FOR THE FIRST TIME since the war began, Atlanta could hear the sound of battle. In the earlymorning hours before the noises of the town awoke, the cannon at Kennesaw Mountain could be heard faintly, far away, low dim booming that might have passed for summer thunder. Occasionallyitwaslouden(a) ough to be heard even above the rattle of traffic at noon. People triednot to listen to it, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on their business, just as though the Yankees werenot there, twenty-two miles away, but always ears were strained for the sound. The town wore apreoccupied look, for no matter what occupied their hands, all were listening, listening, their heartsleaping suddenly a hundred times a day. Was the booming louder? Or did they only think it waslouder? Would General Johnston hold them this time? Would he?
Panic lay just beneath the surface. Nerves which had been stretched tighter and tighter each dayof the retreat began to reach the breaking point. No one spoke of fears. That subject was taboo, butstrained nerves found expression in loud criticism of the General. Public feeling was at fever heat.
Sherman was at the very doors of Atlanta. Another retreat might bring the Confederates into thetown.
Give us a general who won’t retreat! Give us a man who will stand and fight!
With the far-off rumbling of cannon in their ears, the state militia, “Joe Brown’s Pets,” and theHome Guard marched out of Atlanta, to defend the bridges and ferries of the Chattahoochee Riverat Johnston’s back. It was a gray, overcast day and, as they marched through Five Points and outthe Marietta road, a fine rain began to fall. The whole town had turned out to see them off and theystood, close packed, under the wooden awnings of the stores on Peachtree Street and tried to cheer.
Scarlett and Maybelle Merriwether Picard had been given permission to leave the hospital andwatch the men go out, because Uncle Henry Hamilton and Grandpa Merriwether were in the HomeGuard, and they stood with Mrs. Meade, pressed in the crowd, tiptoeing to get a better view.
Scarlett, though filled with the universal Southern desire to believe only the pleasantest and mostreassuring things about the progress of the fighting, felt cold as she watched the motley ranks goby. Surely, things must be in a desperate pass if this rabble of bombproofers, old men and littleboys were being called out! To be sure there were young and able-bodied men in the passing lines,tricked out in the bright uniforms of socially select militia units, plumes waving, sashes dancing.
But there were so many old men and young boys, and the sight of them made her heart contractwith pity and with fear. There were graybeards older than her father trying to step jauntily along inthe needle-fine rain to the rhythm of the fife and dram corps. Grandpa Merriwether, with Mrs.
Merriwether’s best plaid shawl laid across his shoulders to keep out the rain, was in the first rankand he saluted the girls with a grin. They waved their handkerchiefs and cried gay good-bys tohim; but Maybelle, gripping Scarlett’s arm, whispered: “Oh, the poor old darling! A real good rainstormwill just about finish him! His lumbago—”
Uncle Henry Hamilton marched in the rank behind Grandpa Merriwether, the collar of his longblack coat turned up about his ears, two Mexican War pistols in his belt and a small carpetbag inhis hand. Beside him marched his black valet who was nearly as old as Uncle Henry, with an openumbrella held over them both. Shoulder to shoulder with their elders came the young boys, none ofthem looking over sixteen. Many of them had run away from school to join the army, and here andthere were clumps of them in the cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers ontheir tight gray caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps crossing their chests sodden. PhilMeade was among them, proudly wearing his dead brother’s saber and horse pistols, his hatbravely pinned up on one side. Mrs. Meade managed to smile and wave until he had passed and then she leaned her head on the back of Scarlett’s shoulder for a moment as though her strengthhad suddenly left her.
Many of the men were totally unarmed, for the Confederacy had neither rifles nor ammunitionto issue to them. These men hoped to equip themselves from killed and captured Yankees. Manycarried bowie knives in their boots and bore in their hands long thick poles with iron-pointed tipsknown as “Joe Brown pikes.” The lucky ones had old flintlock muskets slung over their shouldersand powder-horns at their belts.
