Here's the update schedule: a chapter every week.
Thanks for the reviews, Guest, and others too. And please post any criticism you may have to make. I love some good criticism. Also, I have changed the primary genre from Romance to Tragedy, as it is more accurate. I am more interested in character development than romance and a quick, fluffy resolution of all conflicts. Which would mean that Scarlett will pay for her mistakes. But Ashley is not one of them.
I don't own GWTW. Parts of MM's writing have been lifted out
Chapter 3
May 1864,
General Sherman was back in Georgia again. It was rumoured that the Yankees were planning an attack on the Western and Atlantic Railroad. But Atlanta wasn't bothered by fighting near Dalton. It was just a few miles away from the battle of Chickamauga and they'll be damned if they could cross the mountainous regions again, not when they could not do it the last time. Georgia was the heart of the south; in Atlanta were factories making pistols, saddles, tents and ammunition and huge hospitals. Old Joe would not let a single Yankee south of Dalton. Everyone knew that. Next to General Lee himself, there was no greater general now that Stonewall Jackson was dead. And no one dared blaspheme against him other than one Rhett Butler.
On one warm May evening a loyal group of Confederates gathered in the porch of the serene, feminine little house of the Hamilton family. They rocked on their chairs as the fireflies moved magically through the dusk. Dr Meade's voice, full of the rich eloquence of a politician and the calm authority of age floated through the crowd of women.
"Ladies, there is nothing to fear, for General Johnston is standing there in those mountains like an iron rampart. Yes, an iron rampart," he said, relishing the phrase, "in those mountains which held back the Yankees before and shall do so again. Not a single Yankee will cross Dalton, mark my words!"
Scarlett did indeed mark his words, which on retrospect was the worst mistakes she ever made. Mrs. Meade held Phil close, for if Dr Meade was right, he would have to go as he was sixteen already and in the home guard. Rhett Butler lounged in the shadows, face an unreadable blank as Wade slept in his arms. Wade liked Rhett, and oddly enough, Rhett liked Wade so she let him stay up late.
Rhett's presence was unexpected. Just as the smell of roast rooster had filled the house, Rhett had arrived from one of his mysterious trips and used his honeyed tongue to his advantage. Soon, he was ushered in by a blushing Aunt Pitty, while he bowed, box of bonbons in hand and double-edged compliments in his mouth. There was nothing to do but let Rhett Butler stay, though Scarlett felt a strange urge to either show him to the door or run right to him so that he'd shut the pompous old goat with some joke or get him all riled up and see him march out of the house like an offended duckling. Rhett had been on his best behaviour tonight; sympathetic to Fanny, gallant to Captain Ashburn and charming to Melanie.
But then talk turned to war; war romances, cowardice, win, defeats, and hope. Always hope. Unwavering hope, fixed and stubborn, as a child clinging to his parents. But Rhett had gotten increasingly quiet and moody and she got bored out of her mind.
Carey Ashburn announced that he had transferred from Atlanta to the army at Dalton and the ladies kissed his stiffened arm and declared they would miss him a lot.
"Why he'll be back in no time. 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. Of course, Sherman will never pass; he'll never dislodge Old Joe." The ladies beamed back at him reverently.
Then Rhett spoke, a cruel twist in his down-twisted mouth, "I believe that rumour 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?" he barked.
"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 colours by the last victory."
"Sir, 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 ploughing."
Scarlett watched in fascination. How could he dare to talk about them, in front of the Meades? And, oh, he was good! He had caught her fairly–hundreds of men who had declared the war a "rich man's war and a poor man's fight." But far outnumbering those were men who deserted to feed their families, after they received misspelled letters and telegrams. "We want food" "We air hungry" "No crop this year–we hungry, come home, we ain't have no money." They were hungry, their wives, their babies, the parents. When would it be over? They were hungry. They were not considered deserters but they did reduce the strength of the army.
Rhett caught her admiring expression and he winked discreetly. Scarlett blushed and dropped her eyes down. Had anyone else seen her? She looked around but everyone seemed to be absorbed into the discussion. She sighed, relieved.
"Captain Butler, the numerical difference between our troops and those of the Yankees has never mattered. One Confederate is worth a dozen Yankees," Dr Meade said coldly.
"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.
