IN THOSE FIRST DAYS of the siege, when the Yankees crashed here and there against thedefenses of the city, Scarlett was so frightened by the bursting shells she could only cowerhelplessly, her hands over her ears, expecting every moment to be blown into eternity. When sheheard the whistling screams that heralded their approach, she rushed to Melanie’s room and flungherself on the bed beside her, and the two clutched each other, screaming “Oh! Oh!” as they buriedtheir heads in the pillows. Prissy and Wade scurried for the cellar and crouched in the cob-webbeddarkness, Prissy squalling at the top of her voice and Wade sobbing and hiccoughing.
Suffocating under feather pillows while death screamed overhead, Scarlett silently cursedMelanie for keeping her from the safer regions below stairs. But the doctor had forbidden Melanieto walk and Scarlett had to stay with her. Added to her terror of being blown to pieces was herequally active terror that Melanie’s baby might arrive at any moment. Sweat broke out on Scarlettwith clammy dampness, whenever this thought entered her mind. What would she do if the babystarted coming? She knew she’d rather let Melanie die than go out on the streets to hunt for thedoctor when the shells were falling like April rain. And she knew Prissy could be beaten to deathbefore she would venture forth. What would she do if the baby came?
These matters she discussed with Prissy in whispers one evening, as they prepared Melanie’ssupper tray, and Prissy, surprisingly enough, calmed her fears.
“Miss Scarlett, effen we kain git de doctah w’en Miss Melly’s time come, doan you bodder. Ahkin manage. Ah knows all ‘bout birthin’. Ain’ mah ma a midwife? Ain’ she raise me ter be amidwife, too? Jes’ you leave it ter me.”
Scarlett breathed more easily knowing that experienced hands were near, but she nevertheless yearned to have the ordeal over and done with. Mad to be away from exploding shells, desperate toget home to the quiet of Tara, she prayed every night that the baby would arrive the next day, soshe would be released from her promise and could leave Atlanta. Tara seemed so safe, so far awayfrom all this misery.
Scarlett longed for home and her mother as she had never longed for anything in all her life. Ifshe were just near Ellen she wouldn’t be afraid, no matter what happened. Every night after a dayof screeching ear-splitting shells, she went to bed determined to tell Melanie the next morning thatshe could not stand Atlanta another day, that she would have to go home and Melanie would haveto go to Mrs. Meade’s. But, as she lay on her pillow, there always rose the memory of Ashley’sface as it had looked when she last saw him, drawn as with an inner pain but with a little smile onhis lips: “You’ll take care of Melanie, won’t you? You’re so strong. … Promise me.” And she hadpromised. Somewhere, Ashley lay dead. Wherever he was, he was watching her, holding her tothat promise. Living or dead, she could not fail him, no matter what the cost. So she remained dayafter day.
In response to Ellen’s letters, pleading with her to come home, she wrote minimizing thedangers of the siege, explaining Melanie’s predicament and promising to come as soon as the babywas born. Ellen, sensitive to the bonds of kin, be they blood or marriage, wrote back reluctantlyagreeing that she must stay but demanding Wade and Prissy be sent home immediately. Thissuggestion met with the complete approval of Prissy, who was now reduced to teeth-chatteringidiocy at every unexpected sound. She spent so much time crouching in the cellar that the girlswould have fared badly but for Mrs. Meade’s stolid old Betsy.
Scarlett was as anxious as her mother to have Wade out of Atlanta, not only for the child’ssafety, but because his constant fear irritated her. Wade was terrified to speechlessness by theshelling, and even when lulls came he clung to Scarlett’s skirts, too terrified to cry. He was afraidto go to bed at night, afraid of the dark, afraid to sleep lest the Yankees should come and get him,and the sound of his soft nervous whimpering in the night grated unendurably on her nerves.
Secretly she was just as frightened as he was, but it angered her to be reminded of it every minuteby his tense, drawn face. Yes, Tara was the place for Wade. Prissy should take him there and returnimmediately to be present when the baby came.
But before Scarlett could start the two on their homeward journey, news came that the Yankeeshad swung to the south and were skirmishing along the railroad between Atlanta and Jonesboro.
Suppose the Yankees should capture the train on which Wade and Prissy were riding—Scarlett andMelanie turned pale at the thought, for everyone knew that Yankee atrocities on helpless childrenwere even more dreadful than on women. So she feared to send him home and he remained inAtlanta, a frightened, silent little ghost, pattering about desperately after his mother, fearing tohave her skirt out of his hand for even a minute.
The siege went on through the hot days of July, thundering days following nights of sullen,ominous stillness, and the town began to adjust itself. It was as though, the worst having happened,they had nothing more to fear. They had feared a siege and now they had a siege and, after all, itwasn’t so bad. Life could and did go on almost as usual. They knew they were sitting on a volcano,but until that volcano erupted there was nothing they could do. So why worry now? And probablyit wouldn’t erupt anyway. Just look how General Hood is holding the Yankees out of the city! And see how the cavalry is holding the railroad to Macon! Sherman will never take it!
