George Ashley Wilkes was drunk. And he'd only left the Royal Suite in the Pasture Inn in Americus for an hour. Just to get a little grog and here he opened the door and Pamela was talking to a young man who was, indeed, lying on Ashley's bed, and Pamela was sitting by the interloper['s side, right there on the bed.
Oh, this was intolerable. Presumably, Ashley shouldn't have been surprised that his Pamela might be a bit flighty, a tad fast. He had in fact taken her from her husband, but how could she do it right here in their suite!
"Ashley" Pamela Vavasour smiled, bald faced right at him. He should slap her, but he was so grog-laden he could barely move past entering the suite door.
"This is Silas Watling. He is going to buy Baldwin's gold." Pamela smiled at twitched her adorable little nose, and of course the effect on Ashley was bewitching, narcotic. As it always was.
She reminded him so much of Scarlett. Scarlett had been so much fun.
Ashley had so wanted to have a good time. Most of his life, you know. He'd lusted shamelessly after Scarlett O'Hara, had courted her with devotion. But Father had sat down with Ashley and prevailed on him of the wisdom of marrying Melanie Hamilton.
"Ashley" Father had said with a quiet smile. "I had hoped you would sow your wild oats on your Grand Tour. If you want frolic in your bedroom, you can choose other bedrooms. We have unlimited credit in the little bawdy house in Jonesboro. But marriage is a sacred duty."
People outside the family were so impetuous. Look at India's courting with Stuart Tarleton…and how he'd lost interest one day, because he and his twin brother had become enamored of Scarlett O'Hara. India could have courted with some of the Wilkes Burr cousins, but of course she was nineteen now, in essence, all dried up.
"Melanie is a good woman, and you will enjoy her." John Wilkes had said to Ashley, who had tried not to sulk. "She is easy to talk with about the things we love…of course you must produce an heir, but besides that, it can be a happy and companionate marriage."
Yes, Ashley had married little, simpering Melanie. And he'd grown to love her, even though after the war came, there was no money or time to be chasing other women. Melanie was strong, and devoted…Ashley learned, as perhaps men do in arranged marriages everywhere, to love his small, dutiful wife.
But he'd never really enjoyed his time between the sheets with Melanie, and…knowing he couldn't have Scarlett, who would have, indeed wanted all of him, and had driven him mad.
Ashley should have taken it all so nobly. He should have crushed his lusts. His father was a great man. He had never re-married after Mother's death. Father had planned to free the darkies in his will. Ashley had been secretly horrified, the idea of giving up all that labor…but he was a selfish man, not like Father. He was one to shrink from duty.
He would never be like his father!
The war had come, the darkies had been emancipated, and Twelve Oaks, the Wilkes family plantation had been burned to the ground by the Yankees, who had seemed so civilized to Ashley during his Grand Tour, and certainly when he'd been an editor on the Harvard "Crimson".
Would things have been much easier had Scarlett O'Hara gone away after she'd taken Ashley's decision to marry Melanie with such poor grace? Certainly, but inexplicably, Scarlett had married Charles Hamilton, Melanie's brother and Ashley's cousin.
And then, after Ashley had come back to Tara, Scarlett had found a way to save Tara, and then, indeed to pull Ashley and Melanie to Atlanta so Ashley could be Scarlett's employee in the sawmills she'd so mysteriously acquired.
Twelve years after the war had ended, Ashley had met Pamela, and her n'er do well husband, Baldwin Vavasour, who was an ex-Yankee sergeant who had lots of gold and gems that he'd raided from respectable Southern homes.
Now that the Democrats were taking over, Baldwin Vavasour had been afraid to sell it all in a lump, and he'd been sending his wife and children out to peddle small pieces at pawnbrokers and other places…
Ashley had met Pamela one afternoon when she'd attempted to sell him a necklace for his "sweetheart" but after she'd discovered he was a lonely widower…
Now Ashley and Pamela had that scoundrel's gold, and good riddance!
Yet, Ashley knew he was disappointing Father's memory. He couldn't get his father out of his head to save his life. Ashley felt so anguished with what he'd become, a drunken thief. And even before he'd been a terrible manager of the sawmill…he'd lent money to darkies before their pay, and occasionally slept with their daughters….
And then he'd began drinking and stealing. Ashley had always dreamed of being majestic, like the heroes in Sir Walter Scott's novels. But Ashley was no Ivanhoe. All he was was a former plantation dandy, and now a grog drenched sot.
