Thank you for the reviews. Please skip the author's note, as I had to write a rather long reply. Sorry, it was quite late, but I'm not really sure if I can write such long chapters in a week, with unexpected work coming in. So please note the change: I can't promise a chapter a week, but I would be able to update every 10-15 days.

Guest: I don't really think Scarlett's flirting was stereotypical. A bit exaggerated, perhaps, but then, of course, all those techniques do seem silly now and way too obvious but that might be because 1) we see Scarlett's manipulation through hers and Mitchell's point of view. The wording is explicit; it leaves no doubt about her purpose. But I'm pretty sure Scarlett was more subtle herself. If it was written from an enamoured male's perspective, it would be different.

2) Men back then had all sorts of ideas about the feminity, delicacy and fragility of women. They liked women's supposed fragility. They wrote poems about it. But today's culture is generally indifferent (even discouraging) to such traits and smart women are liked and that old sense of fondness for fragility is gone. Men idealised women a lot, they thought all those techniques were genuine displays, and that's probably why they liked 'pretty simpering fools.' Of course, this is not true for all cultures; some British novels around the same era have male characters who aren't especially fond of such things but the South (at least Mitchell's South) is the sort of culture that holds traditionally feminine things very dear and expects women to be like that. 3) Also, Mitchell was quite the accomplished flirt herself. So I suppose she knows enough not to exaggerate.

As for the tragedy part: do you really think a tragically flawed character like Scarlett who also sees death and war would be completely happy? There will be hope, with Rhett by her side. But Scarlett and (durst I say it?) the South (I durst!) won't go scot-free for their mistakes.

Chapter 5

The horse was trotting slowly, reluctantly. The wagon wobbled onto the rough streets like it would collapse the next minute. Melanie moaned and when Scarlett turned a minute later to take the boy, she stopped suddenly. Melanie's face was pale as death. But her chest was rising and falling, Scarlett noted with relief. She held Ashley's sleeping child in her arms. As Rhett turned the horse to another street, another monstrous flame rent the air with a deafening noise. Scarlett's hand abruptly clutched Rhett's arm. He turned to her, his eyes alert and watchful, and there was a fire in his eyes equalling the inferno ahead. He seemed to be exhilarated, the thrill of adventure in his eyes; hard and reckless. The expression was frightening but strangely attractive and she longed to understand it.

He said calmly, "That must be the last of the ammunition trains. Why didn't they get them out this morning, the fools! Well, too bad. I was hoping to avoid the drunken mob at Decatur Street. But now, it seems we'll have to go through Marietta Street after all, and the explosion was near Marietta Street."

"Must—must we go through the fire?"

"Not if we hurry."

The road, with its low, dark trees and its orange glow of fire ahead, seemed to be tunnel straight to the pits of Hell. Rhett left the wagon and emerged shortly with a thick limb of a tree. He laid it mercilessly on the back of the frail horse. It broke into a shambled trot. Wade's cries were ignored.

Scarlett's teeth were chattering. She was cold, her whole body and mind were ice that the heat of the fires could not melt, and yet she was sweating. Her fingers trembled as they held Rhett's arm tighter. She was hoping he would say something, anything—a crude joke perhaps or some reassuring words. He didn't turn to her as he said curtly, "If anyone, black or white, comes to your side of the wagon then you must grab my pistol and shoot him, no questions asked."

"I—I have a pistol," she said, knowing perfectly well that if anyone should come, she would be too frightened to lift a finger.

"Do you now?"

"Yes, it's Charles.'"

"Charles?"

"Charles—my husband."

He turned to her, a distant smile on his face and said, "Did you really have a husband, my dear?"

"Oh! How do you suppose I got my boy?" she asked fiercely.

"Oh, there are ways other than husbands—"

"Will you hush up and hurry?"

He chuckled. Secretly, she was grateful for lightening the mood, and once again marvelled at his ability to turn a conversation his way when he wanted, as much as she loathed it when he did it. He could light up the whole room with his presence, and turn a melancholy day into one of laughter and teasing. He could always cajole her out of her moods and laugh away her fears.

"Didn't you have that little darky, Prissy, with you?"

"Prissy! She ran away, the coward! Leaving us in the middle of a war, when Melanie was—"

"Did she?" he asked, and his eyes seemed distant. "Those are hardly the actions of a coward."

