Thank you so much for the reviews!

ScarlettGator: I'm not sure about what you mean, actually. Scarlett is more perceptive, I agree, but Rhett always was a bit manipulative. Which part are you referring to, specifically? Oh, and this is definitely not the end. No way.

Guest with the long reviews: thank you! Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm glad you caught the reference to The Republic. I always thought Plato's timocratic men and timocratic society were a lot like Atlanta in GWTW. "You seem to be mourning the fate of the confederacy with due respect," someone said. Well, that depends on what you mean by the Confederacy. I don't think it was a bad thing that the old world was lost. I don't buy the whole 'Lost Cause Myth' the book shows. It is only a consequence of revisionist education in the South, written in accordance with standards set by 'The United Daughters of The Confederacy.' Margaret Mitchell loved the books of Thomas Dixon, a 'professional racist.' (Funnily enough, he was sexist as well. Didn't Mitchell know this? Perhaps not.) And yes, I'm working on dialogue. I hope I get better with their voices. Thank you for the review.

Other Guest(s), Klenk Eniko, , Lcorrea and Auroarah: Thank you to you too!

I don't own GWTW. Lines have been lifted from the book (but not as many as the last chapter!)

Warning: racism ahead. Character opinions are not mine, but they may make you fairly uncomfortable. Of course, I don't intend to keep Scarlett pro-slavery and racist till the end of her life; she's friends with Rhett after all, and the Rhett I'm writing isn't pro-slavery.

Oh, and Pig Philosophy was the name given to Jeremy Bentham's philosophy of Utilitarianism by Thomas Carlyle, a critic of said philosophy. There's a reference to it in this chapter. Anyway, he thought Utilitarianism was 'fit for swine' and Mill responded by saying that it is the person who raises this objection that portrays human nature in a degrading light, not the utilitarian theory of right action. He also said, "It is better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied." That, of course, is debatable.

Chapter 4

Dear Daughter,

Your last letter brought us immense joy. Mrs O'Hara and I are glad to know that the dangers of the siege were not as terrible as we expected. No Yankees have been around here but we can hear the fighting. They're trying to get the railroad but our brave soldiers ain't letting those accursed Yankees getting around here, no sir, not when our blood hasn't run cold, not even over our dead bodies . . .

Scarlett rolled her eyes and scanned for any useful information. She was sick of hope, sick of people doggedly persisting in believing in the might of the Confederate Army, sick, starving, sleep-deprived and greatly reduced in numbers as it was by all the losses till now. Couldn't they see that everyone was dying? Couldn't they see how they were shelling the city and claiming every railroad? Some people seemed to have taken to believing that this was the worst; that now that the worst had happened, merrier times were bound to come. But Scarlett was sure their cruelty would extend to Georgia. The Yankees were pure evil and should not be underestimated.

She reached the last lines of the letter and started reading:

Careen is ill. The typhoid, Mrs O'Hara says. She is not so very ill so don't you go worrying about when there are better things to do, and no coming home either, even if the railroad becomes safe again. Mrs O'Hara is very glad Prissy and Wade didn't come; she doesn't want them catching the fever. She says that you must go to the church and say some Rosaries for her recovery.

Give our regards to Cousin Melanie and Miss Hamilton. Love,

Gerald.

She went to her room and muttered a hasty Rosary, guilt gripping her insides as she did so. When she finished and walked towards the porch though, she didn't feel guilty or comforted. Why would God listen to her when there were thousands of voices crying out in Atlanta? God wasn't listening to any of their prayers and people just kept dying as if He didn't exist—

She interrupted the thought and muttered a hasty prayer begging for forgiveness. Blasphemous thought! How could she even think about something so terrible? But she couldn't help but feel that God had deserted her. She sat on the porch, in the still night air. Nothing had happened since sunset, no sounds of war, no rifles firing, not even straggling soldiers looking for shelter. Melly was asleep. She was alone.

She found her mind going back to the kiss Rhett had given and the shameful way she had leaned into his embrace like a wanton woman. But she had been mesmerised by his eyes, those black pools of infinite softness –

Oh fiddle-de-dee, she was acting like a silly schoolgirl over her first beau! His eyes! His eyes indeed, why, he was charming as a snake, of course, he would know exactly how to attract women and then laugh at their fantasies of the dark, mysterious and heart-broken hero they took him to be when he was the devil himself! He had no scruples, and he was shamelessly honest about that.

