Oh,  yes.  She's  living  with  her  aunt over in Fayetteville now. You know their house in Lovejoy was burned. And the rest of her folks are in
Macon."

"What he means is--has Dimity married some brave colonel in the Home Guard?" jeered Tony, and Alex turned furious eyes upon him.

"Of course, she isn't married," said Scarlett, amused.

"Maybe  it would be better if she had," said Alex gloomily. "How the hell--I beg your pardon, Scarlett. But how can a man ask a girl to marry him
when his darkies are all freed and his stock gone and he hasn't got a cent in his pockets?"

"You  know  that  wouldn't bother Dimity," said Scarlett. She could afford to be loyal to Dimity and say nice things about her, for Alex Fontaine
had never been one of her own beaux.

"Hell's  afire--  Well,  I beg your pardon again. I'll have to quit swearing or Grandma will sure tan my hide. I'm not asking any girl to marry a
pauper. It mightn't bother her but it would bother me."

While Scarlett talked to the boys on the front porch, Melanie, Suellen and Carreen slipped silently into the house as soon as they heard the news
of  the  surrender. After the boys had gone, cutting across the back fields of Tara toward home, Scarlett went inside and heard the girls sobbing
together  on  the  sofa  in  Ellen's little office. It was all over, the bright beautiful dream they had loved and hoped for, the Cause which had
taken their friends, lovers, husbands and beggared their families. The Cause they had thought could never fall had fallen forever.

But  for  Scarlett, there were no tears. In the first moment when she heard the news she thought: Thank God! Now the cow won't be stolen. Now the
horse  is  safe.  Now  we  can  take the silver out of the well and everybody can have a knife and fork. Now I won't be afraid to drive round the
country looking for something to eat.

What  a  relief! Never again would she start in fear at the sound of hooves. Never again would she wake in the dark nights, holding her breath to
listen,  wondering  if it were reality or only a dream that she heard in the yard the rattle of bits, the stamping of hooves and the harsh crying
of  orders  by  the Yankees. And, best of all, Tara was safe! Now her worst nightmare would never come true. Now she would never have to stand on
the lawn and see smoke billowing from the beloved house and hear the roar of flames as the roof fell in.

Yes,  the  Cause  was dead but war had always seemed foolish to her and peace was better. She had never stood starry eyed when the Stars and Bars
ran up a pole or felt cold chills when "Dixie" sounded. She had not been sustained through privations, the sickening duties of nursing, the fears
of  the  siege  and  the  hunger  of  the  last few months by the fanatic glow which made all these things endurable to others, if only the Cause
prospered. It was all over and done with and she was not going to cry about it.

All  over!  The war which had seemed so endless, the war which, unbidden and unwanted, had cut her life in two, had made so clean a cleavage that
it  was  difficult  to  remember  those other care-free days. She could look back, unmoved, at the pretty Scarlett with her fragile green morocco
slippers and her flounces fragrant with lavender but she wondered if she could be that same girl. Scarlett O'Hara, with the County at her feet, a
hundred slaves to do her bidding, the wealth of Tara like a wall behind her and doting parents anxious to grant any desire of her heart. Spoiled,
careless Scarlett who had never known an ungratified wish except where Ashley was concerned.

Somewhere,  on  the  long  road that wound through those four years, the girl with her sachet and dancing slippers had slipped away and there was
left  a  woman  with  sharp  green eyes, who counted pennies and turned her hands to many menial tasks, a woman to whom nothing was left from the
wreckage except the indestructible red earth on which she stood.

As she stood in the hall, listening to the girls sobbing, her mind was busy.

"We'll  plant  more cotton, lots more. I'll send Pork to Macon tomorrow to buy more seed. Now the Yankees won't burn it and our troops won't need
it. Good Lord! Cotton ought to go sky high this fall!"

She went into the little office and, disregarding the weeping girls on the sofa, seated herself at the secretary and picked up a quill to balance
the cost of more cotton seed against her remaining cash.

"The  war  is  over,"  she thought and suddenly she dropped the quill as a wild happiness flooded her. The war was over and Ashley--if Ashley was
alive he'd be coming home! She wondered if Melanie, in the midst of mourning for the lost Cause, had thought of this.

"Soon we'll get a letter--no, not a letter. We can't get letters. But soon--oh, somehow he'll let us know!"

But  the  days  passed into weeks and there was no news from Ashley. The mail service in the South was uncertain and in the rural districts there
was  none at all. Occasionally a passing traveler from Atlanta brought a note from Aunt Pitty tearfully begging the girls to come back. But never
news of Ashley.



After the surrender, an ever-present feud over the horse smoldered between Scarlett and Suellen. Now that there was no danger of Yankees, Suellen
wanted to go calling on the neighbors. Lonely and missing the happy sociability of the old days, Suellen longed to visit friends, if for no other
reason  than to assure herself that the rest of the County was as bad off as Tara. But Scarlett was adamant. The horse was for work, to drag logs
from  the  woods, to plow and for Pork to ride in search of food. On Sundays he had earned the right to graze in the pasture and rest. If Suellen
wanted to go visiting she could go afoot.

Before  the last year Suellen had never walked a hundred yards in her life and this prospect was anything but pleasing. So she stayed at home and
nagged  and cried and said, once too often: "Oh, if only Mother was here!" At that, Scarlett gave her the long-promised slap, hitting her so hard
it  knocked  her  screaming  to  the  bed  and  caused great consternation throughout the house. Thereafter, Suellen whined the less, at least in
Scarlett's presence.

Scarlett  spoke  truthfully  when she said she wanted the horse to rest but that was only half of the truth. The other half was that she had paid
one  round  of calls on the County in the first month after the surrender and the sight of old friends and old plantations had shaken her courage
more than she liked to admit.

The  Fontaines  had fared best of any, thanks to Sally's hard ride, but it was flourishing only by comparison with the desperate situation of the
other  neighbors.  Grandma  Fontaine  had  never completely recovered from the heart attack she had the day she led the others in beating out the
flames  and  saving  the house. Old Dr. Fontaine was convalescing slowly from an amputated arm. Alex and Tony were turning awkward hands to plows
and  hoe handles. They leaned over the fence rail to shake hands with Scarlett when she called and they laughed at her rickety wagon, their black
eyes  bitter,  for  they  were  laughing  at  themselves  as  well  as her. She asked to buy seed corn from them and they promised it and fell to
discussing  farm  problems.  They  had twelve chickens, two cows, five hogs and the mule they brought home from the war. One of the hogs had just
died  and  they  were  worried about losing the others. At hearing such serious words about hogs from these ex-dandies who had never given life a
more serious thought than which cravat was most fashionable, Scarlett laughed and this time her laugh was bitter too.

They  had  all  made her welcome at Mimosa and had insisted on giving, not selling, her the seed corn. The quick Fontaine tempers flared when she
put a greenback on the table and they flatly refused payment. Scarlett took the corn and privately slipped a dollar bill into Sally's hand. Sally
looked  like  a  different  person from the girl who had greeted her eight months before when Scarlett first came home to Tara. Then she had been
pale and sad but there had been a buoyancy about her. Now that buoyancy had gone, as if the surrender had taken all hope from her.