The young man reclining on Ashley Wilkes's bed looked up at Ashley insolently. "Wab w'ong id 'im?"
Ashley stared at the fellow. Was he an idiot? A Mongoloid? Talking with his mouth full? But no, the young man was quite handsome, dark curly hair and a chin like that Butler rapscallion. You see…Scarlett was taken from Ashley, and given to a worthless scoundrel like Butler.
Now Pamela looked sharply at him "What's wrong with you darling. Silas wants to know. He has a glottal stop; he can't speak correctly, although he is a divine dancer." She smiled at the garble mouthed boy, who winked. Ashley felt nauseous.
The afflicted boy leaned back on the pillow, and adjusted what Ashley perceived as an expensive cravat. 'Oo a fetchin' peez, Pummuh."
"He just said I'm a fetching piece, isn't he funny?" Pamela slapped the young man's leg as he lounged languorously on the pillow. "You tongue-tied tempter you, Silas Watling!"
Ashley wanted to strangle them both, but he was so possessed with Pamela's beauty. She was wearing a light pink crinoline dress and had a matching parasol beside her. Pamela was not really aware that a lady only carried a parasol in the hot sun, and certainly did not drag it about with her inside, like a four year old with a doll.
Pamela thought the umbrella was cute and carried one 365 days a year in different colors to match her dresses. (There had been quite an initial shopping spree when they'd reached Americus; Scarlett's available cash was in all the millineries now!)
Pamela had little to offer intellectually—she'd left school after three years in a country blab school, and occasionally took snuff and chewed plug tobacco. And she cursed with venom and alacrity.
But Ashley could forgive much in lovely, blonde Pamela Vavasour.
Pamela was vivacious and funny and knew how to please a man, especially late at night. Pamela reminded Ashley much of the whores and courtesans he'd met during his Grand Tour, especially those in Italy and France. When Ashley had read of Benjamin Franklin's romantic escapades in France, he'd wondered at the old man's lunacy in returning to the New World.
Why couldn't all women be like the Europeans? But Pamela was, and Ashley felt that Scarlett was also, though he'd never gone beyond kisses and caresses with Scarlett…the shame.
But of course Pamela's temptations came with a price. Pamela was a wild thing, and had actually spent nine months in a Mexican jail. She'd had two husbands in her twenty-six years, and countless other…"friends". Ashley always felt like he was on pins and needles with Pamela, who had once attempted to brain him with a brass spittoon.
Ashley hid the jewels and money just because he felt like he'd done all the real work of obtaining them. He'd broken into her murderous husband's safe to get the damn gold and gems…risking his life! And he'd spent most of their cash on her. All he'd wanted for himself was whiskey and grog…shame.
"Thow me duh jewry, Pummuh. I thee wha' I give 'oo." Now the young man sat up a bit, and Ashley was almost sure if he'd not returned to the suite so soon, the two would be engaged in—Oh, he couldn't think of it! Indeed he missed darling Melanie much now.
Melly was predictable, tractable, and always appreciative. Pamela was a force of nature, to be sure, as was this gabbling, hare-lipped counterpart.
"I can't show you the jewelry, Silas." Pamela smiled. "Ashley doesn't trust me with it."
"You once put sleeping potion in my coffee so I would lie immobile so you could go dancing at the Applewood Saloon!" Ashley thundered. "Why on earth would I trust you with more than a few shinplasters?"
"I know. You're afraid I'll run off with the money. Don't you know I love you, precious?" Pamela's eyes danced, and Ashley almost wet his pants.
When Pamela said this there seemed to be a wicked, mocking look in the baby blue eyes, but of course Ashley knew this was just her way—wasn't it?
"Pamela, I think we can look around a bit before choosing a buyer. Certainly Mr. Watling is one to consider, but don't you er—" Ashley was not managing this well. "We really should just relax, dear and you shouldn't be telling people that I have gold to sell."
"Why, are you the practical one? " Pamela asked, laughing. "I've been buying and selling stolen gems since I was fourteen, and watched my father and uncles do it before that. Ashley, you're a sweet man, but you should let me do the hard work."
But why? Ashley kept asking. Why did women just want him to…decorate the atmosphere?
"I hab' a munni now. I know lah 'bow dis" the young man said, as he boldly stroked Pamela's left arm.
Ashley wondered why he'd been stupid enough to check his pistol with the hotel clerk.