But her treacherous mind insisted on replaying his kiss, the excitement she felt and the hot flush she felt as he held her in her arms. Suddenly, an image popped up in her mind: Rhett bending her over her back, his hard lips on hers, that small flame in his eyes twisting and leaping—

Mother of God! She didn't love Rhett, did she? Of course not, why, that was nearly as absurd as her loving Melly! A sound startled her and she heard a horse being hitched to the gate. Rising hastily, she looked out to see who the caller was and realised it was exactly who she was thinking about: Rhett! She was thankful for the dark that hid her blush as he entered inside.

"Hello, Scarlett. I heard Miss Pitty refugeed to Macon, so I meant to ask: why are you here, alone?"

"Oh, no, Melly is here too. She-she can't refugee."

"Thunderation! Do you mean to tell me that she'll stay here, in Atlanta? I never heard of such idiocy. And you're not an idiot either, and neither is Mrs Wilkes, so tell me, who filled your ears with these ill-advised notions?"

She glared. "Dr Meade says that she can't be moved. She-she can't even walk, Rhett!"

"That may be true, but I still think that nothing good is going to come out of this. Dr Meade is too optimistic; he'd be foolish enough to believe that the Confederacy will win even after this."

At his words, she was going to say, "Of course we will!" But she fell silent.

"Oh, who cares? I don't think I ever cared about the Cause, even before - well, before I – "

"Even before your personal Enlightenment. I know and had been trying to tell you right from the ball in the bazaar. Listen to your elders, Scarlett," he teased.

"So, Scarlett, what have you been doing? Thinking about any handsome men who kissed you on the streets?"

"I was thinking about a certain pig in a fancy suit and hat that kissed me, but I'm not sure if he was handsome. So, no, I haven't been thinking about any handsome men who kissed me on the streets. Handsome men aren't ungentlemanly enough to kiss me on the streets anyway, only pigs do that."

He laughed uproariously at that and said between breaths: "Darling, out of all the things I've been called, a pig in a fancy suit must be the most creative one, I'll admit. Perhaps the most accurate one too, if one asked Mr Thomas Carlyle. Well, at least I'm a happy pig, eating and sleeping as I please, rather than an unhappy human, worrying about war, honour, civilisation and the like. But you, my dear, are the unhappy pig, not quite a moping human and yet not accepting that you're a pig."

Missing the reference, she sputtered, "What—I—If you're going to insult me, I'm leaving! How petty—how vulgar!" Yet, the image of Rhett rolling in mud like a pig all his life, happy and satisfied, couldn't quite stop her laughter from erupting.

"Embrace your inner pig, Scarlett. I think we could write a book on Pig Philosophy together! Two happy pigs sit to philosophize," he said, laughing like a boisterous schoolboy until tears came to his eyes.

"You do have the strangest notions, Rhett. What in God's name did you mean?"

"Someday, I will tell you what I meant. But not now; if I told you, you'd swell up like a bullfrog and be prettily indignant. Oh, rest assured, I didn't insult you, quite the contrary. Anyway, you're going to think I was laughing like a fool as usual and I will let you, until you grow up a bit more."

"Huff!" she said and refused to reply for a few minutes, trying to maintain a dignified air. Rhett simply started smoking his cigar.

Suddenly, in the still night air, could be heard the tones of several voices singing the notes of a song, probably from another block. It was too far away to make out the words properly.

". . . Many thousands gone . . ." went the refrain. She strained her ears for more. It was probably from the next block; the small fields of poor Crackers with a few slaves each. They hadn't left Atlanta yet.

"No more whip lash for me
No more, no more
No more pine assault for me
Many thousands gone"

She tensed at the tune. It was a familiar one, she had a vague memory of having heard it when she had been only nine. She had remembered the incident well; the song and the loud lash of the whip and the screams that had followed. Darkies never sang after that night. She had never known what had happened, but she had heard her Pa shout at Jonas Wilkerson for hours after it. It had been a forbidden subject, and the same air of secrecy and concealment seemed to follow the song. Even Rhett's face had gone tense, the silence between them eerily spooky, and she had a feeling that he too wanted to pretend that they both didn't hear it.

A few seconds later, the sound of a whip hitting the ground and screams of men and women pervaded the air, very much like in that old, forgotten memory. The screams echoed through the air for a second, and all was quiet and serene again as if the night had no disturbance. Fear crept into her heart. Something was wrong, so, so wrong.

She looked up. Rhett's expression was hard and cold, his eyes glittering ominously. He laughed mirthlessly, and his down-twisted mouth had a cynical tone to it as he said, "That was quite a show, wasn't it?