He was mocking, rude and perhaps even arrogant but he was right about that. How did he do it, Scarlett wondered? What if she spo–
No! She wouldn't think about that. Not now.
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!"
"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." Scarlett almost snorted.
"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."
"Perhaps you are right, for Johnston is a clever man. But how, pray tell me, will he hold on? He can only delay what I humbly think is inevitable," he said, looking anything but humble.
Dr Meade only fumed and started shovelling down the chicken.
She felt a wave of resentment against Rhett, until she realised that Dr Meade couldn't argue against such irrefutable logic at all. Perhaps Johnston could hold them, but for how long? But how could anyone with not believe with heart and soul in the invincibility of General Johnston and his men? But perhaps Rhett was right. Fear gripped her heart. What if Georgia–?
Oh, she would think about it later!
Aunt Pitty held her hand and asked her hastily, "Dear, will you favour us with a piano selection?"
And Scarlett rose in the hushed room, racking her brains to find something appropriate. All the war songs were so sad! And Fanny looked like she was about to faint! Watching her confusion, Rhett smoothly suggested, "Play 'My Old Kentucky Home.' " But even as she sang it, there was a strange sense of foreboding in the air, her soprano sounded haunted by some pale ghost of future, some spectre of death that seemed to remind her of the night Ashley stepped out of the Hamilton House.
True to Dr Meade's prediction, Johnston did indeed stand like an iron rampart. They could not break the grey 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. Why hadn't Old Joe held the Yankees at the mountain's natural fortresses? Eighteen miles into Georgia! But the General masterfully retreated against Sherman's flanking movements and for all his attacks, Sherman hadn't won a single railroad; that railroad which Confederates, weary for sleep, exhausted from fighting and hungry, always hungry, marched in their sleep for.
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.
The skirmish at New Hope Church brought in thousands of wounded into Atlanta, trains filled with bloody Confederates that lay in hospitals and pavements and on cotton bales in warehouses. Every hotel, house and boarding house was filled with suffering men. Scarlett worked endlessly; tending men at the hospitals, coming home to wash bandages, cook, turn, lift, fan and re-roll bandages, spending sleepless nights with the sound of delirium haunting the nights. Melanie just lifted her skirt-hoops higher and higher to hide her condition and worked silently beside Aunt Pittypat.
Suddenly, the faith in General Johnston was lost. Of course, the troops were still invincible, but God help General Johnston against the backlash he suddenly received! In came the wounded from Kennesaw Mountain at seven in the morning. Scarlett had been sleeping peacefully until she was cruelly awakened by the uproar in the hall. Mrs. Merriweather's carriage was outside. She had the satisfaction of loudly cursing the tireless, indefatigable Mrs. Merriweather as she dressed and went to the hospital.
She was tired, tired of picking lice and cleaning men. She hated seeing them die swiftly and without protest, from gangrene, measles, typhoid, pneumonia and blood poisoning. Oh, to run away from Atlanta forever and call the war a bad dream and forget it! Dirt and blood everywhere! But instead, she had to look at Dr Meade cut into flesh with a knife as men screamed like pigs in a slaughter-house and Dr Meade's voice saying, "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."
In the afternoon, she sneaked out of the hospital with desperate urgency, not caring if Mrs. Merriweather – who was writing a letter for some illiterate mountaineer suffering from influenza – heard her leave. She had to get out! She ran out and stopped near a tree to breathe as deeply as the corset allowed, when Rhett Butler rode by.
"You look like a ragpicker's child," he observed dryly.
"You hush up! By God I didn't start the war and I won't go to the damned hospital if it's the last thing I do, Mrs. Merriweather be d–" she stopped the curse, but the mistake was done. Rhett was laughing softly.
"A traitor to Our Glorious Cause–and one with a very filthy mouth I'm afraid. As a fellow scoundrel, I'm honour-bound to rescue you, I suppose. Come, let's go riding for a while," he said, amusement in his eyes.
"Oh you! Pot calling the kettle black! You swear more than anyone in Atlanta anyway."