Johnston had lost around ten thousand men in his retreat. He needed ten thousand more freshtroops. And this, thought Scarlett frightened, is what he is getting!
As the artillery rumbled by, splashing mud into the watching crowds, a negro on a mule, ridingclose to a cannon caught her eye. He was a young, saddle-colored negro with a serious face, andwhen Scarlett saw him she cried: “It’s Mose! Ashley’s Mose! Whatever is he doing here?” Shefought her way through the crowd to the curb and called: “Mose! Stop!”
The boy seeing her, drew rein, smiled delightedly and started to dismount. A soaking sergeant,riding behind him, called: “Stay on that mule, boy, or I’ll light a fire under you! We got to git to themountain some time.”
Uncertainly, Mose looked from the sergeant to Scarlett and she, splashing through the mud,close to the passing wheels, caught at Moses’ stirrup strap.
“Oh, just a minute, Sergeant! Don’t get down, Mose. What on earth are you doing here?”
“Ah’s off ter de war, agin, Miss Scarlett. Dis time wid Ole Mist’ John ‘stead ob Mist’ Ashley.”
“Mr. Wilkes!” Scarlett was stunned; Mr. Wilkes was nearly seventy. “Where is he?”
“Back wid de las’ cannon, Miss Scarlett. Back dar!”
“Sorry, lady. Move on, boy!”
Scarlett stood for a moment, ankle deep in mud as the guns lurched by. Oh, no! She thought. Itcan’t be. He’s too old. And he doesn’t like war any more than Ashley did! She retreated back a fewpaces toward the curb and scanned each face that passed. Then, as the last cannon and limber chestcame groaning and splashing up, she saw him, slender, erect, his long silver hair wet upon hisneck, riding easily upon a little strawberry mare that picked her way as daintily through the mudholes as a lady in a satin dress. Why—that mare was Nellie! Mrs. Tarleton’s Nellie! BeatriceTarleton’s treasured darling!
When he saw her standing in the mud, Mr. Wilkes drew rein with a smile of pleasure and,dismounting, came toward her.
“I had hoped to see you, Scarlett. I was charged with so many messages from your people. Butthere was no time. We just got in this morning and they are rushing us out immediately, as yousee.”
“Oh, Mr. Wilkes,” she cried desperately, holding his hand. “Don’t go! Why must you go?”
“Ah, so you think I’m too old!” he smiled, and it was Ashley’s smile in an older face. “Perhaps Iam 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 couldnever go home and face Mrs. Tarleton. Nellie was the last horse she had left.” He was laughingnow, turning away her fears. “Your mother and father and the girls are well and they sent you theirlove. Your father nearly came up with us today!”
“Oh, not Pa!” cried Scarlett in terror. “Not Pa! He isn’t going to the war, is he?”
“No, but he was. Of course, he can’t walk far with his stiff knee, but he was all for riding awaywith us. Your mother agreed, providing he was able to jump the pasture fence, for, she said, therewould be a lot of rough riding to be done in the army. Your father thought that easy, but—wouldyou believe it? When his horse came to the fence, he stopped dead and over his head went yourfather! It’s a wonder it didn’t break his neck! You know how obstinate he is. He got right up andtried it again. Well, Scarlett, he came off three times before Mrs. O’Hara and Pork assisted him tobed. He was in a taking about it, swearing that your mother had ‘spoken a wee word in the beast’sear.’ He just isn’t up to active service, Scarlett. You need have no shame about it. After all,someone must stay home and raise crops for the army.”
Scarlett had no shame at all, only an active feeling of relief.
“I’ve sent India and Honey to Macon to stay with the Burrs and Mr. O’Hara is looking afterTwelve Oaks as well as Tara. … I must go, my dear. Let me kiss your pretty face.”
Scarlett turned up her lips and there was a choking pain in her throat. She was so fond of Mr.
Wilkes. Once, long ago, she had hoped to be his daughter-in-law.