"Silas has the money now, Ashley, and he knows about the jewels, he should since he helped my imbecile husband take some of them." Pamela snickered. "I lied a bit to you about Arlen just stealing during the war…Arlen was a bit of a second story man just a few years ago, and Silas has been a bit of a help with that."
Pamela giggled at Ashley's shocked expression. "Silas and Ashley split the cash initially, and now Silas has the money to buy the rest of the share. He plans to melt down the gold and sell the diamonds and gems and rubies."
"Aa wah bui' a ho-house like mah mo'er has." Silas said proudly.
"Really? Your mother owns a whorehouse? And you want to build one too!" Pamela took this news with enchanting ennui. "Isn't that marvelous, Ashley?"
Ashley was ashen. He thought of the balls in Clayton County, and how well received he'd been when he'd returned from his Grand Tour. Shakily, Ashley sat down in a gilt chair near the door.
Silas Watling swung his feet off the bed and put his boots on. He looked straight at Ashley. "Oo won' ge' a beher wice in aw of Amehicuh."
"He says—"Pamela started.
"Yes." Ashley responded wearily. "I decipher. We won't get a better price in all of Americus. Certainly. But we might leave Americus to get a better price, you know, Pamela."
Somehow Pamela had talked Ashley into having a drink, and that had led to more drinks…and then they sang together "The Carpet Bagger's Lament"
"I've traveled this country all over,
And now to another must go,
Where the darkies are easier swindled,
And less of my lying do know.
I came from the cold frosty region,
The land of the ice and the snow,
I came with carpet-bag empty,
But now 'tis full as you know.
At home I was ragged and dirty,
And left when the sun had got low,
But soon made a rise in this country,
When I got in the Freedmen's Bureau.
I told how I shouldered my musket,
And fought for the poor old negro,
How I hated the secesh and rebels,
And told them to hate 'em also.
I swore them at night by dark lanterns,
In the league we call loyal you know,
And made them believe if they left it,
Straight down to the devil they'd go.
I promised that land we would give them,
Or acres quite forty or more,
With a mule fat and ready to tend it,
That caught the fool darkey be sure.
I promised to give them all office,
And make them my equals also,
I made them think I was an angel,
And this earth would be Heaven below.
We got every office we wanted,
And threw the poor darkeys a bone,
We robbed and we stole without fearing,
For Grant he would let us alone.
That "mournful fact" speech of old Greeley,
Struck the first heavy blow,
Now the niggers, confound 'em want office,
Then where shall we carpet-bags go?
I see that more trouble is coming,
The mule and the land I can't show,
So like many a swindler before me,
I must pack up my stealings and go."
By the time the "Lament was done, (and Silas, despite his defects, sang quite well) there was banging on the ceiling downstairs and they had a few more drinks, and then all three seemed to pass out…but of course Ashley, when he awakened, was alone. And astonishingly, the money was gone as well!
And indeed, the jewelry. And Ashley's pistol, from downstairs.
There was only an impudent note from Pamela, sitting on the top of Ashley's looted wallet. "You may be right that we'll get a better price somewhere else, and Silas and I are off to find it. You may as well go home, and let Arlen shoot you…you just aren't made for an outlaw, darling."
Ashley wandered downstairs, realizing he'd also foolishly been paying by the day here, and so really couldn't stay past the afternoon. Now he had NO money. When was the last time Ashley had no money? It was when he'd come home from the war, and walked seventy miles to Tara. And then Scarlett had taken care of him.
But there was no Scarlett to care for Ashley now. Not unless the woman had lost her mind. Ashley couldn't return to Atlanta, and all of his cousins in Macon and Burr were quite impoverished. Ashley had also relieved Aunt Pittypat and his sister India Wilkes of much of their coppers; and India was not a forgiving sort.
Ashley's sister Honey had married a one-armed Yankee, who'd taken her back up North. So there was no recourse there. Ashley didn't know to do very much.
He came outside onto a busy Americus street, and right across the road, incredibly, was a United States Army recruiting post. The Yankee Army. "All Ages under Sixty Welcome" the sign said. Ashley recalled the time with great pride that he'd refused an offer to be paroled from the Yankee prison camp to fight the Indians.
Honor was boring. Ashley was tired. He knew how to be a soldier, and of course the leaves promised drinking and whoring. What more could you ask for?
He walked up to the office and signed up as "Jefferson Davis Wilkes" he was repatriated to Rye, New York and the South never heard of George Ashley Wilkes again!