"Scarlett," she whispered as she clutched the bill, "what was the good of it all? Why did we ever fight? Oh, my poor Joe! Oh, my poor baby!"

"I  don't  know  why  we fought and I don't care," said Scarlett. "And I'm not interested. I never was interested. War is a man's business, not a
woman's.  All I'm interested in now is a good cotton crop. Now take this dollar and buy little Joe a dress. God knows, he needs it. I'm not going
to rob you of your corn, for all Alex and Tony's politeness."

The  boys  followed her to the wagon and assisted her in, courtly for all their rags, gay with the volatile Fontaine gaiety, but with the picture
of  their destitution in her eyes, she shivered as she drove away from Mimosa. She was so tired of poverty and pinching. What a pleasure it would
be to know people who were rich and not worried as to where the next meal was coming from!

Cade  Calvert was at home at Pine Bloom and, as Scarlett came up the steps of the old house in which she had danced so often in happier days, she
saw that death was in his face. He was emaciated and he coughed as he lay in an easy chair in the sunshine with a shawl across his knees, but his
face  lit  up  when  he saw her. Just a little cold which had settled in his chest, he said, trying to rise to greet her. Got it from sleeping so
much in the rain. But it would be gone soon and then he'd lend a hand in the work.

Cathleen  Calvert,  who  came  out  of  the  house at the sound of voices, met Scarlett's eyes above her brother's head and in them Scarlett read
knowledge  and  bitter  despair.  Cade might not know but Cathleen knew. Pine Bloom looked straggly and overgrown with weeds, seedling pines were
beginning to show in the fields and the house was sagging and untidy. Cathleen was thin and taut.

The  two  of  them,  with their Yankee stepmother, their four little half-sisters, and Hilton, the Yankee overseer, remained in the silent, oddly
echoing house. Scarlett had never liked Hilton any more than she liked their own overseer Jonas Wilkerson, and she liked him even less now, as he
sauntered forward and greeted her like an equal. Formerly he had the same combination of servility and impertinence which Wilkerson possessed but
now,  with  Mr.  Calvert  and Raiford dead in the war and Cade sick, he had dropped all servility. The second Mrs. Calvert had never known how to
compel respect from negro servants and it was not to be expected that she could get it from a white man.

"Mr.  Hilton  has  been  so  kind about staying with us through these difficult times," said Mrs. Calvert nervously, casting quick glances at her
silent  stepdaughter. "Very kind. I suppose you heard how he saved our house twice when Sherman was here. I'm sure I don't know how we would have
managed without him, with no money and Cade--"

A  flush went over Cade's white face and Cathleen's long lashes veiled her eyes as her mouth hardened. Scarlett knew their souls were writhing in
helpless  rage  at  being  under obligations to their Yankee overseer. Mrs. Calvert seemed ready to weep. She had somehow made a blunder. She was
always  blundering.  She just couldn't understand Southerners, for all that she had lived in Georgia twenty years. She never knew what not to say
to  her stepchildren and, no matter what she said or did, they were always so exquisitely polite to her. Silently she vowed she would go North to
her own people, taking her children with her, and leave these puzzling stiff-necked strangers.

After these visits, Scarlett had no desire to see the Tarletons. Now that the four boys were gone, the house burned and the family cramped in the
overseer's  cottage,  she could not bring herself to go. But Suellen and Carreen begged and Melanie said it would be unneighborly not to call and
welcome Mr. Tarleton back from the war, so one Sunday they went.

This was the worst of all.

As  they  drove up by the ruins of the house, they saw Beatrice Tarleton dressed in a worn riding habit, a crop under her arm, sitting on the top
rail of the fence about the paddock, staring moodily at nothing. Beside her perched the bow-legged little negro who had trained her horses and he
looked  as  glum  as his mistress. The paddock, once full of frolicking colts and placid brood mares, was empty now except for one mule, the mule
Mr. Tarleton had ridden home from the surrender.

"I  swear  I don't know what to do with myself now that my darlings are gone," said Mrs. Tarleton, climbing down from the fence. A stranger might
have thought she spoke of her four dead sons, but the girls from Tara knew her horses were in her mind. "All my beautiful horses dead. And oh, my
poor  Nellie!  If I just had Nellie! And nothing but a damned mule on the place. A damned mule," she repeated, looking indignantly at the scrawny
beast.  "It's  an  insult  to the memory of my blooded darlings to have a mule in their paddock. Mules are misbegotten, unnatural critters and it
ought to be illegal to breed them."

Jim  Tarleton,  completely  disguised  by  a  bushy beard, came out of the overseer's house to welcome and kiss the girls and his four red-haired
daughters  in  mended dresses streamed out behind him, tripping over the dozen black and tan hounds which ran barking to the door at the sound of
strange  voices.  There was an air of studied and determined cheerfulness about the whole family which brought a colder chill to Scarlett's bones
than the bitterness of Mimosa or the deathly brooding of Pine Bloom.

The Tarletons insisted that the girls stay for dinner, saying they had so few guests these days and wanted to hear all the news. Scarlett did not
want  to linger, for the atmosphere oppressed her, but Melanie and her two sisters were anxious for a longer visit, so the four stayed for dinner
and ate sparingly of the side meat and dried peas which were served them.

There  was laughter about the skimpy fare and the Tarleton girls giggled as they told of makeshifts for clothes, as if they were telling the most
amusing  of  jokes.  Melanie  met  them  halfway, surprising Scarlett with her unexpected vivacity as she told of trials at Tara, making light of
hardships.  Scarlett  could hardly speak at all. The room seemed so empty without the four great Tarleton boys, lounging and smoking and teasing.
And if it seemed empty to her, what must it seem to the Tarletons who were offering a smiling front to their neighbors?

Carreen  had  said  little during the meal but when it was over she slipped over to Mrs. Tarleton's side and whispered something. Mrs. Tarleton's
face  changed  and  the brittle smile left her lips as she put her arm around Carreen's slender waist. They left the room, and Scarlett, who felt
she  could not endure the house another minute, followed them. They went down the path through the garden and Scarlett saw they were going toward
the  burying  ground.  Well,  she  couldn't  go  back  to the house now. It would seem too rude. But what on earth did Carreen mean dragging Mrs.
Tarleton out to the boys' graves when Beatrice was trying so hard to be brave?

There were two new marble markers in the brick-inclosed lot under the funereal cedars--so new that no rain had splashed them with red dust.

"We got them last week," said Mrs. Tarleton proudly. "Mr. Tarleton went to Macon and brought them home in the wagon."

Tombstones!  And what they must have cost! Suddenly Scarlett did not feel as sorry for the Tarletons as she had at first. Anybody who would waste
precious  money on tombstones when food was so dear, so almost unattainable, didn't deserve sympathy. And there were several lines carved on each
of  the  stones.  The  more  carving, the more money. The whole family must be crazy! And it had cost money, too, to bring the three boys' bodies
home. They had never found Boyd or any trace of him.

Between  the  graves  of Brent and Stuart was a stone which read: "They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not
divided."

On  the  other  stone  were  the  names of Boyd and Tom with something in Latin which began "Dulce et--" but it meant nothing to Scarlett who had
managed to evade Latin at the Fayetteville Academy.