Gripped with urgency at the tone of his voice, she asked, "Who was it? What was it? Tell me!"

"Slaves. The song is forbidden. Foolish of them to try singing anyway. Who knows? Perhaps they were drunk. Perhaps they were too miserable to care. Anyway, it offends our dear Southerners that slaves should want to be free. Most unnatural, isn't it? Must be a disease."

"Oh!" she said, stunned. She had only heard about these stories, exchanged in hushed whispers about a few slaves escaping, and generally, they were caught very quickly and went back to work, sometimes even begging for punishment. Sometimes though, certain ailments of the mind caused a mad desire for slaves to run away, which must be remedied by hard labour so that they knew their place in the natural order of things; the white owner was always above the dark slave, which was a fact most fundamental, and must be always be kept alive. Sometimes, slaves ran away because the owners were too nice to the slaves and encouraged them to think and read instead of using their hands and sometimes it was because the owners were too cruel. But it seldom happened for darkies were like children and needed to be guided by hand to be told what to do, how to speak, how to pray and work. But then what had just happened? Why was Rhett so sarcastic? She was confused.

Rhett cast a quick glance her way only to laugh cynically and say, "My sheltered little belle. Don't trouble your pretty little head about it. Goodbye, Scarlett." His voice was smooth and polite but his eyes burning with some intense emotion she couldn't define. She knew he had avoided her question. A good whipping was always good for darkies anyway; Pa always said it was a good cure for sulkiness and laziness and that they needed to learn to strengthen their limbs so that they didn't start thinking too much. "Oh, it doesn't matter, Rhett is probably being moody again," she thought.

Late August, 1864

No sounds of shells blasted through the air for the last few days. No news of the war had come, other than the fact that the army had been withdrawn and had gone south to defend the railroad. Nothing was known about any ongoing battles, or if, indeed, there was a battle going on. Atlanta was a hideous city filled with ghostly silence and haunted-looking women lost in dead memories.

Scarlett woke up early, and after hastening upstairs from the cellar she called for Prissy. She appeared, albeit a bit late, and Scarlett only said, "Send Betsy up with the breakfast in Mrs Wilkes's room for her, Wade and I. Be quick." Yet Prissy stood there, looking at the floor. Scarlett impatiently said, "Go! What are you looking down for?"

"Miss Scarlett, Betsy ain't coming."

"What? What is this nonsense? Tell Betsy to start breakfast or I'll—"

Prissy looked up abruptly into her eye she said, "Betsy done run away, ma'am. I—I got to know this morning."

Scarlett was stunned. Ran away? Stolid old Betsy, who quietly did her work and said nothing, even when Scarlett had once snapped at her. Why she was nearly as old as Pork! How could she run away, now of all times? How could such old loyalties be broken? And how dare she do it, now when she was needed most? How dare she run away when Mrs Meade must have spent so much on her? "Lazy and rotten to the core," she thought. "And a whole war was fought over these darkies! Let the Yankees have them! Let them talk with them and see their lazy habits, simple minds and arrogant ways and learn for themselves," she thought.

"Well, it doesn't matter," she thought. Nothing could be done. "I see," she said. "Now get to work. Hominy and peas, in Mrs Wilkes's room. I'll wake Wade."

"Yes, Miss Scarlett," she said and went away, yet there was nervous excitability animating her face and gait that Scarlett did notice but couldn't name.

She entered Melanie's room and watched her sleep. She had no letter from Pa other than the brief note she received a few days back. Paper was so scarce these days that he had written back on the same letter Scarlett had sent, his words squeezed between the lines. It only said that Careen was very, very ill and so was Mrs O'Hara and that he was going to find an army doctor. But—but mother was never ill! There hadn't been a day Ellen O'Hara didn't rise early in the morning and work till the sun set, without any breaks. Melanie was sick, her eyes dark and her skin ashen but she never complained.

She saw Wade stirring. He had become much quieter now, his small face contracted in almost constant fear. The sight of him always irritated her, and whenever she tried to talk to him, she would inevitably get annoyed at his slow responses causing her to snap at him. Nowadays, he would just sit quietly watching everything in fear and fascination and wouldn't open his mouth for hours, sometimes even days. And his quiet, observant eyes with Charlie's hopeful expression always annoyed Scarlett.

September 1st, 1864

Scarlett woke up with a feeling of dread. The battle! There was a battle somewhere south! She rose hastily and was going to run to Melanie but was arrested by a far-off sound. Thunder? No, cannon! Cannon from the south! And to the south lay Jonesboro—and Tara!