“And you must deliver this kiss to Pittypat and this to Melanie,” he said, kissing her lightly twomore times. “And how is Melanie?”
“She is well.”
“Ah!” His eyes looked at her but through her, past her as Ashley’s had done, remote gray eyeslooking on another world. “I should have liked to see my first grandchild. Good-by, my dear.”
He swung onto Nellie and cantered off, his hat in his hand, his silver hair bare to the rain.
Scarlett had rejoined Maybelle and Mrs. Meade before the import of his last words broke upon her.
Then in superstitious terror she crossed herself and tried to say a prayer. He had spoken of death,just as Ashley had done, and now Ashley— No one should ever speak of death! It was temptingProvidence to mention death. As the three women started silently back to the hospital in the rain,Scarlett was praying: “Not him, too, God. Not him and Ashley, too!”
The retreat from Dalton to Kennesaw Mountain had taken from early May to mid-June and asthe hot rainy days of June passed and Sherman failed to dislodge the Confederates from the steepslippery slopes, hope again raised its head. Everyone grew more cheerful and spoke more kindly ofGeneral Johnston. As wet June days passed into a wetter July and the Confederates, fightingdesperately around the entrenched heights, still held Sherman at bay, a wild gaiety took hold ofAtlanta. Hope went to their heads like champagne. Hurrah! Hurrah! We’re holding them! Anepidemic of parties and dances broke out. Whenever groups of men from the fighting were in townfor the night, dinners were given for them and afterwards there was dancing and the girls,outnumbering the men ten to one, made much of them and fought to dance with them.
Atlanta was crowded with visitors, refugees, families of wounded men in the hospitals, wivesand mothers of soldiers fighting at the mountain who wished to be near them in case of wounds. Inaddition, bevies of belles from the country districts, where all remaining men were under sixteen orover sixty, descended upon the town. Aunt Pitty disapproved highly of these last, for she felt theyhad come to Atlanta for no reason at all except to catch husbands, and the shamelessness of it madeher wonder what the world was coming to. Scarlett disapproved, too. She did not care for the eagercompetition furnished by the sixteen-year-olds whose fresh cheeks and bright smiles made oneforget their twice-turned frocks and patched shoes. Her own clothes were prettier and newer thanmost, thanks to the material Rhett Butler had brought her on the last boat he ran in, but, after all,she was nineteen and getting along and men had a way of chasing silly young things.
A widow with a child was at a disadvantage with these pretty minxes, she thought But in theseexciting days her widowhood and her motherhood weighed less heavily upon her than ever before.
Between hospital duties in the day time and parties at night, she hardly ever saw Wade. Sometimesshe actually forgot, for long stretches, that she had a child.
In the wet summer nights, Atlanta’s homes stood open to the soldiers, the town’sdefenders.The(warm) big houses from Washington Street to Peachtree Street blazed with lights, as themuddy fighters in from the rifle pits were entertained, and the sound of banjo and fiddle and thescrape of dancing feet and light laughter carried far on the night air. Groups hung over pianos andvoices sang lustily the sad words of “Your Letter Came but Came Too Late” while ragged gallantslooked meaningly at girls who laughed from behind turkey-tail fans, begging them not to wait untilit was too late. None of the girls waited, if they could help it. With the tide of hysterical gaiety andexcitement flooding the city, they rushed into matrimony. There were so many marriages thatmonth while Johnston was holding the enemy at Kennesaw Mountain, marriages with the brideturned out in blushing happiness and the hastily borrowed finery of a dozen friends and the groomwith saber banging at patched knees. So much excitement, so many parties, so many thrills!
Hurrah! Johnston is holding the Yanks twenty-two miles away!
Yes, the lines around Kennesaw Mountain were impregnable. After twenty-five days of fighting,even General Sherman was convinced of this, for his losses were enormous. Instead of continuingthe direct assault, he swung his army in a wide circle again and tried to come between theConfederates and Atlanta. Again, the strategy worked. Johnston was forced to abandon the heightshe had held so well, in order to protect his rear. He had lost a third of his men in that fight and theremainder slogged tiredly through the rain across the country toward the Chattahoochee River. TheConfederates could expect no more reinforcements, whereas the railroad, which the Yankees nowheld from Tennessee south to the battle line, brought Sherman fresh troops and supplies daily. Sothe gray lines went back through the muddy fields, back toward Atlanta.