All that money for tombstones! Why, they were fools! She felt as indignant as if her own money had been squandered.

Carreen's eyes were shining oddly.

"I think it's lovely," she whispered pointing to the first stone.

Carreen would think it lovely. Anything sentimental stirred her.

"Yes," said Mrs. Tarleton and her voice was soft, "we thought it very fitting--they died almost at the same time. Stuart first and then Brent who
caught up the flag he dropped."

As  the  girls  drove  back to Tara, Scarlett was silent for a while, thinking of what she had seen in the various homes, remembering against her
will  the  County in its glory, with visitors at all the big houses and money plentiful, negroes crowding the quarters and the well-tended fields
glorious with cotton.

"In  another  year, there'll be little pines all over these fields," she thought and looking toward the encircling forest she shuddered. "Without
the darkies, it will be all we can do to keep body and soul together. Nobody can run a big plantation without the darkies, and lots of the fields
won't  be cultivated at all and the woods will take over the fields again. Nobody can plant much cotton, and what will we do then? What'll become
of  country folks? Town folks can manage somehow. They've always managed. But we country folks will go back a hundred years like the pioneers who
had little cabins and just scratched a few acres--and barely existed.

"No--" she thought grimly, "Tara isn't going to be like that. Not even if I have to plow myself. This whole section, this whole state can go back
to woods if it wants to, but I won't let Tara go. And I don't intend to waste my money on tombstones or my time crying about the war. We can make
out  somehow.  I know we could make out somehow if the men weren't all dead. Losing the darkies isn't the worst part about this. It's the loss of
the  men,  the  young men." She thought again of the four Tarletons and Joe Fontaine, of Raiford Calvert and the Munroe brothers and all the boys
from Fayetteville and Jonesboro whose names she had read on the casualty lists. "If there were just enough men left, we could manage somehow but-
-"

Another thought struck her--suppose she wanted to marry again. Of course, she didn't want to marry again. Once was certainly enough. Besides, the
only man she'd ever wanted was Ashley and he was married if he was still living. But suppose she would want to marry. Who would there be to marry
her? The thought was appalling.

"Melly," she said, "what's going to happen to Southern girls?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just  what  I  say.  What's  going to happen to them? There's no one to marry them. Why, Melly, with all the boys dead, there'll be thousands of
girls all over the South who'll die old maids."

"And never have any children," added Melanie, to whom this was the most important thing.

Evidently  the  thought  was  not  new  to  Suellen who sat in the back of the wagon, for she suddenly began to cry. She had not heard from Frank
Kennedy  since  Christmas.  She  did not know if the lack of mail service was the cause, or if he had merely trifled with her affections and then
forgotten  her.  Or maybe he had been killed in the last days of the war! The latter would have been infinitely preferable to his forgetting her,
for at least there was some dignity about a dead love, such as Carreen and India Wilkes had, but none about a deserted fiancee.

"Oh, in the name of God, hush!" said Scarlett.

"Oh,  you  can  talk,"  sobbed  Suellen, "because you've been married and had a baby and everybody knows some man wanted you. But look at me! And
you've got to be mean and throw it up to me that I'm an old maid when I can't help myself. I think you're hateful."

"Oh,  hush! You know how I hate people who bawl all the time. You know perfectly well old Ginger Whiskers isn't dead and that he'll come back and
marry you. He hasn't any better sense. But personally, I'd rather be an old maid than marry him."

There  was  silence  from the back of the wagon for a while and Carreen comforted her sister with absent-minded pats, for her mind was a long way
off, riding paths three years old with Brent Tarleton beside her. There was a glow, an exaltation in her eyes.

"Ah," said Melanie, sadly, "what will the South be like without all our fine boys? What would the South have been if they had lived? We could use
their courage and their energy and their brains. Scarlett, all of us with little boys must raise them to take the places of the men who are gone,
to be brave men like them."

"There will never again be men like them," said Carreen softly. "No one can take their places."

They drove home the rest of the way in silence,



One  day  not  long  after  this, Cathleen Calvert rode up to Tara at sunset. Her sidesaddle was strapped on as sorry a mule as Scarlett had ever
seen,  a  flop-eared lame brute, and Cathleen was almost as sorry looking as the animal she rode. Her dress was of faded gingham of the type once
worn  only  by  house  servants,  and  her  sunbonnet  was secured under her chin by a piece of twine. She rode up to the front porch but did not
dismount, and Scarlett and Melanie, who had been watching the sunset, went down the steps to meet her. Cathleen was as white as Cade had been the
day  Scarlett  called, white and hard and brittle, as if her face would shatter if she spoke. But her back was erect and her head was high as she
nodded to them.

Scarlett suddenly remembered the day of the Wilkes barbecue when she and Cathleen had whispered together about Rhett Butler. How pretty and fresh
Cathleen  had  been  that  day in a swirl of blue organdie with fragrant roses at her sash and little black velvet slippers laced about her small
ankles. And now there was not a trace of that girl in the stiff figure sitting on the mule.

"I won't get down, thank you," she said. "I just came to tell you that I'm going to be married."

"What!"

"Who to?"

"Cathy, how grand!"

"When?"

"Tomorrow," said Cathleen quietly and there was something in her voice which took the eager smiles from their faces. "I came to tell you that I'm
going to be married tomorrow, in Jonesboro--and I'm not inviting you all to come."

They digested this in silence, looking up at her, puzzled. Then Melanie spoke.

"Is it someone we know, dear?"

"Yes," said Cathleen, shortly. "It's Mr. Hilton."

"Mr. Hilton?"

"Yes, Mr. Hilton, our overseer."

Scarlett could not even find voice to say "Oh!" but Cathleen, peering down suddenly at Melanie, said in a low savage voice: "If you cry, Melly, I
can't stand it. I shall die!"

Melanie said nothing but patted the foot in its awkward home-made shoe which hung from the stirrup. Her head was low.

"And don't pat me! I can't stand that either."

Melanie dropped her hand but still did not look up.

"Well, I must go. I only came to tell you." The white brittle mask was back again and she picked up the reins.

"How is Cade?" asked Scarlett, utterly at a loss but fumbling for some words to break the awkward silence.

"He  is  dying,"  said  Cathleen  shortly. There seemed to be no feeling in her voice. "And he is going to die in some comfort and peace if I can
manage  it,  without  worry  about  who  will  take  care of me when he's gone. You see, my stepmother and the children are going North for good,
tomorrow. Well, I must be going."

Melanie  looked  up  and  met  Cathleen's  hard eyes. There were bright tears on Melanie's lashes and understanding in her eyes, and before them,
Cathleen's lips curved into the crooked smile of a brave child who tries not to cry. It was all very bewildering to Scarlett who was still trying
to grasp the idea that Cathleen Calvert was going to marry an overseer--Cathleen, daughter of a rich planter, Cathleen who, next to Scarlett, had
had more beaux than any girl in the County.

Cathleen bent down and Melanie tiptoed. They kissed. Then Cathleen flapped the bridle reins sharply and the old mule moved off.

Melanie looked after her, the tears streaming down her face. Scarlett stared, still dazed.