"Scarlett . . ." a faint voice called. Melanie! "What is it, Melly?" she asked, coming to her room. Oh, damn Melanie! She was stuck here because of Melanie!

"Dear, I'm so sorry, the cannon is from Jonesboro, isn't it?"

"Yes," she answered hesitantly.

"Darling, I'm so sorry I'm in the way. You should never have stayed here. But Scarlett" she said, with huge pleading eyes, "If I should die, will you take my baby?"

"Don't—don't be a goose, Melly. You won't die. I'll make sure of it," she said, lying through her teeth.

"Promise me?"

"Of course Melly. I promise. But you won't die."

"Oh Scarlett, you've been such a good sister to me! Thank you so much! If I should die today—I think it's today—take care of my baby and Ashley, please. Raise my son to be like him if it's a bay, and if it's a girl, dear, I'd like her to be like you. Teach her to be strong."

She didn't reply. Take care of Ashley! Why, he was a grown man! But people were always like children to Melly. They always needed her comfort and care, and always, Melanie could see the secret sorrows and deep-seated fears of men. And it wrung her heart so, poor souls! Ashley was so sensible and honourable, but he couldn't face sorrow. It broke his heart to see cruelty, but more than that it broke his ideals; he couldn't bear the violence of war; he couldn't bear to see the quiet poison of greed and lust and anger and all the destruction it brought. The world was a painting to him, a painting of symbols of the just and unjust, right and wrong, and he couldn't bear to see the blood spattered on it any more than he could stop thinking and breathing.

He lived in ideas, and the world had a harsh reality to it when it wasn't governed by ideals of honour. He understood sorrow, understood it with a profoundness seldom known to man but he couldn't live it. His love and grief weren't expressive; they didn't state their demands so violently as Scarlett's, with blood-boiling determination. He was the quiet of the gently moving stream, his happiness was when his ideas were untouched and unchallenged, in quiet harmony with the world, even if the harmony was built on enslavement and blood. But the world was chaos and destruction; it exposed its violence and greed. It exposed him to his own reproach; his own hypocrisy for a Cause he didn't believe in, which was fought not over rights or freedom but over slavery, ignorance and greed, and he was stuck—stuck between love for his homeland, that symbol of everything he was, and conscience and honour. Melanie knew this, knew the sorrow he felt and soothed him and renewed his faith in goodness. But what if she were to die? Poor Ashley!

"Melly, do you feel the pains? Will it be today?"

"Yes, but not for a few hours. Don't send for Dr Meade just now, Scarlett. He may be busy."

"For God's sake Melly, don't be so unselfish! You need him!"

"Please don't. It may be hours before the baby comes, perhaps even a whole day. I wouldn't want to deprive men who need him more."

"Oh, all right," she said and sighed. This was going to be a long day. "Prissy" she called "Prissy, come quickly! Don't tarry along!"

But no voice answered. She searched all over the house, but no Prissy was covering behind a table. There was only a note, written in handwriting like a child's; newly learnt and written with great effort, on the back of a book: "Knowledge is fire and it has freed my bonds and has given my soul wings to fly that flight of freedom from the chains of ignorance. Perhaps it won't enter your mind just yet, but I don't care: with God by my side, reason as my authority, I declare that I am not your slave."

Scarlett gasped. So she had run away too, the stupid wench! "Well," thought Scarlett, "good for her! Death by starvation is too good for the likes of her!" But Scarlett did not know Prissy and never had. She had never seen the anger she felt over her brother being sold off as a field-hand in New Orleans, the rage over years and years of her ancestors, her own people at having to work long hours and waste away, the tales of escaped slaves and roads to freedom paved by abolitions, and the intelligence that lurked beneath those eyes. She had only seen Prissy in her mask of stupidity and loyalty, worn by many slaves before their unthinking masters, keeping them comfortably well settled in their ignorance. So fixed was the image in her mind was it that every feature of her dark face seemed to look like that of a simple-minded ape. Her eyes were clouded with years of ignorance.

She heated yesterday's hominy quickly. She looked at the mixture of parched corns and ground-up yams – their "coffee" – with disgust. She watched Wade force down the heavy hominy, as he sat there and ate it quietly. He watched her with wide brown eyes with childish bewilderment. Unsettled at his expression, she hastily put Wade away in a corner. After her own scant breakfast which she shared with Melanie, as she wasn't hungry, she went to Mrs Meade's house. Her heart was thumping irregularly, and her breaths were short. Entering inside, she looked through to see the house empty of most servants save Cookie.