With the loss of the supposedly unconquerable position, a fresh wave of terror swept the town.
For twenty-five wild, happy days, everyone had assured everyone else that this could not possiblyhappen. And now it had happened! But surely the General would hold the Yankees on the oppositebank of the river. Though God knows the river was close enough, only seven miles away!
But Sherman flanked them again, crossing the stream above them, and the weary gray files were forced to hurry across the yellow water and throw themselves again between the invaders andAtlanta. They dug in hastily in shallow pits to the north of the town in the valley of PeachtreeCreek. Atlanta was in agony and panic.
Fight and fall back! Fight and fall back! And every retreat was bringing the Yankees closer tothe town. Peachtree Creek was only five miles away! What was the General thinking about?
The cries of “Give us a man who will stand and fight!” penetrated even to Richmond. Richmondknew that if Atlanta was lost, the war was lost, and after the army had crossed the Chattahoochee,General Johnston was removed from command. General Hood, one of his corps commanders, tookthe army, and the town breathed a little easier. Hood wouldn’t retreat. Not that tallKent(over) uckian, with his flowing beard and flashing eye! He had the reputation of a bulldog. He’ddrive the Yankees back from the creek, yes, back across the river and on up the road every step ofthe way back to Dalton. But the army cried: “Give us back Old Joe!” for they had been with OldJoe all the weary miles from Dalton and they knew, as the civilians could not know, the odds thathad opposed them.
Sherman did not wait for Hood to get himself in readiness to attack. On the day after the changein command, the Yankee general struck swiftly at the little town of Decatur, six miles beyondAtlanta, captured it and cut the railroad there. This was the railroad connecting Atlanta withAugusta, with Charleston, and Wilmington and with Virginia. Sherman had dealt the Confederacya crippling blow. The time had come for action! Atlanta screamed for action!
Then, on a July afternoon of steaming heat, Atlanta had its wish. General Hood did more thanstand and fight. He assaulted the Yankees fiercely at Peachtree Creek, hurling his men from theirrifle pits against the blue lines where Sherman’s men outnumbered him more than two to one.
Frightened, praying that Hood’s attack would drive the Yankees back, everyone listened to thesound of booming cannon and the crackling of thousands of rifles which, though five miles awayfrom the center of town, were so loud as to seem almost in the next block. They could hear therumblings of the batteries, see the smoke which rolled like low-hanging clouds above the trees, butfor hours no one knew how the battle was going.
By late afternoon the first news came, but it was uncertain, contradictory, frightening, brought asit was by men wounded in the early hours of the battle. These men began straggling in, singly andin groups, the less seriously wounded supporting those who limped and staggered. Soon a steadystream of them was established, making their painful way into town toward the hospitals, theirfaces black as negroes’ from powder stains, dust and sweat, their wounds unbandaged, blooddrying, flies swarming about them.
Aunt Pitty’s was one of the first houses which the wounded reached as they struggled in fromthe north of the town, and one after another, they tottered to the gate, sank down on the green lawnand croaked:
“Water!”
All that burning afternoon, Aunt Pitty and her family, black and white, stood in the sun withbuckets of water and bandages, ladling drinks, binding wounds until the bandages gave out andeven the torn sheets and towels were exhausted. Aunt Pitty completely forgot that the sight of blood always made her faint and she worked until her little feet in their too small shoes swelledand would no longer support her. Even Melanie, now great with child, forgot her modesty andworked feverishly side by side with Prissy, Cookie and Scarlett, her face as tense as any of thewounded. When at last she fainted, there was no place to lay her except on the kitchen table, asevery bed, chair and sofa in the house............