"Melly, is she crazy? You know she can't be in love with him."

"In love? Oh, Scarlett, don't even suggest such a horrid thing! Oh, poor Cathleen! Poor Cade!"

"Fiddle-dee-dee!"  cried  Scarlett,  beginning  to  be irritated. It was annoying that Melanie always seemed to grasp more of situations than she
herself did. Cathleen's plight seemed to her more startling than catastrophic. Of course it was no pleasant thought, marrying Yankee white trash,
but after all a girl couldn't live alone on a plantation; she had to have a husband to help her run it.

"Melly, it's like I said the other day. There isn't anybody for girls to marry and they've got to marry someone."

"Oh,  they  don't  have to marry! There's nothing shameful in being a spinster. Look at Aunt Pitty. Oh, I'd rather see Cathleen dead! I know Cade
would  rather  see  her  dead. It's the end of the Calverts. Just think what her--what their children will be. Oh, Scarlett, have Pork saddle the
horse quickly and you ride after her and tell her to come live with us!"

"Good Lord!" cried Scarlett, shocked at the matter-of-fact way in which Melanie was offering Tara. Scarlett certainly had no intention of feeding
another mouth. She started to say this but something in Melanie's stricken face halted the words.

"She wouldn't come, Melly," she amended. "You know she wouldn't. She's so proud and she'd think it was charity."

"That's true, that's true!" said Melanie distractedly, watching the small cloud of red dust disappear down the road.

"You've been with me for months," thought Scarlett grimly, looking at her sister-in-law, "and it's never occurred to you that it's charity you're
living  on. And I guess it never will. You're one of those people the war didn't change and you go right on thinking and acting just like nothing
had happened--like we were still rich as Croesus and had more food than we know what to do with and guests didn't matter. I guess I've got you on
my neck for the rest of my life. But I won't have Cathleen too."



CHAPTER XXX


In  that  warm  summer  after  peace  came,  Tara suddenly lost its isolation. And for months thereafter a stream of scarecrows, bearded, ragged,
footsore  and  always  hungry, toiled up the red hill to Tara and came to rest on the shady front steps, wanting food and a night's lodging. They
were  Confederate  soldiers  walking home. The railroad had carried the remains of Johnston's army from North Carolina to Atlanta and dumped them
there,  and  from  Atlanta  they  began  their pilgrimages afoot. When the wave of Johnston's men had passed, the weary veterans from the Army of
Virginia  arrived  and  then  men from the Western troops, beating their way south toward homes which might not exist and families which might be
scattered or dead. Most of them were walking, a few fortunate ones rode bony horses and mules which the terms of the surrender had permitted them
to keep, gaunt animals which even an untrained eye could tell would never reach far-away Florida and south Georgia.

Going home! Going home! That was the only thought in the soldiers' minds. Some were sad and silent, others gay and contemptuous of hardships, but
the thought that it was all over and they were going home was the one thing that sustained them. Few of them were bitter. They left bitterness to
their  women and their old people. They had fought a good fight, had been licked and were willing to settle down peaceably to plowing beneath the
flag they had fought.

Going  home!  Going home! They could talk of nothing else, neither battles nor wounds, nor imprisonment nor the future. Later, they would refight
battles  and  tell  children  and grandchildren of pranks and forays and charges, of hunger, forced marches and wounds, but not now. Some of them
lacked an arm or a leg or an eye, many had scars which would ache in rainy weather if they lived for seventy years but these seemed small matters
now. Later it would be different.

Old  and  young,  talkative and taciturn, rich planter and sallow Cracker, they all had two things in common, lice and dysentery. The Confederate
soldier  was so accustomed to his verminous state he did not give it a thought and scratched unconcernedly even in the presence of ladies. As for
dysentery--the  "bloody  flux"  as  the ladies delicately called it--it seemed to have spared no one from private to general. Four years of half-
starvation, four years of rations which were coarse or green or half-putrefied, had done its work with them and every soldier who stopped at Tara
was either just recovering or was actively suffering from it.

"Dey  ain'  a soun' set of bowels in de whole Confedrut ahmy," observed Mammy darkly as she sweated over the fire, brewing a bitter concoction of
blackberry  roots  which  had been Ellen's sovereign remedy for such afflictions. "It's mah notion dat 'twarn't de Yankees whut beat our gempmum.
'Twuz dey own innards. Kain no gempmum fight wid his bowels tuhnin' ter water."

One  and  all,  Mammy  dosed  them, never waiting to ask foolish questions about the state of their organs and, one and all, they drank her doses
meekly  and  with  wry  faces,  remembering, perhaps, other stern black faces in far-off places and other inexorable black hands holding medicine
spoons.

In  the  matter  of  "comp'ny"  Mammy was equally adamant. No lice-ridden soldier should come into Tara. She marched them behind a clump of thick
bushes,  relieved  them of their uniforms, gave them a basin of water and strong lye soap to wash with and provided them with quilts and blankets
to  cover  their  nakedness,  while she boiled their clothing in her huge wash pot. It was useless for the girls to argue hotly that such conduct
humiliated the soldiers. Mammy replied that the girls would be a sight more humiliated if they found lice upon themselves.

When the soldiers began arriving almost daily, Mammy protested against their being allowed to use the bedrooms. Always she feared lest some louse
had  escaped  her.  Rather  than  argue the matter, Scarlett turned the parlor with its deep velvet rug into a dormitory. Mammy cried out equally
loudly  at the sacrilege of soldiers being permitted to sleep on Miss Ellen's rug but Scarlett was firm. They had to sleep somewhere. And, in the
months after the surrender, the deep soft nap began to show signs of wear and finally the heavy warp and woof showed through in spots where heels
had worn it and spurs dug carelessly.

Of  each  soldier,  they asked eagerly of Ashley. Suellen, bridling, always asked news of Mr. Kennedy. But none of the soldiers had ever heard of
them  nor  were  they  inclined  to  talk about the missing. It was enough that they themselves were alive, and they did not care to think of the
thousands in unmarked graves who would never come home.

The  family tried to bolster Melanie's courage after each of these disappointments. Of course, Ashley hadn't died in prison. Some Yankee chaplain
would have written if this were true. Of course, he was coming home but his prison was so far away. Why, goodness, it took days riding on a train
to  make  the  trip  and  if  Ashley  was walking, like these men . . . Why hadn't he written? Well, darling, you know what the mails are now--so
uncertain  and  slipshod  even  where mail routes are re-established. But suppose--suppose he had died on the way home. Now, Melanie, some Yankee
woman  would  have  surely  written  us about it! . . . Yankee women! Bah! . . . Melly, there ARE some nice Yankee women. Oh, yes, there are! God
couldn't make a whole nation without having some nice women in it! Scarlett, you remember we did meet a nice Yankee woman at Saratoga that time--
Scarlett, tell Melly about her!

"Nice,  my  foot!" replied Scarlert. "She asked me how many bloodhounds we kept to chase our darkies with! I agree with Melly. I never saw a nice
Yankee, male or female. But don't cry, Melly! Ashley'll come home. It's a long walk and maybe--maybe he hasn't got any boots."