"Where is Mrs Meade?" she asked her.

"Not here ma'am, Master Phil was shot so she went to tend to him. They would probably stay there, he was hurt badly."

She hurried over to Mrs Merriweather's house only to find it locked. Lord in Heaven, what was she going to do? No slaves to help her, and none of the matrons to hold Melanie before the doctor came! "Mrs Elsing," she thought frantically, "surely Mrs Elsing would be there!" But she wasn't. She was at the hospital, and the house was filled with rows of soldiers stretching out their hands for the soup pot as the cook fed a ladleful to them. "Do you have a servant to spare?" she asked, "Anyone who knows how to—anyone who has given birth to babies before?" Thankfully one of the servants said, "I'll be able to help you, ma'am."

Finding some relief in the old darky's careworn but honest face, she ran home to Melanie. She must comfort her before the ordeal. And she must find Dr Meade or any of the other doctors. With this list in mind, she went over to her bed. "Melly," she said, "Mrs Meade or Mrs Merriweather or Mrs Elsing can't come. But I've got a midwife here."

Melanie asked no questions. Her face was calm and tranquil, the face of a woman who had calmly accepted the possibility of death and only looked up to Scarlett. "I'll get Dr Meade," she said. She stepped out of her room and squared her shoulders. To the hospital! Walking as fast as her legs could carry her, she walked with feverish energy into the scorching sun. Cold ripples of fear spread through her body, making her fingers cold and numb. Her temples were throbbing from the heat and she was almost drenched in sweat. Yet, she walked steadily. It was no longer silent, waves of roaring voices and shouts were heard in the street, but the same refrain played through her mind and gave a soldierly rhythm to her steps: to the hospital! To the hospital!

A strange sight greeted her, almost as unreal as the days before the siege. The hospital was filled with thousands of men on the floor, men in the rooms and the doctors were walking briskly, giving men orders. Groans punctured the air and screams of pain could be heard from some rooms. "Doctor," she said, hurrying to a man, "please, come with me! Mrs Wilkes is having a baby—"

"A baby!" he thundered. "Go, get a woman to help you, I can't leave these people alone! Thousands . . ." he muttered, dislodging her hand on his elbow before running off to a room.

She walked out of the hospital. Perhaps Dr Meade was at the depot! She ran out of the hospital and leaned against a tree to catch her breath. After a minute, she straightened her spine and continued. On the way to Five Points, she saw an officer and stopped him on impulse. Deep lines of fatigue were etched almost permanently onto his face, but his grey hat was off with a sweep. "Madam?" he asked.

"What news?"

"The Yankees are coming. A dispatch came into headquarters half an hour ago from the fighting at Jonesboro. The Yankees are coming."

"At Jonesboro? Are you sure"

"Yes ma'am, I am sure. There is no use telling pretty lies. I believe General Hardee's precise words were: 'I have lost the battle and am in full retreat.' "

"Oh, my God!" The weary rider simply rode off, putting his tattered hat back on his head. She continued to Five Points. The Yankees are coming!

As she reached Five Points, a huge swarm of women coming from the railroad met her sight. They were carrying hams across their shoulders, as children staggered behind them carrying steaming molasses. Men carried huge sacs of flour and wheat across their shoulders and lugged them on wheelbarrows and small, rickety wagons. The crowd suddenly parted for a carriage. In came Mrs Elsing's carriage, the matron hatless and white faced with her long grey hair streaming behind her in thin tresses as she carried boxes of food in it beside her mammy, Melissy, who was clutching a greasy side of bacon by her side. A bag of peas burst, dried peas streaming to the flour, but she rode on, lashing at the horse like a Fury. Scarlett screamed, but her voice was heeded not in the tumult of the crowd.

She pushed through the sweaty bodies and hysterical mob, stamping their feet and hurried through the ambulances. The depot! It was that way! The crowd never seemed to end, the bodies never ceased moving, the noise and the urgency feeding her own panic. 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. Those were her beaus, people who she had danced with and teased and flirted with, who had stolen kisses from her in afternoons —

Oh, she couldn't see it! These ugly men, writhing, moaning and dying—for what? Slaves! Some damned words from some damned rich politician or farmer, urging these men to fling themselves headlong into suffering and death and disease for slaves, under false words about rights and the Cause! What did the Cause matter, when food was scarce and death tore everyone apart?

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.