"What do you mean?" she asked. But he drew the reins abruptly.

"Hurry!" she cried. Oh, why didn't he hush up and hurry!

"Soldiers," he said. A 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, my dear," drawled his voice. "You can tell your grandchildren that you saw the rear guard of the Glorious Cause in retreat."

"Only you could be so inhuman," she said in faint disgust, but, as usual, she agreed with his sentiment.

"Perhaps," he said softly as he watched the last of the ranks retreat. A small figure appeared in the ranks, his rifle butt dragging the ground. He wavered and stared at his ghostly companions, his grimy face dull as a sleepwalker, his face unbearded. His knees buckled slowly and he went down in the dust. Without a word, two tall, dark figures fell out of the rank. Two rifles were silently handed to one as another jerked the boy to his shoulders with ease that looked like the sleight of hand. The figure walked, bowed under the weight of the boy while he screamed in a voice like a child's when being teased by the adults: "Put me down! Put me down, damn you!" The bearded man silently turned to the bend of the road and plodded out of sight.

Rhett was watching all this with a curiously moody look on his face. There was a crash of falling timbers nearby and a thin tongue of flame snaked below the wall and engulfed the side. Suddenly, a huge fire crackled and the house was a yellow flame. Smoke hit her nostrils and Wade coughed.

"Name of God, Rhett, what are you doing? Hurry! Hurry!"

Rhett made no reply but brought the tree limb on the horse's back with a cruel force that made him jump forward. They plunged into the heat of the fire, searingly hot and a glare brighter than a thousand suns hit her eyes. Everywhere was hot, everywhere was bright and blazing and the crackling beat upon their ears in painful waves. It seemed like an eternity crossing that tunnel of the pits of Hell until abruptly they were in the semidarkness again.

Rhett hit the whip automatically, his face set and absent, his chin jutted and his shoulders hunched. There was a cruel frown contorting his face and sweat streamed down his forehead and cheeks but he did not wipe it off. The wagon bumped through the railroads and they crossed lanes and tuned streets but Rhett did not speak, applying the whip with regularity.

"Oh Rhett," she said, gripping his arms tightly, "what would we have ever done without you! I'm 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. There was burning with a feeling Scarlett didn't recognise and hadn't felt once in her blissfully vain life—self-hatred. He turned away moodily and continued down the road.

"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, staring straight ahead, 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, would he refuse to take her home after all she had done?

"Oh, yes! Yes! Please, Rhett, let's hurry! The horse will go just fine!"

"Just a moment. You can't go down to Jonesboro on this road. You can't follow the train tracks. They've been fighting up and down all day from Rough and Ready on the south. Do you know any other roads, small wagon roads or lanes that don't go through Rough and Ready or Jonesboro?"

"Oh, yes!" she cried with 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—"

His eyes fell, at last, on her frightened face. His expression changed when his eyes met hers, searching and almost thoughtful, as if he was reconsidering something. Just then, the boom of a cannonball sounded through the air and she jumped like a frightened cat. He turned abruptly. She briefly saw the gleam of bayonets and blue uniforms, ragged and patched and the sound of hundreds of feet plodding on the soft dirt. She shivered in terror. Rhett's face was turned towards the soldiers but she had a feeling that he wasn't really looking at them. She tugged his sleeve and asked him to hurry. He darted away from the street, going into an alley before turning back onto the main road again, looking ahead, shoulders hunched and chin jutting forward. At last, the tramp faded and he stopped.

He looked down at the reins thoughtfully, and finally back at her. His face softened as he said, "Maybe we can get through."

He picked the rein and lashed the horse again. Yet, there was an unsettled expression on his face that scared Scarlett. What was he going to do? He looked so serious, and in deep contemplation yet there was a stiffness in his pose that indicated anger.

"Rhett?" she asked faintly, keeping her hand on his shoulder. She could feel his muscles tighten and then a large hand covered hers and kept it on his thigh. He didn't reply.

The road was rough, with ruts and boulders along the way, jolting them again and again. She fell against his chest again and again, and he quietly held her shoulders every time, giving her the warmth she craved and she was silently grateful for the strong arms that enveloped her and the silent shoulders beside her, like a pillar of strength.