Then  at  the  thought  of  Ashley barefooted, Scarlett could have cried. Let other soldiers limp by in rags with their feet tied up in sacks and
strips  of carpet, but not Ashley. He should come home on a prancing horse, dressed in fine clothes and shining boots, a plume in his hat. It was
the final degradation for her to think of Ashley reduced to the state of these other soldiers.

One  afternoon  in  June  when  everyone  at Tara was assembled on the back porch eagerly watching Pork cut the first half-ripe watermelon of the
season,  they heard hooves on the gravel of the front drive. Prissy started languidly toward the front door, while those left behind argued hotly
as to whether they should hide the melon or keep it for supper, should the caller at the door prove to be a soldier.

Melly  and  Carreen  whispered  that  the  soldier guest should have a share and Scarlett, backed by Suellen and Mammy, hissed to Pork to hide it
quickly.

"Don't  be a goose, girls! There's not enough for us as it is and if there are two or three famished soldiers out there, none of us will even get
a taste," said Scarlett.

While Pork stood with the little melon clutched to him, uncertain as to the final decision, they heard Prissy cry out.

"Gawdlmighty! Miss Scarlett! Miss Melly! Come quick!"

"Who is it?" cried Scarlett, leaping up from the steps and racing through the hall with Melly at her shoulder and the others streaming after her.

Ashley! she thought. Oh, perhaps--

"It's Uncle Peter! Miss Pittypat's Uncle Peter!"

They  all  ran  out  to the front porch and saw the tall grizzled old despot of Aunt Pitty's house climbing down from a rat-tailed nag on which a
section of quilting had been strapped. On his wide black face, accustomed dignity strove with delight at seeing old friends, with the result that
his brow was furrowed in a frown but his mouth was hanging open like a happy toothless old hound's.

Everyone ran down the steps to greet him, black and white shaking his hand and asking questions, but Melly's voice rose above them all.

"Auntie isn't sick, is she?"

"No'm.  She's  po'ly,  thank God," answered Peter, fastening a severe look first on Melly and then on Scarlett, so that they suddenly felt guilty
but could think of no reason why. "She's po'ly but she is plum outdone wid you young Misses, an' ef it come right down to it, Ah is too!"

"Why! Uncle Peter! What on earth--"

"Y'all  nee'n  try  ter  'scuse you'seffs. Ain' Miss Pitty writ you an' writ you ter come home? Ain' Ah seed her write an' seed her a-cryin' w'en
y'all writ her back dat you got too much ter do on disyere ole farm ter come home?"

"But, Uncle Peter--"

"Huccome  you leave Miss Pitty by herseff lak dis w'en she so scary lak? You know well's Ah do Miss Pitty ain' never live by herseff an' she been
shakin'  in  her  lil shoes ever since she come back frum Macom. She say fer me ter tell y'all plain as Ah knows how dat she jes' kain unnerstan'
y'all desertin' her in her hour of need."

"Now,  hesh!" said Mammy tartly, for it sat ill upon her to hear Tara referred to as an "ole farm." Trust an ignorant city-bred darky not to know
the  difference  between  a  farm  and  a  plantation. "Ain' us got no hours of need? Ain' us needin' Miss Scarlett an' Miss Melly right hyah an'
needin' dem bad? Huccome Miss Pitty doan ast her brudder fer 'sistance, does she need any?"

Uncle Peter gave her a withering look.

"Us ain' had nuthin' ter do wid Mist' Henry fer y'ars, an' us is too ole ter start now." He turned back to the girls, who were trying to suppress
their smiles. "You young Misses ought ter tek shame, leavin' po' Miss Pitty 'lone, wid half her frens daid an' de other half in Macom, an' 'Lanta
full of Yankee sojers an' trashy free issue niggers."

The  two girls had borne the castigation with straight faces as long as they could, but the thought of Aunt Pitty sending Peter to scold them and
bring  them  back  bodily  to  Atlanta  was  too much for their control. They burst into laughter and hung on each other's shoulders for support.
Naturally,  Pork and Dilcey and Mammy gave vent to loud guffaws at hearing the detractor of their beloved Tara set at naught. Suellen and Carreen
giggled  and  even  Gerald's  face  wore  a  vague  smile. Everyone laughed except Peter, who shifted from one large splayed foot to the other in
mounting indignation.

"Whut's wrong wid you, nigger?" inquired Mammy with a grin. "Is you gittin' too ole ter perteck yo' own Missus?"

Peter was outraged.

"Too ole! Me too ole? No, Ma'm! Ah kin perteck Miss Pitty lak Ah allus done. Ain' Ah perteck her down ter Macom when us refugeed? Ain' Ah perteck
her  w'en de Yankees come ter Macom an' she so sceered she faintin' all de time? An' ain' Ah 'quire disyere nag ter bring her back ter 'Lanta an'
perteck  her  an' her pa's silver all de way?" Peter drew himself to his full height as he vindicated himself. "Ah ain' talkin' about perteckin'.
Ah's talkin' 'bout how it LOOK."

"How who look?"

"Ah'm  talkin'  'bout  how  it  look  ter folks, seein' Miss Pitty livin' 'lone. Folks talks scan'lous 'bout maiden ladies dat lives by deyseff,"
continued  Peter,  and  it  was  obvious  to his listeners that Pittypat, in his mind, was still a plump and charming miss of sixteen who must be
sheltered  against  evil  tongues. "An' Ah ain' figgerin' on havin' folks criticize her. No, ma'm . . . An' Ah ain' figgerin' on her takin' in no
bo'ders,  jes'  fer comp'ny needer. Ah done tole her dat. 'Not w'ile you got yo' flesh an' blood dat belongs wid you,' Ah says. An' now her flesh
an' blood denyin' her. Miss Pitty ain' nuthin' but a chile an'--"

At this, Scarlett and Melly whooped louder and sank down to the steps. Finally Melly wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.

"Poor  Uncle Peter! I'm sorry I laughed. Really and truly. There! Do forgive me. Miss Scarlett and I just can't come home now. Maybe I'll come in
September after the cotton is picked. Did Auntie send you all the way down here just to bring us back on that bag of bones?"

At  this question, Peter's jaw suddenly dropped and guilt and consternation swept over his wrinkled black face. His protruding underlip retreated
to normal as swiftly as a turtle withdraws its head beneath its shell.

"Miss  Melly. Ah is gittin' ole, Ah spec', 'cause Ah clean fergit fer de moment whut she sent me fer, an' it's important too. Ah got a letter fer
you. Miss Pitty wouldn' trust de mails or nobody but me ter bring it an'--"

"A letter? For me? Who from?"

"Well'm, it's--Miss Pitty, she says ter me, 'You, Peter, you brek it gen'ly ter Miss Melly,' an' Ah say--"

Melly rose from the steps, her hand at her heart.

"Ashley! Ashley! He's dead!"

"No'm!  No'm!"  cried  Peter,  his  voice  rising to a shrill bawl, as he fumbled in the breast pocket of his ragged coat. "He's 'live! Disyere a
letter frum him. He comin' home. He-- Gawdlmighty! Ketch her, Mammy! Lemme--"

"Doan  you  tech her, you ole fool!" thundered Mammy, struggling to keep Melanie's sagging body from falling to the ground. "You pious black ape!
Brek it gen'ly! You, Poke, tek her feet. Miss Carreen, steady her haid. Lessus lay her on de sofa in de parlor."