Good Lord! This was an inferno of pain and smell and—hurry—hurry! No, Dr Meade wouldn't come! He would stare at her with the same expression, unseeing and furious — furious that such a sight must ever be seen in Atlanta, furious at the world and the heavens and the Yankees, those damned Yankees! — and he wouldn't come. She had to attend to Melanie alone! And the Yankees were coming!

She turned back and marched to Five Points, crowded with men and women, sodden with fatigue and drenched with sweat. Thousands filled the crowd, jammed into the streets so that there was no place to breathe anything but the cheap corn whiskey on their breaths. Cannon rolled past, the drivers flaying the thin mules with lengths of rawhide. Cavalry raised clouds of dust. Drunk men staggered across the street with garishly dressed women, holding their arms while laughing loudly. She briefly passed Belle Watling's red hair.

Disgusted, she pushed shoulders with her hand, with the bull-headed determination of a child. After shoving and pushing endlessly, she collapsed on the steps of Wesley Chapel, her hands and legs aching. Oh, if there was someone she could turn to! To hold her hand and take her home, where no Yankees could come. Rhett! Of course, Rhett would help her out! The thought of his jeering face, laughing away her fears and his strong arms and familiar stride gave her a sense of calm. Oh, now she had a plan; she would first get Melly's baby delivered and then call Rhett!

With this thought forming in her mind, she walked past the church and the deserted houses and reached Peachtree Street. Climbing the stairs, she heard Melanie's shriek of pain. She ran upstairs to find the midwife with buckets of water and towels, while Melanie clutched at the bedsheets tied at the posts, her white hands gripping the sheets, cutting off circulation.

She felt a huge load descend onto her neck and clung to it tightly, choking her. Such a weary load to tote! So much trouble, so many things to do! Melanie's face was streaked with tears. She released the grip on the bed sheets and held her hand. "It will be fine. It wasn't so bad."

Leave Melly to comfort her when she was on death's door, bearing Ashley's child! "What should I do?" she asked the servant. And she was told to bring a pair of scissors and a few more towels. The hours passed slowly, dragging through, as Melanie screamed minute after torturous minute, her face contorted in pain. She was told to lift buckets and wipe her down as Melanie's condition become worse and worse and she screamed for Ashley. She wanted to shut her ears with her hands and crouch in a corner. But she couldn't. She only fanned for flies and gulped down her fears till her throat was constricted.

Hours later, with the competent hands of the midwife, a boy was born. Melanie fell asleep almost instantly, and the midwife left despite Scarlett's protests.

Scarlett came down the dark stairs slowly, like an old woman, feeling her way, clinging to the bannisters lest she fell. Her legs were leaden, trembling with fatigue and strain, and she shivered with cold from the clammy sweat that soaked her body. She collapsed onto the sofa of the parlour. Wade's tiny feet tottered towards her and he asked, "Mama, is Auntie alright?" She felt that she couldn't reply, but she did:

"Of course Wade, but don't go upstairs." She stared at his face, fatigue overtaking her, blurring her vision. He trembled and said, "Sorry" quickly as if every word took an effort. What happened? Why was he so frightened—of speaking to her? Of her? Oh dear Lord, now Wade was frightened of her! She walked towards him weakly and took him in her arms and said, "Wade, your Auntie will be fine. Are you hungry?"

He nodded.

She reheated hominy and fed it to him, tickling him after he was done. Good. Now he was laughing freely, with no unnatural strain contorting his face. One thing less to worry about! His giggles sounded out of place in the heavy, oppressive air. "Hurry along, Wade, be a good boy for Mama," she said, feigning an affectionate voice. Oh Lord, children were so tiresome! She hungrily gobbled up the cornbread kept and hominy left in the pot.

She closed her eyes and thought. But no thoughts came to her. "Think Scarlett, think!" she said to herself. The Yankees were coming! She jumped up and went to the front door, locking the house. Telling Melly that the Yankees were coming was going to be hard. But finding Rhett was going to be harder.

She walked to Atlanta Hotel and found it to be deserted. There wasn't a single soul in the building. Her voice echoed off the walls and the cellars. The only options left were the barrooms and the whorehouses, two despicable places she had never dreamed of entering in her life. How could all this happen to her? She who never had a care in her life, and competent hands and willing—or unwilling—slaves already did everything for her? She could scarcely believe it.