But for all their apparent insouciance in the face of falling shells and shorter rations, for all theirignoring the Yankees, barely half a mile away, and for all their boundless confidence in the raggedline of gray men in the rifle pits, there pulsed, just below the skin of Atlanta, a wild uncertaintyover what the next day would bring. Suspense, worry, sorrow, hunger and the torment of rising,falling, rising hope was wearing that skin thin.
Gradually, Scarlett drew courage from the brave faces of her friends and from the mercifuladjustment which nature makes when what cannot be cured must be endured. To be sure, she stilljumped at the sound of explosions but she did not run screaming to burrow her head underMelanie’s pillow. She could now gulp and say weakly: “That was close, wasn’t it?”
She was less frightened also because life had taken on the quality of a dream, a dream tooterrible to be real. It wasn’t possible that she, Scarlett O’Hara, should be in such a predicament,with the danger of death about her every hour, every minute. It wasn’t possible that the quiet tenorof life could have changed so completely in so short a time.
It was unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned so tenderly blue could beprofaned with cannon smoke that hung over the town like low thunder clouds, that warm noontidesfilled with the piercing sweetness of massed honeysuckle and climbing roses could be so fearful,as shells screamed into the streets, bursting like the crack of doom, throwing iron splintershundreds of yards, blowing people and animals to bits.
Quiet, drowsy afternoon siestas had ceased to be, for though the clamor of battle might lull fromtime to time, Peachtree Street was alive, and noisy at all hours, cannon and ambulances rumblingby, wounded stumbling in from the rifle pits, regiments hurrying past at double-quick, orderedfrom the ditches on one side of town to the defense of some hard-pressed earthworks on the other,and couriers dashing headlong down the street toward headquarters as though the fate of theConfederacy hung on them.
The hot nights brought a measure of quiet but it was a sinister quiet. When the night was still, itwas too still—as though the tree frogs, katydids and sleepy mockingbirds were too frightened toraise their voices in the usual summer-night chorus. Now and again, the quiet was broken sharplyby the crack-cracking of musket fire in the last line of defenses.
Often in the late night hours, when the lamps were out and Melanie asleep and deathly silencepressed over the town, Scarlett, lying awake, heard the latch of the front gate click and soft urgenttappings on the front door.
Always, faceless soldiers stood on the dark porch and from the darkness many different voicesspoke to her. Sometimes a cultured voice came from the shadows: “Madam, my abject apologiesfor disturbing you, but could I have water for myself and my horse?” Sometimes it was the hardburring of a mountain voice, sometimes the odd nasals of the flat Wiregrass country to the farsouth, occasionally the lulling drawl of the Coast that caught at her heart, reminding her of Ellen’svoice.
“Missy, I got a pardner here who I wuz aimin’ ter git ter the horsepittle but looks like he ain’tgoin’ ter last that fer. Kin you take him in?”
“Lady, I shore could do with some vittles. I’d shore relish a corn pone if it didn’t deprive younone.”
“Madam, forgive my intrusion but—could I spend the night on your porch? I saw the roses andsmelled the honeysuckle and it was so much like home that I was emboldened—”
No, these nights were not real! They were a nightmare and the men were part of that nightmare,men without bodies or faces, only tired voices speaking to her from the warm dark. Draw water,serve food, lay pillows on the front porch, bind wounds, hold the dirty heads of the dying. No, thiscould not be happening to her!
Once, late in July, it was Uncle Henry Hamilton who came tapping in the night. Uncle Henrywas minus his umbrella and carpetbag now, and his fat stomach as well. The skin of his pink fatface hung down in loose folds like the dewlaps of a bulldog and his long white hair was indescribablydirty. He was almost barefoot, crawling with lice, and he was hungry, but his irasciblespirit was unimpaired.
Despite his remark: “It’s a foolish war when old fools like me are out toting guns,” the girlsreceived the impression that Uncle Henry was enjoying himself. He was needed, like the youngmen, and he was doing a young man’s work. Moreover, he could keep up with the young men,which was more than Grandpa Merriwether could do, he told them gleefully. Grandpa’s lumbagowas troubling him greatly and the Captain wanted to discharge him. But Grandpa wouldn’t gohome. He said frankly that he preferred the Captain’s swearing and bullying to his daughter-inlaw’scoddling, and her incessant demands that he give up chewing tobacco and launder his beardevery day.
Uncle Henry’s visit was brief, for he had only a four-hour furlough and he needed half of it forthe long walk in from the breastworks and back.
“Girls, I’m not going to see you all for a while,” he announced as he sat in Melanie’s bedroom,luxuriously wriggling his blistered feet in the tub of cold water Scarlett had set before him. “Ourcompany is going out in the morning.”
“Where?” questioned Melanie frightened, clutching his arm.
“Don’t put your hand on me,” said Uncle Henry irritably. “I’m crawling with lice. War would bea picnic if it wasn’t for lice and dysentery. Where’m I going? Well, I haven’t been told but I’ve gota good idea. We’re marching south, toward Jonesboro, in the morning, unless I’m greatly in error.”
“Oh, why toward Jonesboro?”
“Because there’s going to be big fighting there, Missy. The Yankees are going to take therailroad if they possibly can. And if they do take it, it’s good-by Atlanta!”