There  was  a tumult of sound as everyone but Scarlett swarmed about the fainting Melanie, everyone crying out in alarm, scurrying into the house
for  water  and pillows, and in a moment Scarlett and Uncle Peter were left standing alone on the walk. She stood rooted, unable to move from the
position  to  which  she  had leaped when she heard his words, staring at the old man who stood feebly waving a letter. His old black face was as
pitiful as a child's under its mother's disapproval, his dignity collapsed.

For  a  moment she could not speak or move, and though her mind shouted: "He isn't dead! He's coming home!" the knowledge brought neither joy nor
excitement, only a stunned immobility. Uncle Peter's voice came as from a far distance, plaintive, placating.

"Mist'  Willie  Burr  frum  Macom  whut  is kin ter us, he brung it ter Miss Pitty. Mist' Willie he in de same jail house wid Mist' Ashley. Mist'
Willie he got a hawse an' he got hyah soon. But Mist' Ashley he a-walkin' an'--"

Scarlett  snatched  the  letter from his hand. It was addressed to Melly in Miss Pitty's writing but that did not make her hesitate a moment. She
ripped  it  open  and  Miss Pitty's inclosed note fell to the ground. Within the envelope there was a piece of folded paper, grimy from the dirty
pocket  in  which  it had been carried, creased and ragged about the edges. It bore the inscription in Ashley's hand: "Mrs. George Ashley Wilkes,
Care Miss Sarah Jane Hamilton, Atlanta, or Twelve Oaks, Jonesboro, Ga."

With fingers that shook, she opened it and read:

"Beloved, I am coming home to you--"

Tears  began  to  stream  down  her  face  so  that  she could not read and her heart swelled up until she felt she could not bear the joy of it.
Clutching  the  letter  to her, she raced up the porch steps and down the hall, past the parlor where all the inhabitants of Tara were getting in
one another's way as they worked over the unconscious Melanie, and into Ellen's office. She shut the door and locked it and flung herself down on
the sagging old sofa crying, laughing, kissing the letter.

"Beloved," she whispered, "I am coming home to you."



Common  sense told them that unless Ashley developed wings, it would be weeks or even months before he could travel from Illinois to Georgia, but
hearts  nevertheless  beat  wildly  whenever a soldier turned into the avenue at Tara. Each bearded scarecrow might be Ashley. And if it were not
Ashley,  perhaps  the soldier would have news of him or a letter from Aunt Pitty about him. Black and white, they rushed to the front porch every
time  they heard footsteps. The sight of a uniform was enough to bring everyone flying from the woodpile, the pasture and the cotton patch. For a
month  after  the  letter came, work was almost at a standstill. No one wanted to be out of the house when he arrived. Scarlett least of all. And
she could not insist on the others attending to their duties when she so neglected hers.

But when the weeks crawled by and Ashley did not come or any news of him, Tara settled back into its old routine. Longing hearts could only stand
so  much  of longing. An uneasy fear crept into Scarlett's mind that something had happened to him along the way. Rock Island was so far away and
he  might have been weak or sick when released from prison. And he had no money and was tramping through a country where Confederates were hated.
If  only she knew where he was, she would send money to him, send every penny she had and let the family go hungry, so he could come home swiftly
on the train.

"Beloved, I am coming home to you."

In  the  first  rush  of  joy  when her eyes met those words, they had meant only that Ashley was coming home to her. Now, in the light of cooler
reason,  it  was  Melanie to whom he was returning, Melanie who went about the house these days singing with joy. Occasionally, Scarlett wondered
bitterly  why Melanie could not have died in childbirth in Atlanta. That would have made things perfect. Then she could have married Ashley after
a  decent  interval  and made little Beau a good stepmother too. When such thoughts came she did not pray hastily to God, telling Him she did not
mean it. God did not frighten her any more.

Soldiers  came  singly  and in pairs and dozens and they were always hungry. Scarlett thought despairingly that a plague of locusts would be more
welcome.  She cursed again the old custom of hospitality which had flowered in the era of plenty, the custom which would not permit any traveler,
great or humble, to go on his journey without a night's lodging, food for himself and his horse and the utmost courtesy the house could give. She
knew  that  era  had  passed  forever, but the rest of the household did not, nor did the soldiers, and each soldier was welcomed as if he were a
long-awaited guest.

As the never-ending line went by, her heart hardened. They were eating the food meant for the mouths of Tara, vegetables over whose long rows she
had  wearied  her  back,  food  she  had driven endless miles to buy. Food was so hard to get and the money in the Yankee's wallet would not last
forever.  Only a few greenbacks and the two gold pieces were left now. Why should she feed this horde of hungry men? The war was over. They would
never again stand between her and danger. So, she gave orders to Pork that when soldiers were in the house, the table should be set sparely. This
order  prevailed until she noticed that Melanie, who had never been strong since Beau was born, was inducing Pork to put only dabs of food on her
plate and giving her share to the soldiers.

"You'll  have  to  stop  it, Melanie," she scolded. "You're half sick yourself and if you don't eat more, you'll be sick in bed and we'll have to
nurse you. Let these men go hungry. They can stand it. They've stood it for four years and it won't hurt them to stand it a little while longer."

Melanie turned to her and on her face was the first expression of naked emotion Scarlett had ever seen in those serene eyes.

"Oh,  Scarlett,  don't  scold  me!  Let  me  do  it. You don't know how it helps me. Every time I give some poor man my share I think that maybe,
somewhere on the road up north, some woman is giving my Ashley a share of her dinner and it's helping him to get home to me!"

"My Ashley."

"Beloved, I am coming home to you."

Scarlett turned away, wordless. After that, Melanie noticed there was more food on the table when guests were present, even though Scarlett might
grudge them every mouthful.

When the soldiers were too ill to go on, and there were many such, Scarlett put them to bed with none too good grace. Each sick man meant another
mouth  to  feed. Someone had to nurse him and that meant one less worker at the business of fence building, hoeing, weeding and plowing. One boy,
on  whose face a blond fuzz had just begun to sprout, was dumped on the front porch by a mounted soldier bound for Fayetteville. He had found him
unconscious  by  the  roadside and had brought him, across his saddle, to Tara, the nearest house. The girls thought he must be one of the little
cadets  who  had  been  called  out  of  military school when Sherman approached Milledgeville but they never knew, for he died without regaining
consciousness and a search of his pockets yielded no information.

A  nice-looking boy, obviously a gentleman, and somewhere to the south, some woman was watching the roads, wondering where he was and when he was
coming  home,  just  as  she and Melanie, with a wild hope in their hearts, watched every bearded figure that came up their walk. They buried the
cadet in the family burying ground, next to the three little O'Hara boys, and Melanie cried sharply as Pork filled in the grave, wondering in her
heart if strangers were doing this same thing to the tall body of Ashley.

Will  Benteen  was  another  soldier,  like  the  nameless boy, who arrived unconscious across the saddle of a comrade. Will was acutely ill with
pneumonia and when the girls put him to bed, they feared he would soon join the boy in the burying ground.