"That only shows how naive you are Scarlett–and how your eyes flash when you're angry. You haven't heard half of the menfolk swear when their wives aren't around. But enough about the subject of swearing. Let's talk about how you were simply fawning over men in yesterday's ball (oh yes, I heard all about it, and no, I wasn't invited. Invite me? The horror!) and today you wouldn't bandage a few wounds and pick a few lice. Constancy is a virtue–"
She only smiled and said saucily, "I never said I'd do anything for the Cause, Rhett. I just said that they were worth all the effort. I never said that I would do anything for them. I'm sure they knew I meant the efforts of people loyal to the Cause!"
"Clearly, your informants were wrong," she added smugly. Rhett threw his head back and laughed loudly. "That's the spirit, my dear! We could make a lawyer out of you. Though, unfortunately, you are made to be married."
"Huff!" she said "you know Rhett, you say all these things that ought to be common sense and I start believing that you're a smart man, but then you say something so stupid and I realise that you don't know the first thing about women."
"Ah, but Scarlett," he said, smirking condescendingly, "I do know everything about women."
She blushed. "That's not what I meant you varmint, and you know it! But no matter, I shall never get married!" she declared.
"And what about your Mr. Wilkes? Have you finally realised that the he won't marry you? I suppose you'll live on one glance he threw at you, thinking he loves you while he may have only been thinking of roast potatoes, and I suppose you'll carry your secret love till the grave and then reunite in heaven?"
She tensed up abruptly, too stunned to stop him. The reference to her past left her feeling suddenly cold and bitter. It took a moment to realise how accurate his portrayal of her 'love' for Ashley had been. Yes, she had worshipped him and he knew. He knew everything! Oh, she would die of shame! Rhett knew about her stupid, stupid, mistake! Love Ashley? She didn't love Ashley, she hated him with all her heart! "I don't love Ashley," she said in a flat voice. His eyes flew to hers abruptly, his brows nearly disappearing in his hair. Rhett Butler looked so comically surprised that Scarlett would have laughed if she weren't feeling so bitter.
"He doesn't love me. He loves his wife. And I don't love anybody, so I shall not marry. I wish you would stop discussing this."
He completely ignored her coldly uttered request and asked silkily: "And what brought on this sudden realisation? Did Mr. Wilkes abandon the image of the kind gentleman and subject the delicate maiden with the truth? About how his cold love for honour would rather see you caged in as Charles Hamilton's widow than marry you? About how he is only attracted to your spirit –?"
"Hush! Shut up! Stop it!"
"Ah, so he did indeed. I'm confess I'm surprised at Mr. Wilkes's honesty. He seemed rather scared of being too harsh the last time; I had pegged him to be the conflict-avoiding sort. So that's why you were so miserable after the furlough. And here I thought you missed him!"
When she didn't reply for a few seconds, her head turned obstinately to the other side, he said: "Scarlett, will you turn to this side? There's a bug in your hair."
"Where?" she asked, and her head turned abruptly, only to see Rhett's chuckle. Oh! He had tricked her into doing what he wanted and now he would break her heart all over again and call her foolish! She prepared for the smug comments that would surely come after his quick analysis of the situation, but instead he just held her hand and told her not to turn away.
"But you'll be nasty."
He responded in a calm, soothing voice as she looked into his clear black eyes and instantly felt better. He said: "No I won't be nasty. Scarlett, you both were never suited, surely you know that now? So don't feel bitter, my dear, it wastes a lot of time and energy. Besides, it makes your skin turn most unbecomingly pale. You were too good for poor Mr. Wilkes anyway. Even that boy, Charles Hamilton, loved you more than Mr. Wilkes did. It doesn't matter, you were very young, weren't you?"
She nodded. With his words, she felt some of the emotion melting away. He was a soothing stranger who unravelled all the bitter and twisted strings of her heart and made everything right again with his calm, reasonable voice. He could make her laugh and show her the way out of this confusing, twisted world. He was a friend, an ally.
He continued: "Then don't worry. And anyway," he asked in a light, teasing tone, "what if I start calling you an old maid when you grow old and not marry? Scarlett O'Hara, the County belle, an old maid?"
She laughed and replied airily, "I don't care if I'll be called an old maid, I'll always have enough beaus anyway, and men are too much trouble; they want you to be sweet and silly and they go lording about their wives like they have bigger brains than them – which they don't; why else would they go all foolish when you so much as hold their hand and smile? – and fiddle-de-dee, a baby every year! No thank you, I like my freedom very much!"