She walked out of Atlanta Hotel and hurried away to a saloon on Decatur Street. Decatur Street still had the drunken mob of the afternoon, but it was a bit less crowded. She entered the first saloon she saw. Men were lying sodden on tables, whiskey on their breath. There was a gash on a couple of men's cheeks and some sported bleeding noses and lips. Perhaps, there had been a fight. She figured that Rhett was probably in one of the inner rooms, playing cards, or upstairs with a woman. She descended the stairs, nose high in the air and spotted two tables with drunk men speaking in garbled accents. Even here, the talk was about war and death.

She spotted Rhett on the other table, playing poker. He rose hastily and held her shoulders and said: "What are you doing here, Scarlett? Didn't you escape?"

"Rhett! Melanie just had her baby and I want to go home! I want to take her to Tara!"

He stared at her for a minute and then burst into laughter. "So you stayed—for Mrs Wilkes? How noble of you. Now tell me, how will you go to Tara?"

"Won't you lend me your carriage?" she asked, her heart sinking with fear. "Please?"

"You can't go there Scarlett; the army is practically fighting in your neighbourhood! And the way is filled with stragglers from both armies! It's madness, Scarlett!"

"I don't care! I'll go if I have to walk every step of the way!"

"With that expression, I'm sure you will, you little fool. I'll think of a way. My horse and carriage were, by the by, taken by the army a week ago. But I'll try to steal a horse, even if I get shot for it," he said, giving a self-deprecating laugh.

"Oh please Rhett, do try not to get shot. I need to go home."

"Of course, I'm sure the army will make an exception for you. I'll tell them that the horse is for Scarlett O'Hara-Hamilton, the belle of Clayton County and they'll say, 'Oh I beg your pardon sir, please, by all means, take the horse.' " He laughed and she wanted to scratch his eye out. How could he laugh at her at a time like this?

He didn't give her time to retort and dragged her out of the barroom. Following her gaze, he said, "Look at all the sodden Confederates, Scarlett. I take it you've never been in such a place before? All drinking to forget hunger or the wife's death or their child's cries. Now they're waiting for their deaths. This is what they gave up for a few slaves."

She didn't reply. "Now go," he said, "I'll try to return with a horse."

Scarlett walked in short, quick steps. It was evening now; the sun had just set and the sky was orange with clouds of dust in the air. A distant fire had sent smoke up the air, giving the impression that the sky was burning. She reached home with a sense of relief. Rhett was here. He would do something. Surely, a man as clever and strong as Rhett could save her. Oh, how nice it was to rely on a man to do all the work!

She couldn't think or feel. The Yankees were coming. Her mind buzzed with ideas, but they darted past her without comprehension, her weary mind trying to grab one and examine it. But it was all too fast and yet too slow. She sank onto the chair on the porch, not caring if her skirts were lifted. A band of soldiers passed by her and she had no energy to call for them. She breathed in deeply and felt tempted to lie there forever. But a vague thought formed in her head, passing like a hot summer breeze: "Pack up. Feather-bed for Melly." Feeling returned; she felt an immense longing for Tara and some fear.

She rose up and slowly went upstairs to find the lightest feather-bed. She packed leftover food in jars, her hands shaking with fatigue and fear. She tied the jars in some cloth and went back to the porch. She knew she must be with Melanie now; in case something went wrong and she couldn't call. But the thought of going back to that room with its smell of blood and its nightmarish hours was repulsive to her. She lighted a small candle and sat in the cool air, waiting for Rhett. She longed to see his careless gait, his self-confident eyes jeering at her fears.

She saw a small light in the far distance. She watched the sky become a faint pink and then a dull red and an enormous flame leapt up, illuminating the trees so that they looked like skeletons. It rose high, towards the heavens and it expanded before her startled eyes and turned into a huge fire. A whole block must be burning! The Yankees were burning the town! She jumped up and turned her back from the sight of the town burning, billows of smoke rising in huge swirls that seemed to mingle with the clouds like messengers to heaven. It looked like the end of the world.

"Think," she said, out loud, coughing at the smell of smoke. "Think." But an explosion shook the house, bringing window-panes down and the sound of glass breaking filled the house. She heard Wade scream and Melanie cry out, but she couldn't care. She was frightened out of her wits. If she were only home with Ellen, Melanie be damned! Damn him for getting her pregnant! Damn the Yankees for making her starve!

For the hundredth time, she ran to the porch. She sat and waited with a hammering heart for Rhett to come. After what seemed like hours, the sound of clattering hooves came with the creaking of an unoiled wagon. Why did it take so long? Why didn't he make the horse trot?