He  had the sallow malarial face of the south Georgia Cracker, pale pinkish hair and washed-out blue eyes which even in delirium were patient and
mild. One of his legs was gone at the knee and to the stump was fitted a roughly whittled wooden peg. He was obviously a Cracker, just as the boy
they  had  buried  so  short  a  while  ago was obviously a planter's son. Just how the girls knew this they could not say. Certainly Will was no
dirtier,  no  more  hairy, no more lice infested than many fine gentlemen who came to Tara. Certainly the language he used in his delirium was no
less  grammatical  than that of the Tarleton twins. But they knew instinctively, as they knew thoroughbred horses from scrubs, that he was not of
their class. But this knowledge did not keep them from laboring to save him.

Emaciated  from  a year in a Yankee prison, exhausted by his long tramp on his ill-fitting wooden peg, he had little strength to combat pneumonia
and  for  days  he  lay  in  the  bed  moaning, trying to get up, fighting battles over again. Never once did he call for mother, wife, sister or
sweetheart and this omission worried Carreen.

"A man ought to have some folks," she said. "And he sounds like he didn't have a soul in the world."

For  all  his  lankiness  he  was  tough,  and  good nursing pulled him through. The day came when his pale blue eyes, perfectly cognizant of his
surroundings, fell upon Carreen sitting beside him, telling her rosary beads, the morning sun shining through her fair hair.

"Then you warn't a dream, after all," he said, in his flat toneless voice. "I hope I ain't troubled you too much, Ma'm."

His convalescence was a long one and he lay quietly looking out of the window at the magnolias and causing very little trouble to anyone. Carreen
liked  him  because  of  his  placid and unembarrassed silences. She would sit beside him through the long hot afternoons, fanning him and saying
nothing.

Carreen  had  very  little  to say these days as she moved, delicate and wraithlike, about the tasks which were within her strength. She prayed a
good  deal,  for when Scarlett came into her room without knocking, she always found her on her knees by her bed. The sight never failed to annoy
her,  for  Scarlett felt that the time for prayer had passed. If God had seen fit to punish them so, then God could very well do without prayers.
Religion  had  always  been a bargaining process with Scarlett. She promised God good behavior in exchange for favors. God had broken the bargain
time  and  again, to her way of thinking, and she felt that she owed Him nothing at all now. And whenever she found Carreen on her knees when she
should have been taking an afternoon nap or doing the mending, she felt that Carreen was shirking her share of the burdens.

She  said  as  much to Will Benteen one afternoon when he was able to sit up in a chair and was startled when he said in his flat voice: "Let her
be, Miss Scarlett. It comforts her."

"Comforts her?"

"Yes, she's prayin' for your ma and him."

"Who is 'him'?"

His  faded  blue  eyes  looked at her from under sandy lashes without surprise. Nothing seemed to surprise or excite him. Perhaps he had seen too
much  of  the unexpected ever to be startled again. That Scarlett did not know what was in her sister's heart did not seem odd to him. He took it
as naturally as he did the fact that Carreen had found comfort in talking to him, a stranger.

"Her beau, that boy Brent something-or-other who was killed at Gettysburg."

"Her beau?" said Scarlett shortly. "Her beau, nothing! He and his brother were my beaux."

"Yes, so she told me. Looks like most of the County was your beaux. But, all the same, he was her beau after you turned him down, because when he
come  home  on his last furlough they got engaged. She said he was the only boy she'd ever cared about and so it kind of comforts her to pray for
him."

"Well, fiddle-dee-dee!" said Scarlett, a very small dart of jealousy entering her.

She  looked  curiously  at this lanky man with his bony stooped shoulders, his pinkish hair and calm unwavering eyes. So he knew things about her
own  family  which she had not troubled to discover. So that was why Carreen mooned about, praying all the time. Well, she'd get over it. Lots of
girls  got  over  dead  sweethearts,  yes, dead husbands, too. She'd certainly gotten over Charles. And she knew one girl in Atlanta who had been
widowed three times by the war and was still able to take notice of men. She said as much to Will but he shook his head.

"Not Miss Carreen," he said with finality.

Will  was pleasant to talk to because he had so little to say and yet was so understanding a listener. She told him about her problems of weeding
and  hoeing  and planting, of fattening the hogs and breeding the cow, and he gave good advice for he had owned a small farm in south Georgia and
two  negroes.  He  knew his slaves were free now and the farm gone to weeds and seedling pines. His sister, his only relative, had moved to Texas
with  her  husband  years  ago and he was alone in the world. Yet, none of these things seemed to bother him any more than the leg he had left in
Virginia.

Yes,  Will was a comfort to Scarlett after hard days when the negroes muttered and Suellen nagged and cried and Gerald asked too frequently where
Ellen was. She could tell Will anything. She even told him of killing the Yankee and glowed with pride when he commented briefly: "Good work!"

Eventually all the family found their way to Will's room to air their troubles--even Mammy, who had at first been distant with him because he was
not quality and had owned only two slaves.

When  he was able to totter about the house, he turned his hands to weaving baskets of split oak and mending the furniture ruined by the Yankees.
He  was clever at whittling and Wade was constantly by his side, for he whittled out toys for him, the only toys the little boy had. With Will in
the house, everyone felt safe in leaving Wade and the two babies while they went about their tasks, for he could care for them as deftly as Mammy
and only Melly surpassed him at soothing the screaming black and white babies.

"You've  been  mighty good to me, Miss Scarlett," he said, "and me a stranger and nothin' to you all. I've caused you a heap of trouble and worry
and  if  it's  all  the same to you, I'm goin' to stay here and help you all with the work till I've paid you back some for your trouble. I can't
ever pay it all, 'cause there ain't no payment a man can give for his life."

So  he  stayed  and, gradually, unobtrusively, a large part of the burden of Tara shifted from Scarlett's shoulders to the bony shoulders of Will
Benteen.



It was September and time to pick the cotton. Will Benteen sat on the front steps at Scarlett's feet in the pleasant sunshine of the early autumn
afternoon and his flat voice went on and on languidly about the exorbitant costs of ginning the cotton at the new gin near Fayetteville. However,
he had learned that day in Fayetteville that he could cut this expense a fourth by lending the horse and wagon for two weeks to the gin owner. He
had delayed closing the bargain until he discussed it with Scarlett.

She  looked  at  the lank figure leaning against the porch column, chewing a straw. Undoubtedly, as Mammy frequently declared, Will was something
the  Lord  had  provided and Scarlett often wondered how Tara could have lived through the last few months without him. He never had much to say,
never  displayed  any  energy,  never  seemed to take much interest in anything that went on about him, but he knew everything about everybody at
Tara.  And  he  did  things.  He did them silently, patiently and competently. Though he had only one leg, he could work faster than Pork. And he
could  get  work  out  of  Pork,  which  was, to Scarlett, a marvelous thing. When the cow had the colic and the horse fell ill with a mysterious
ailment  which  threatened  to remove him permanently from them, Will sat up nights with them and saved them. That he was a shrewd trader brought
him Scarlett's respect, for he could ride out in the mornings with a bushel or two of apples, sweet potatoes and other vegetables and return with
seeds, lengths of cloth, flour and other necessities which she knew she could never have acquired, good trader though she was.