Rhett grinned and said with laughter in his voice, "My brave Scarlett! Yes, that is all true and I do admire the narrow practicality with which you dismissed God's gift of life and the way you agree that men are boys, even though you didn't use the precise words (aren't we similar?), but Scarlett, you'll find someone who likes you precisely because of–"
He fell silent abruptly. Then, in a second, he grinned and continued, "You do forget that fierce heart of yours Scarlett; you'd find someone to love as passionately as only you can. You can't stay frozen forever. Oh, I see you doubt my words, but you'll find a lot of people depending on you because you're so strong, Scarlett. Then, one day, you'd grown tired of them and you'd find someone who you'll love with your fierce little heart, the tigress that you are and see strength as something to be admired, not feared, and weakness would repulse you precisely because it is so easy to take advantage of. But that'll take a long, long, time and now I image you just want someone to bully, who you wouldn't hold any true affection for. "
Scarlett stared at his face, eyes full of laughter and mischief but with a small tinge of what looked like passion. She didn't understand his speech and dismissed most of it as his usual foolishness but his talk of her heart and people depending on her had struck a chord. He was a bit too right about her wanting someone to bully, and she knew it and didn't care. But more than that, the reassurance of her own strength was balm to her fears. People would have her believe that she was a spoilt, privileged little lady who didn't belong in the hardships of war, her own upbringing would do that, but it wasn't true. She had to be strong because she was strong. That flame of survival and defiance rose within her and gave credence to his words. She wasn't a ninny, and she couldn't pretend anymore. But she didn't know the feeling that rose swiftly within her breast, so she only laughed and said lightly: A tigress indeed–I hope that was a compliment, Rhett."
He grinned and said, "That's all you see, don't you?" and continued laughing as they trotted up to Five Points.
It was another long day at the hospital. She walked home wearily, legs aching and sweaty. Suddenly, she heard a carriage coming from behind her. It was Rhett. "Come in," he said, "I'll drop you home."
"Oh Rhett, Mrs Meade simply wouldn't let me go! All these soldiers wounded because of General Johnston–"
"And how do you figure that?"
"Why, if he 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. But never mind that, I know it bores you. The militia and the Home Guard is going to be called out, do you know? Governor Brown's darlings are likely to smell powder at last, and I imagine most of them will be much surprised."
"Really?"
"Yes. The only reinforcements he'll have are from Georgia, which is a pity as he's a great strategist. The Yankees will dislodge him from the mountains and he'll be butchered onto flat ground around here."
"Here," she cried, "why, that's too much, I don't believe that for a second."
"Then don't. The army is damned short on men, why else would they call the Home Guard? Even the slaves are being asked to dig more rifle pits. Rifle pits! There will be a siege here in Atlanta, mark my words."
"A siege!" Scarlett panicked. "A siege! Rhett, turn around, hurry! I've to go to Tara, hurry!"
"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—"
"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."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, realising he had just called her ignorant. "Well, you'd be ignorant too if all you were taught was how to faint precisely onto the chair and walk properly. Besides, they have a way with making history ever so boring at Fayetteville, it's so much better when Pa tells us about Ireland. He makes it sound like there is something useful to learning history. But anyway, let's not talk about that –why aren't you going to Richmond again? All you care about is 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. Never pass up new experiences Scarlett. It enriches the mind. Besides, I'm going to wait here to play the gallant hero to rescue you when you will be forced into the very ill-fitting, ill-becoming role of the damsel in distress."
She ignored the last part completely; it was too silly to even respond to. "Fiddle-de-dee, I care about being safe. Besides, it's not really going to happen."
"I'll bet you they'd be here in a month. I'll bet you a box of bonbons against—" his eyes wandered to her lips. "Against a kiss."
She felt her heart racing painfully fast as blood rushed to her ears. She could hardly contain her excitement! He hadn't taken any liberties after that afternoon with the green bonnet, nor had he shown any lover-like actions. Indeed, he had only been a kind, funny friend. And now he was talking about kissing her! She barely restrained a triumphant grin and coolly said, "I'd as soon kiss a pig." She managed a little frown of disgust.
"There's no accounting for tastes and I've always heard the Irish were partial to pigs—kept them under their beds, in fact. Besides, you need kissing badly, and they say I kiss well."