She called for Rhett and she heard the click of the latch as he came inside. The light of the lamp showed him suddenly in view; he was debonair, with a well-tailored white suit and grey waistcoat, rifles strapped to his belt, his wide Panama hat jauntily above his grinning face. There was an intoxicated air in his gait and face as he strode towards her, his head carried like a pagan prince and his expression containing carefully restrained ferocity, a hard ruthlessness in his face that was as frightening as it was curious. He looked thoroughly amused by her fear.

"Great weather we're having, aren't we, Mrs Hamilton? I hear you're taking a trip?" he drawled.

"If you make any more jokes, I shall never speak to you again!"

"Don't tell me you're frightened!" he exclaimed theatrically and smiled in a way that made her want to push him down the porch steps.

"I am frightened, and if you had enough sense God gave a goat you'd be frightened too!"

"Unfortunately for me, I'm not a goat. I thought we settled that I am a pig." She laughed, imagining his attire on a Rhett-faced pig. But the moment of humour was gone as a cannon blast sounded through the air and she jumped up, frightened.

"Ah, our boys setting fire to the ammunition. Scarlett, we have to be quick, or we'll have to pass through Marietta Street."

She was frozen in fear. He only took her hand and squeezed, and, it seemed to her, sending some of his vitality into her blood. To be as cool and calm as Rhett Butler in the face of a storm! He led her into the hall, but she still stood helplessly behind him. "Can this be the heroic young woman who assured me she feared neither God nor man?" he said and laughed mockingly. She stepped away from him and said, "I am not afraid!"

"You are afraid. You'll swoon this minute and I haven't got any smelling salts about me."

She stamped her foot in rage. The rascal! She looked up into his eyes and said coolly, "Come upstairs, Melly needs to be lifted into that pathetic wagon of yours." She took the lamp and went upstairs. 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."

She nodded weakly and gestured to the baby. She wrapped it up in a thick towel. Rhett stepped towards her and said softly, "I'll try not to hurt you," tucking her into the sheet. "Can you put your arms around my neck?"

Melanie tried, but her hand fell weakly to the side. "Never mind," he said and lifted her with the sheet. She didn't cry out but Scarlett saw her bite her lip and go even whiter. Scarlett held up the lamp for him to see, and Melanie was gesturing towards the wall.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Please—Charles," she said. Rhett looked at her as if she was delirious, but Scarlett understood. Of course, Melanie would bother about Charles's daguerreotype and sword, while the Yankees were at her heels! She hurried downstairs, leaving the baby on the bed, and got the sword and the picture. She looked at Charles Hamilton's face and his soft, brown eyes—and scarcely recognised him. It seemed such a lifetime ago that she had been pining after Ashley and had married Charles out of spite. It sounded almost absurd, and completely unlike her.

She returned to Rhett and they went outside, Scarlett holding the lamp, baby and the sword as Rhett followed the light of the lamp behind her. He placed Melanie softly on the old, rickety wagon and went to fetch Wade. She called after him to bring the jars of food as well, and he did. Wade must have fallen asleep again, for he was carrying him in his arms. The image of Rhett in his white suit, holding Wade in the dark soothed her fears. Rhett would take her away, to Tara.

She looked at the horse and was disappointed. It was frail, breathing as no horse should with its head hung dispiritedly low. Its back was raw with sores and harness galls.

"Not much of a horse, is it?" asked Rhett, grinning again. "Looks like it will die in the shafts. Someday 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 lifted her bodily and put her onto the wagon and picked up the reins. "Wait!" cried Scarlett, "I forgot to lock the front door!"

Rhett stalled her hand and laughed. She made a move to jump, but he stopped her.

"What are you laughing at?"

"At you, locking the Yankees out!"

She laughed and looked at his calm, assured face and his strong shoulders as he held the reins. "Oh Rhett, thank you so much," she said, voicing the sudden relief in her heart.

"You're most welcome, milady."

Yeah...I know Gerald O'Hara was supposed to be too kind to whip a slave. But honestly, the intent behind it is stupid. It's based on revisionist history. So I took that little 'liberty.' I also know that Rhett was pro-slavery in the original. Again, I wanted to change that. He's not pro-slavery in this one, not enough to casually kill a slave anyway. But again, historical accuracy must be kept, so I can't have him go all woke.

And I know, I know, Prissy is out of character. But honestly, she is so stereotypical in the book that I couldn't resist giving her a voice. Besides, all the slaves in Tara ran away when Scarlett came home. Makes sense. I don't think they had much to eat anyway, why work?

Thanks for reading! Those following the story, please tell me what you think.