He  had  gradually  slipped  into  the status of a member of the family and slept on a cot in the little dressing room off Gerald's room. He said
nothing  of  leaving Tara, and Scarlett was careful not to question him, fearful that he might leave them. Sometimes, she thought that if he were
anybody  and  had  any  gumption  he would go home, even if he no longer had a home. But even with this thought, she would pray fervently that he
would remain indefinitely. It was so convenient to have a man about the house.

She  thought, too, that if Carreen had the sense of a mouse she would see that Will cared for her. Scarlett would have been eternally grateful to
Will,  had  he  asked her for Carreen's hand. Of course, before the war, Will would certainly not have been an eligible suitor. He was not of the
planter  class  at  all,  though he was not poor white. He was just plain Cracker, a small farmer, half-educated, prone to grammatical errors and
ignorant  of  some of the finer manners the O'Haras were accustomed to in gentlemen. In fact, Scarlett wondered if he could be called a gentleman
at all and decided that he couldn't. Melanie hotly defended him, saying that anyone who had Will's kind heart and thoughtfulness of others was of
gentle  birth. Scarlett knew that Ellen would have fainted at the thought of a daughter of hers marrying such a man, but now Scarlett had been by
necessity  forced  too  far away from Ellen's teachings to let that worry her. Men were scarce, girls had to marry someone and Tara had to have a
man.  But Carreen, deeper and deeper immersed in her prayer book and every day losing more of her touch with the world of realities, treated Will
as gently as a brother and took him as much for granted as she did Pork.

"If  Carreen  had  any sense of gratitude to me for what I've done for her, she'd marry him and not let him get away from here," Scarlett thought
indignantly. "But no, she must spend her time mooning about a silly boy who probably never gave her a serious thought."

So Will remained at Tara, for what reason she did not know and she found his businesslike man-to-man attitude with her both pleasant and helpful.
He was gravely deferential to the vague Gerald but it was to Scarlett that he turned as the real head of the house.

She  gave  her  approval  to  the  plan  of  hiring  out  the  horse even though it meant the family would be without any means of transportation
temporarily. Suellen would be especially grieved at this. Her greatest joy lay in going to Jonesboro or Fayetteville with Will when he drove over
on  business.  Adorned  in the assembled best of the family, she called on old friends, heard all the gossip of the County and felt herself again
Miss  O'Hara of Tara. Suellen never missed the opportunity to leave the plantation and give herself airs among people who did not know she weeded
the garden and made beds.

Miss Fine Airs will just have to do without gadding for two weeks, thought Scarlett, and we'll have to put up with her nagging and her bawling.

Melanie  joined  them  on  the  veranda,  the  baby  in her arms, and spreading an old blanket on the floor, set little Beau down to crawl. Since
Ashley's  letter  Melanie  had divided her time between glowing, singing happiness and anxious longing. But happy or depressed, she was too thin,
too  white.  She  did her share of the work uncomplainingly but she was always ailing. Old Dr. Fontaine diagnosed her trouble as female complaint
and concurred with Dr. Meade in saying she should never have had Beau. And he said frankly that another baby would kill her.

"When  I  was  over  to  Fayetteville  today," said Will, "I found somethin' right cute that I thought would interest you ladies and I brought it
home."  He  fumbled  in  his back pants pocket and brought out the wallet of calico, stiffened with bark, which Carreen had made him. From it, he
drew a Confederate bill.

"If  you  think Confederate money is cute, Will, I certainly don't," said Scarlett shortly, for the very sight of Confederate money made her mad.
"We've  got three thousand dollars of it in Pa's trunk this minute, and Mammy's after me to let her paste it over the holes in the attic walls so
the draft won't get her. And I think I'll do it. Then it'll be good for something."

"'Imperious  Caesar,  dead  and turned to clay,'" said Melanie with a sad smile. "Don't do that, Scarlett. Keep it for Wade. He'll be proud of it
some day."

"Well,  I  don't know nothin' about imperious Caesar," said Will, patiently, "but what I've got is in line with what you've just said about Wade,
Miss Melly. It's a poem, pasted on the back of this bill. I know Miss Scarlett ain't much on poems but I thought this might interest her."

He  turned  the bill over. On its back was pasted a strip of coarse brown wrapping paper, inscribed in pale homemade ink. Will cleared his throat
and read slowly and with difficulty.

"The name is 'Lines on the Back of a Confederate Note,'" he said.


"Representing  nothing on God's earth now And naught in the waters below it--As the pledge of nation that's passed away Keep it, dear friend, and
show it.

Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend an ear To the tale this trifle will tell Of Liberty, born of patriots' dream, Of a storm-cradled nation that
fell."


"Oh,  how  beautiful!  How touching!" cried Melanie. "Scarlett, you mustn't give the money to Mammy to paste in the attic. It's more than paper--
just like this poem said: 'The pledge of a nation that's passed away!'"

"Oh, Melly, don't be sentimental! Paper is paper and we've got little enough of it and I'm tired of hearing Mammy grumble about the cracks in the
attic. I hope when Wade grows up I'll have plenty of greenbacks to give him instead of Confederate trash."

Will,  who had been enticing little Beau across the blanket with the bill during this argument, looked up and, shading his eyes, glanced down the
driveway.

"More company," he said, squinting in the sun. "Another soldier."

Scarlett  followed  his gaze and saw a familiar sight, a bearded man coming slowly up the avenue under the cedars, a man clad in a ragged mixture
of blue and gray uniforms, head bowed tiredly, feet dragging slowly.

"I thought we were about through with soldiers," she said. "I hope this one isn't very hungry."

"He'll be hungry," said Will briefly.

Melanie rose.

"I'd better tell Dilcey to set an extra plate," she said, "and warn Mammy not to get the poor thing's clothes off his back too abruptly and--"

She stopped so suddenly that Scarlett turned to look at her. Melanie's thin hand was at her throat, clutching it as if it was torn with pain, and
Scarlett could see the veins beneath the white skin throbbing swiftly. Her face went whiter and her brown eyes dilated enormously.

She's going to faint, thought Scarlett, leaping to her feet and catching her arm.

But,  in  an  instant,  Melanie threw off her hand and was down the steps. Down the graveled path she flew, skimming lightly as a bird, her faded
skirts  streaming behind her, her arms outstretched. Then, Scarlett knew the truth, with the impact of a blow. She reeled back against an upright
of the porch as the man lifted a face covered with a dirty blond beard and stopped still, looking toward the house as if he was too weary to take
another  step. Her heart leaped and stopped and then began racing, as Melly with incoherent cries threw herself into the dirty soldier's arms and
his head bent down toward hers. With rapture, Scarlett took two running steps forward but was checked when Will's hand closed upon her skirt.

"Don't spoil it," he said quietly.

"Turn me loose, you fool! Turn me loose! It's Ashley!"

He did not relax his grip.

"After  all, he's HER husband, ain't he?" Will asked calmly and, looking down at him in a confusion of joy and impotent fury, Scarlett saw in the
quiet depths of his eyes understanding and pity.

Read Part Three of Gone with the Wind.