She didn't want to ask who they were. She looked up as she was going to retort but she stopped short when she saw the dark depths of his eyes in which flickered a tiny light, like a small, raw flame. Without thinking, she found herself saying, "I bet you kiss terribly, and I bet I won't be impressed when you do." The last part was uttered almost breathlessly. Oh, why did she give into it? She didn't want to kiss him!
"Oh? So you agreed to the bet. I wonder why that is?" he asked, barely suppressing his grin. "But no matter, I bet you wouldn't say that when I do."
She rolled her eyes and said, "There won't be any siege." But the fear heaving in her breast at the mention of the siege belied her careless words. "Now allow me to get down, Uncle Peter will see your carriage."
For the first time, Atlanta heard the sounds of the cannon from the impregnable Kennesaw Mountain. The Home Guard would be going today to aid the war efforts. Scarlett was tense the whole morning, trying to ignore the faint cannon sounds. Was she imagining it or were they getting closer and closer? The Southern tendency to believe the loveliest of tidings was long worn out by the constant surprises the war had brought, along with Rhett's irritating habit of pointing out every flaw in all the stubborn beliefs of the Confederates. And now, she was beginning to believe that it was very serious indeed and there might be a siege after all. But that brought on such a bout of terror and helplessness–that Scarlett should ever have to deal with such things as poverty and starvation were such terrifying ideas that she would immediately shut her brain. But that took work and effort, and the constant strain of trying not to be terrified and denying what was obvious was showing on her young face as she worked in the hospital that morning. But no one acknowledged it, because to acknowledge her fear was to acknowledge that there was a reason to fear, which was unacceptable.
Scarlett was given permission to go out of the hospital to see off Uncle Henry, along with Maybelle Merriweather and Mrs. Meade as both Phil Meade and Grandpa Merriweather were going too. "Oh poor dear, with his lumbago, he won't stand a chance –" and she felt a grip on her hand as she looked up to see the fear-stricken face of Maybelle Merriweather, now that Grandpa Merriweather's grinning face was out of sight. Uncle Henry passed by with his Mexican war pistols and carpetbag. Shoulder to shoulder with the older men were young boys, with their new cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers on their tight grey caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps crossing their chests sodden. Phil Meade was among them. Mrs. Meade managed to wave back until he passed. Then, she suddenly leaned on Scarlett's shoulders and the tirelessly working, commanding, indefatigable Mrs. Meade lost her strength.
She saw Mose march past her and saw John Wilkes follow. Mr. Wilkes, why, he was seventy years old! And yet, there he was, his slender figure and long, silver hair wet upon his face, marching easily through the rain on a splendid little strawberry mare picking its way daintily through the mud – why, it was Mrs. Tarleton's darling Nelly! Scarlett ran, splashing across the mud and he dismounted with a smile.
"Scarlett, I had hoped to meet you. I was charged with so many messages from your people. But there was no time. We just got in this morning."
She held his arm desperately and said, "Oh Mr. Wilkes, don't go!"
He only smiled a tired smile, his grey eyes wise and gentle, with the friendly warmth of the County. "Ah, so you think I'm too old," he said with that gentle, friendly and soft voice only the Wilkes had. "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 face Mrs. Tarleton. Nellie was the last horse she had left."
He continued, "Your father and mother and the girls are well. Your Pa was going to come too –"
"Not Pa!"
"He was, but Mrs. O'Hara stopped him and asked him to jump the pasture fence. He agreed but – would you believe it? His horse stopped right before it and over his head went your father. It's a wonder he didn't break his neck. He must have tried about twice until Pork assisted him to bed. Even then, he was insisting that Mrs. O'Hara spoke 'a wee word in the beast's ear.' You know how obstinate he is. He can't serve, not with his bad leg, and there is no shame in it. Someone needs to stay home and grow crops for the army too."
Shame was the last thing she felt, only some immediate relief. She offered her cheek and he asked after Melanie. "She is well," she replied. "Ah," he said, his eyes looking past her "I should have liked to see my first grandchild." And there it was again; the strange premonition to death, in his grey eyes, as he walked away into the rain. He wasn't going to be facing Mrs. Tarleton after all. She watched Mr. Wilkes leave; his soft, southern voice lost in the noisy air. She watched him leave until the last sliver of his silver hair disappeared into the crowd. She had once hoped to be his daughter-in-law. And now, it seemed that her entire childhood seemed to fade; the lazy afternoons in the County, the twilight and dusk spent on her porch with admiring beaus, the warm dinners and the shade of the sunlight in the orchards near Twelve Oaks, all seemed to be gone with his slow, easy smile.