“Oh, Uncle Henry, do you think they will?”
“Shucks, girls! No! How can they when I’m there?” Uncle Henry grinned at their frightenedfaces and then, becoming serious again: “It’s going to be a hard fight, girls. We’ve got to win it.
You know, of course, that the Yankees have got all the railroads except the one to Macon, but thatisn’t all they’ve got. Maybe you girls didn’t know it, but they’ve got every road, too, every wagonlane and bridle path, except the McDonough road, Atlanta’s in a bag and the strings of the bag are at Jonesboro. And if the Yankees can take the railroad there, they can pull up the strings and haveus, just like a possum in a poke. So, we don’t aim to let them get that railroad. … I may be gone awhile, girls. I just came in to tell you all good-by and to make sure Scarlett was still with you,Melly.”
“Of course, she’s with me,” said Melanie fondly. “Don’t you worry about us, Uncle Henry, anddo take care of yourself.”
Uncle Henry wiped his wet feet on the rag rug and groaned as he drew on his tattered shoes.
“I got to be going,” he said. “I’ve got five miles to walk. Scarlett, you fix me up some kind oflunch to take. Anything you’ve got.”
After he had kissed Melanie good-by, he went down to the kitchen where Scarlett was wrappinga corn pone and some apples in a napkin.
“Uncle Henry—is it—is it really so serious?”
“Serious? God’lmighty, yes! Don’t be a goose. We’re in the last ditch.”
“Do you think they’ll get to Tara?”
“Why—” began Uncle Henry, irritated at the feminine mind which thought only of personalthings when broad issues were involved. Then, seeing her frightened, woebegone face, he softened.
“Of course they won’t. Tara’s five miles from the railroad and it’s the railroad the Yankees want.
You’ve got no more sense than a June bug, Missy.” He broke off abruptly. “I didn’t walk all thisway here tonight just to tell you all good-by. I came to bring Melly some bad news, but when I gotup to it I just couldn’t tell her. So I’m going to leave it to you to do.”
“Ashley isn’t—you haven’t heard anything—that he’s— dead?”
“Now, how would I be hearing about Ashley when I’ve been standing in rifle pits up to the seatof my pants in mud?” the old gentleman asked testily. “No. It’s about his father. John Wilkes isdead.”
Scarlett sat down suddenly, the half-wrapped lunch in her hand.
“I came to tell Melly—but I couldn’t. You must do it And give her these.”
He hauled from his pockets a heavy gold watch with dangling seals, a small miniature of thelong dead Mrs. Wilkes and a pair of massive cuff buttons. At the sight of the watch which she hadseen in John Wilkes’ hands a thousand times, the full realization came over Scarlett that Ashley’sfather was really dead. And she was too stunned to cry or to speak. Uncle Henry fidgeted, coughedand did not look at her, lest he catch sight of a tear that would upset him.
“He was a brave man, Scarlett. Tell Melly that. Tell her to write it to his girls. And a goodsoldier for all his years. A shell got him. Came right down on him and his horse. Tore the horse’s—I shot the horse myself, poor creature. A fine little mare she was. You’d better write Mrs. Tarletonabout that, too. She set a store on that mare. Wrap up my lunch, child. I must be going. There, dear,don’t take it so hard. What better way can an old man die than doing a young man’s work?”
“Oh, he shouldn’t have died! He shouldn’t have ever gone to the war. He should have lived and seen his grandchild grow up and died peacefully in bed. Oh, why did he go? He didn’t believe insecession and he hated the war and—”
“Plenty of us think that way, but what of it?” Uncle Henry blew his nose grumpily. “Do youthink I enjoy letting Yankee riflemen use me for a target at my age? But there’s no other choice fora gentleman these days. Kiss me good-by, child, and don’t worry about me. I’ll come through thiswar safely.”
Scarlett kissed him and heard him go down the steps into the dark, heard the latch click on thefront gate. She stood for a minute looking at the keepsakes in her hand. And then she went up thestairs to tell Melanie.
At the end of July came the unwelcome news, predicted by Uncle Henry, that the Yankees hadswung around again toward Jonesboro. They had cut the railroad four miles below the town, butthey had been beaten off by the Confederate cavalry; and the engineering corps, sweating in thebroiling sun, had repaired the line.
Scarlett was frantic with anxiety. For three days she waited, fear growing in her heart. Then areassuring letter came from Gerald. The enemy had not reached Tara. They had heard the sound ofthe fight but they had seen no Yankees.
Gerald’s letter was so full of brag and bluster as to how the Yankees had been driven from therailroad that one would have thought he personally had accomplished the feat, single handed. Hewrote for three pages about the gallantry of the troops and then, at the end of his letter, mentionedbriefly that Carreen was ill. The typhoid, Mrs. O’Hara said it was. She was not very ill and Scarlettwas not to worry about her, but on no condition must she come home now, even if the railroadshould become safe. Mrs. O’Hara was very glad now that Scarlett and Wade had not come homewhen the siege began. Mrs. O’Hara said Scarlett must go to church and say some Rosaries forCarreen’s recovery.
Scarlett’s conscience smote her at this last, for it had been months since she had been to church.
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