Suddenly, the wagon stopped, the horse pulling futilely along until it ceased. Rhett jumped outside and she turned her head to see the wheel stuck deep into a gully on the side of the road. "Get down," he ordered, and she watched him take off his tailcoat and push his sleeves behind to reveal muscled arms that disappeared behind the wheel. With an almighty heave, he pushed the wagon out, his hands muddy. He wrung his hands and wiped them on his pants and wiped his sweat with a monogrammed handkerchief.

"Excuse me, it's rather hot here," he said, taking off his waistcoat as well, showing a ruffled shirt. He sat back down. Scarlett stared at his arms and he followed her gaze, smirking slightly.

"Don't stare, Scarlett, it's rude" he teased. Then, he continued riding off, completely ignoring the indignant, red-faced reply she managed to get out. They drove carefully, but the road was narrow and the wagon slipped into another gully. By this time, even Rhett was tired and quietly handed her the reins, telling her to go straight ahead until he would take over again. As they neared Rough and Ready, she tensed up, hearing the soft footsteps of marching troops. Scarlett's green eyes widened in fear and she shivered against Rhett. He furrowed his brow and looked around. It was no use. They had to go through the woods.

"Calm down," he whispered into her ear. "This is very dangerous. The woods are filled with stragglers, but with some luck, I think we can get through. Stop shaking."

But she couldn't shake off the fear. She couldn't shake off the thought of Wade's cough betraying them to the marching men. She couldn't shake off the thought of them meeting a Yankee straggler in the woods who could creep upon them in the darkness and put a bullet through her heart and steal the horse. What if someone suddenly shot Rhett and they were left here, on this dark road and endless night with men going by like ghosts, voices stilled, with the only sounds of muffled tramping on soft dirt, the faint clicking of bridles and the straining creak of leather!

Rhett drew the reins and turned to the woods. But the horse refused to move, head lowered limply towards the ground. He sighed and brought the tree limb onto the horse's back swiftly and it dragged its feet into the dark woods. They were in the dark woods, a few miles away from Rough and Ready. He circled the woods as best as he could navigate in the dark. The wagon creaked on its rusty wheels and Wade hiccoughed now and then, keeping his little hands on his mouth and throat. They had crossed about a hundred meters when she heard footsteps approaching the wagon. She stopped breathing and held her hand to her heart in a vain attempt to calm it down, but the pounding unsettled her. In the darkness, she felt a larger hand reach out and brush her chest and grab hers. She felt him squeeze her hand reassuringly. A few minutes passed, and she breathed as noiselessly as she could, focusing on the steady yet slightly quick pace of Rhett's pulse, willing the footsteps to go away even as they grew closer and closer, not knowing if the other side had friends or foes. She could smell the stale sweat on their bodies. Now, they approached so close that she could almost touch them. She saw their footsteps turn away and the sound faded. She exhaled.

They continued forward and again and again, waiting helplessly every time they heard the soft tread of soldiers. They trudged forward, the horse hauling the weight of all three adults and one child, dragging minute upon breathless minute until they finally rounded upon Rough and Ready after several hours. Somehow, Rhett hadn't lost his sense of direction and had reached exactly where they wanted to. She silently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, but there was a certain hesitance in his touch.

A few campfires were gleaming near Rough and Ready. Scarlett panicked slightly, thinking they were Yankees but Rhett whispered, "Not Yankees. The last of Steve Lee's rear guard, awaiting orders of retreat, no doubt. Now tell me, how do we get to that bridle path of yours?"

"There are fields ahead. From there," she whispered back into his inclined ear. He nodded decisively and hit the horse again, which now had a fresh new welt across its back. The woods were less dense now and she could see the ploughed fields ahead. There were no Yankees in sight, yet. The woods faded gradually till only wide fields stretched all around as far as the eyes could see. The third time the wagon wheel was stuck in the soil, Rhett's rough voice said, "Help me push." And Scarlett had pushed wearily until the wheel finally gave way.

"Which way?" he asked constantly. "That way, to the left." "That turn, from the right." "Yes, a few meters ahead and then to the right until the cotton fields appear."

But no cotton fields appeared. Scarlett tried to find her way in the dark, where every little stray shrub looked the same and the scarecrows that had always stood, marking their way, were long demolished. She tried her best to navigate through the endless, unchanging fields but the night was dark and moonless.