Hope again rose as Johnston held Sherman at bay, against outrageous odds. Parties and dances were held, dinners were given and Atlanta was cheerful. Refugees, visitors and families of wounded men and men who fought nearby were in Atlanta, as were bevies of belles of several counties wanting to catch husbands. Hysterical gaiety flooded the town and banjos and fiddles could be heard in the air, along with shreiks of laughter and lusty voices singing over the piano and girls laughing behind fans. Hurrah! Johnston is holding the Yankees twenty-two miles away!
But not for long, for Sherman changed strategy and 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, and a third of the men left in the war slogged tiredly through to Chattahoochee River. Again General Johnston was held responsible, and replaced by General Hood.
The sound of cannons boomed through the air in Atlanta and the crackling rifles were so loud they could have been from 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. Swarms of men came in, tottered into Aunt Pitty's house and croaked; 'Water!' Everyone at the house worked tirelessly with buckets of water, bandages and torn sheets and towels. When Melanie fainted, there was nowhere to lay her except on the kitchen table, as every bed, sofa and chair was occupied by a grimy faced soldier.
Night came and it was filled with cries of more soldiers staggering into the house. 'What news?' she asked frantically. 'What news?' was asked to every ambulance and wagon carrying men. 'Don't know for certain lady, too early to tell.' 'We do not know ma'am, you'll have to wait for some time, I'm afraid.' 'Dunno. Water?' She found Captain Carey Ashburn lying at the bottom of an ox wagon, barely dead from a bullet wound. He simply smiled and said, "Scarlett, pretty as always. Dance with me–next ball?" and closed his eyes. She wanted to scream, she wanted to faint, she wanted to die. It couldn't be real! It was all too vivid; the dark red blood, the burning sun, the crowds of dying men and the wails of sorrow and despair in the air! And she cried, incessantly, 'What news?' The answers came late and they struck her heart with terror and anguish:
"We're falling back." "The boys will be coming 'round town."
'Are the Yankees coming?'
"Yes ma'am, they are coming." "Don't fret, Miss, they can't take Atlanta." "We ain't got old Joe -" ""Shut up, you fool! Do you want to scare the ladies?" "The Yankees will never take this place, Ma'am." "Whyn't you ladies go to Macon or somewhere that's safer? Ain't you got no kinfolks there?"
And the siege was her constant terror, a fear that crept upon her every hour of the day. "No siege", she would tell herself, "no siege!"
The rest of the Confederates came to town, marching in good order to the tune of 'Maryland! My Maryland!' as the town cheered for them. They were their boys, victory or no victory. Their battle-flags were torn in the rain. The Home Guard came in, Uncle Henry, Phil Meade and Grandpa Merriweather all looking grim with face black, covered in powder, sweat and grime. But there was no John Wilkes in tow.
August 1864,
The siege had started. Shells descended from the heavens onto the bleeding Atlanta, killing people in their homes, ripping roofs off buildings and leaving huge craters on the ground. Women fled into cellars, holes in the ground and tunnels dug in railroad cuts.
The railroad from Atlanta to Tennessee was now in Sherman's hands for its full length. Only the one railroad to the south, to Macon and Savannah, was still open.
Aunt Pitty fled to Macon, along with many others like Mrs. Whitling. Surely, her nerves were too delicate to handle strain, and surely, she would faint every time a shell came close. No, she would go with Melly and Scarlett at the Burrs.
But Scarlett hated the old Mrs. Burr cordially, and she would rather stay in Atlanta. Besides, Dr Meade had prevented Melly from travelling. He had informed her that he wouldn't hear any such nonsense again, that Melanie had to stay and no ignorant darky midwife would do, and insisted that he himself must deliver her baby. But Scarlett was sceptical and had asked old Leah, Maybelle's mammy, to be sure.
Every time an explosion was heard, Scarlett could only cower helplessly, head buried in hands, crouched low. She would escape to Melanie's room and feverishly try to calm her sobbing. She only felt terror; terror that the house will be destroyed, terror that her baby would come, terror that the food supplies would run out, terror that Sherman would march to Jonesboro and, heaven forbid, burn down Tara! But she after some days, she would simply square her shoulders and say, "That was close, wasn't it?"