"It'll be around there," she thought frantically. "It must be there. I've come here many times." But never when the fields were burnt and with stragglers and troops of both sides lurking around. They circled around for a mile, Rhett going quieter and quieter until she realised that she had lost her way in the dark and sobbed when she couldn't find the little wagon path she knew so well.

"We're lost," she cried, her tears falling on his chest. "Oh, how will we find the way?" She expected Rhett to mock her, but he didn't. He simply held her tighter and murmured encouraging words. His drawl fell pleasantly onto her ears as he said: "Surely, you've blundered through the area as must as possible so you have to find the way. Besides, it has to be around here, and we've covered 'here' as many times as is humanely possible."

And so she did find that little path by the empty well, whose remains were burnt and demolished except for the unrecognisable rectangular bricks that the horse stumbled on. "We're here," she said, resting her head gratefully on Rhett's shoulders.

"How far is Tara?"

"Oh, just a mile or two. Keep going ahead, Rhett."

But he drew the reins abruptly and the horse collapsed in exhaustion. Rhett jumped out of the wagon and pulled the bridle, but it didn't move. After tugging a few times, he removed the bridle and untied the wagon. Then, he moved to Scarlett's side.

"Don't worry Rhett, we can get to Tara t—"

"I suppose you'll be safe from here? I think you can get through."

"I can get through?"

"Yes, you." His voice was rough.

"But Rhett—you—aren't you going to take us?"

"No, I'm leaving you here." She looked around in the darkness, the unending fields where they stood, exposed and in the dark with no light and no trees to hide them, in the wild countryside where no one lived other than some poor, white trash families. Here! Had she gone crazy? Was she not hearing him right?

He was grinning now, as she could see in the faint light. She could imagine that mocking light back in his eyes, though it was too dark to see.

"Leaving us? Where—where are you going?"

"I am going, dear girl, with the army." She sighed with relief and irritation. Rhett in the army! Why did he have to joke at such times?

"Oh, I could choke you for scaring me so! Let—"

"I am 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 jibed her ears. His voice was jeering at her, and somehow, she knew, jeering at himself. Brave speeches, gallant sacrifices and shields—what was he talking about? Rhett Butler in the army? Oh, it couldn't be! It wasn't possible that he was leaving two women, a child and a baby so blithely to join the army he always jeered at. 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're joking!"

She grabbed his arms and felt tears of fright splash down her wrist. He took her hand and kissed it airily.

"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, "why are you doing this to me?"

He laughed. "Why? Because, perhaps, of that betraying sentimentality that lurks in all Southerners. Perhaps—perhaps because I am ashamed. Who knows?"

"Ashamed? You should die of shame! To desert us here, alone, helpless—"

"Helpless?" He roared with laughter, the sound invading her senses and fuelling her hysteria.

"Someone as selfish and determined as you can never be helpless," he said.

She saw him lift her bodily out of the wagon and her feet touched the ground through the soles of her thick boots. His hands felt like hot iron as they gripped hers, dragging her through the mud, a few steps away from the wagon.

"Rhett," she said, trying reason. He ignored her. Infuriated, she tried freeing her hand but to no avail. She hit his chest and he finally let go.

Gripping her shoulders, he said, "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 quixotism still lingers in me; that I should fight for a cause that is so expressly against my sensibilities and, er, the little morality that is left in me that still insists on condemning slavery. 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 gave a ringing, free laugh that echoed faintly in the dark fields.

Trying to gain some semblance of understanding to dispel her disbelief, she said, "But—but, you don't care about the Cause. You even said that you have Yankee friends who are abolitionists. Why—why are you being so impulsive?"

"You won't understand. 'I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not Honour more.' For I do love honour, it seems, which I thought was impossible. Father's talk about deep roots and family and all that nonsense must have sunk in, for I suddenly find myself incapable to breathe without—without—"

His voice faltered slightly, but he cleared his throat and said, "Without feeling ashamed." He seemed almost reluctant as if he were admitting to something childish.

"How—" she began, but his arms went around her waist and shoulders and his shirt buttons pressed into her breast."Hush," he said. 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. "I could take you here," he said, his pleasant drawl caressing every sweetened word that fell from his lips. "There's nothing like danger and death to give an added fillip. You'd be sending a soldier to his death with beautiful memories. You won't change your opinion on mistresses? Surely, you're not clinging to your mother's skirts still, after all those conversations with that mind of yours I love so much? For I do love your mind, Scarlett, and your soul, 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."

He was kissing her now, kissing her and his moustache 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 backwards and his lips travelled down her throat to where the cameo fastened her basque. "Sweet," he whispered. "Sweet."

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." She was lost to his lips and the sensations he was evoking.

"Muvver! Wade fwightened!"

Into her swaying, darkened mind, cold sanity came back with a rush. He was leaving! He was leaving her after all his talk of love—his way of seducing her! Rage tore through her, mingled with hurt and wounded pride and her spine stiffened. She wrenched herself free from his arms in one move and slapped him. She was breathing heavily, her body heaving with wrath. She saw him breathing heavily, his hand on his cheek.

"Ah," he said, "I see."

What did he say he was? Ashamed! How inadequate, how easy for him to say that! She had thought he was an ally, and yet, everything that Atlanta said must be true; he kept mistresses openly, bragged about having no honour, and left them on the street. And now he feigned affection to seduce her! How could such a man be anything less than a cad of the lowest kind?

She shouted at him, heedless of the dangers of being found, knowing only anger: "Love? You can't love anyone; you don't even know friendship! How dare you try to seduce me here! I'm not one of your—Even before going off to war, your lust must be fulfilled!"

Rage the likes of which she had never felt consumed her mind, with a harsh desire to hurt him as much as possible for his betrayal. Ashamed, was he? She remembered his expression after he saw the Confederates near the burning warehouse and the way he flung her hand away. In a rare burst of clarity, she realised the meaning behind that expression—guilt. A cold gleam glittered in her eyes as she said: "Ashamed, you said you were? You should be!" He took a step back and turned away from her. She continued, slightly out of breath:

"What does it matter if you go now, anyway? I hate you anyway! The whole world hates you! Your—your own parents hate you! You must hate yourself too, you lowdown, nasty, cowardly scoundrel! Die of shame! You deserve to die in the trenches! You—"

She stopped suddenly, as she heard him laughing in the still night air, a mocking, derisive laugh that slowly morphed into a bitter, crazed one. He was laughing at himself now, and she was shocked at the harshness of the sound. She could faintly make out his figure clutching his arms and falling to his knees. He stopped her angry tirade and said, "Why, Scarlett, that didn't hurt a bit! Ah, here I am begging to get a last glimpse of you if I should die and you cut my heart. Aren't I the desperate, mad lover? I've always been the chaste Don Quixote, noble knight for his selfish, shallow lady!"

Again, he was mocking her, and she hardly heard his words or noticed the slightly pained tone in his voice. "How—how dare you make fun of me like that, with your low, common jokes! You nasty, stinking wretch—you heartless cad! Don't insult me further, and get out! Go away! I don't want to ever see you again. I hope a cannonball 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. I'd rather be disliked by the world than liked by it anyway; that would be an insult to my intelligence." She could make out a smirk, but his hands could not hide their shaking very well as he put them deep in his pockets.

His words were mocking, but she could see they were untrue. A hot rush of regret filled her as his laugh rang through her ears with haunting clarity. She also remembered the way his voice broke when he declared that he was ashamed. After the rush of rage, she could see what he meant. She couldn't pretend that she wasn't saddened by the state of the Confederacy, and he couldn't either. He was guilty, more so because he was a man and could serve, even if he didn't believe in slavery. Suddenly, she regretted her cruel words, but his footsteps had already faded into the darkness. "Be safe," she said, before catching herself for her foolishness. What a ninny she was being!

She walked back to the wagon with slow, tired footsteps and fell to her knees near the wagon and cried on the rough strip of wood bitterly with a strange, unnamed emotion. She vaguely felt Melanie's hand patting her. She dried her tears and reached for the small jar with the leftover hominy and fed it to Wade, and pushed a spoonful down her throat before stretching her legs on the wagon and falling asleep. She vaguely heard Melanie's voice, apologising as it was begging for some water but she had drifted off before she could reply. She wondered vaguely why her pillow smelled like brandy and horses before drifting off on a white tailcoat on the wagon.

Thanks for reading. Please tell me what you think. Should Rhett's perspective of the war be shown? It would break the rules, but I would love to write about his conscience battling him and his overall take on the war and Scarlett. What do you think?