But at night, all the suppressed grief would rise up and the horrific scenes would come in her dreams with nightmarish vividness. Then, she would wake up in the mornings, terrified and sometimes, just extremely numb. The thoughts she suppressed would shuffle rapidly through her mind, too fast for her to catch up. Horrors would play on her mind like surreal visions from some nightmare sent from the depths of Hell.
Today, her mind went to Mr. Wilkes's parting smile. How? How could a someone be gone so suddenly? How could all the memories, conversations, his smiles and manners and little phrases all suddenly vanish to be replaced by this? How could it all change so much? How did John Wilkes and the County boys and a hundred memories all be gone with a few bullet shots? How did Mr. Wilkes, with his smile and manners and an eon of memories be gone – just in the span of an evening? How did the Tarleton boys just die? How did so many Southerners totter to the ground, bleeding, gasping, struggling on their land, painting the ground with a horrible vivid red? It was too unreal, and Scarlett couldn't take it anymore. She was stuck in this strange land filled with fear and sorrow, away from home, going back and forth between hope and fear, hope and fear, again and again. And Sherman was coming! He was coming, even though she so wanted to deny it! The siege had begun! He was coming for certain and then – what? Terror lay a strangling grip onto her heart. Panic rose within her breast. She was walking to the Mrs. Meade's when she thought about all this, and then she suddenly collapsed at the gate, sobbing violently.
She heard footsteps behind her and she didn't care. Let them see! It didn't matter! She wanted to go home! It was all so wrong! Blood, dirt and misery everywhere! Let a shell blow her to pieces this instant! Let her die, and forget all this! Let her die with those from the lost Georgia already did, for she didn't belong here! She wanted to go home!
Suddenly, she felt two strong arms grab her shoulders and life her up. The smells of brandy and cigars enveloped her and the war faded away and the smells reminded her of home. Vaguely she realised it was some dark stranger with fine clothes. A gentle male voice asked her to get up, they had to go. The shelling would begin soon. She was led into a corner. She followed the voice blindly, and felt her hand being taken. The voice spoke again. It was Rhett.
He dropped her hand and then suddenly, she felt his cheek pressing against hers as he whispered soothing words into her ear. So soft, so gentle, he was the calming stranger again, smelling like whiskey and horses, comforting as Gerald. "Don't cry Scarlett. My brave, brave Scarlett. Here, take my handkerchief." She felt his lips press into her hair as he whispered, caressing her back, "Don't cry, darling. Tell me." He drew her deeper into his embrace, holding her tightly.
And she told him, told him how all her friends her dead, how she was stuck here with endless rows of men to tend to, about how her whole childhood had been snatched and discarded and how everything was gone and unreal and different. She told him about how Mr. Wilkes was suddenly gone and how she was trying to deny the siege.
"The Yankees are c-coming! T-They'll b-burn down - everything."
"Yes Scarlett, dear, they are coming. But aren't you the little tigress? They won't do anything to you. You are brave and strong and stubborn, and nothing will happen to you. You can face it, my dear, you're stronger than those soldiers lying on the ground. So stop crying, and stop trying to deny it, for you can face it," he said softly, an admiring, almost cherishing note in his voice. "Accept it," he added "and it will be better. Don't wear yourself down."
And in the safety of his arms, she could accept it. She expected to feel terror and fear, but it only brought immense relief and a sense of determination to get through this as quickly and efficiently as possible. She finally looked up into his eyes, warm and friendly, a deep burning gaze with a flame glowing hot in it. She wondered what it would be like to know the meaning of that emotion which flickered into his eyes now and then, adding a depth to his eyes momentarily until it flashed back to amusement again. She found herself drawn into his eyes, reaching towards his warmth like a parched man to water. He leaned in and his lips touched hers with a gentleness that made her cry. Blood rushed to her face and excitement stole through her frame as he kissed her and she pressed him closer, her hands shaking as they drew him to her. But he pulled away suddenly, a sharp, searching expression in his eyes for a split second until he smiled and murmured, "I won the bet, didn't I?" His footsteps faded away as she came back to the noise and the duties and war.