IN THAT warm summer after peace came, Tara suddenly lost its isolation. And for monthsthereafter a stream of scarecrows, bearded, ragged, footsore and always hungry, toiled up the redhill to Tara and came to rest on the shady front steps, wanting food and a night’s lodging. Theywere Confederate soldiers walking home. The railroad had carried the remains of Johnston’s armyfrom North Carolina to Atlanta and dumped them there, and from Atlanta they began theirpilgrimages afoot. When the wave of Johnston’s men had passed, the weary veterans from theArmy of Virginia arrived and then men from the Western troops, beating their way south towardhomes which might not exist and families which might be scattered or dead. Most of them werewalking, a few fortunate ones rode bony horses and mules which the terms of the surrender hadpermitted them to keep, gaunt animals which even an untrained eye could tell would never reachfar-away Florida and south Georgia.

　　Going home! Going home! That was the only thought in the soldiers’ minds. Some were sad andsilent, others gay and contemptuous of hardships, but the thought that it was all over and they were going home was the one thing that sustained them. Few of them were bitter. They left bitterness totheir women and their old people. They had fought a good fight, had been licked and were willingto settle down peaceably to plowing beneath the flag they had fought.

　　Going home! Going home! They could talk of nothing else, neither battles nor wounds, norimprisonment nor the future. Later, they would refight battles and tell children and grandchildrenof pranks and forays and charges, of hunger, forced marches and wounds, but not now. Some ofthem lacked an arm or a leg or an eye, many had scars which would ache in rainy weather if theylived for seventy years but these seemed small matters now. Later it would be different.

　　Old and young, talkative and taciturn, rich planter and sallow Cracker, they all had two things incommon, lice and dysentery. The Confederate soldier was so accustomed to his verminous state hedid not give it a thought and scratched unconcernedly even in the presence of ladies. As fordysentery—the “bloody flux” as the ladies delicately called it—it seemed to have spared no onefrom private to general. Four years of half-starvation, four years of rations which were coarse orgreen or half-putrefied, had done its work with them, and every soldier who stopped at Tara waseither just recovering or was actively suffering from it.

　　“Dey ain’ a soun’ set of bowels in de whole Confedrut ahmy,” observed Mammy darkly as shesweated over the fire, brewing a bitter concoction of blackberry roots which had been Ellen’ssovereign remedy for such afflictions. “It’s mah notion dat ‘twarn’t de Yankees whut beat ourgempmum. Twuz dey own innards. Kain no gempmum fight wid his bowels tuhnin’ ter water.”

　　One and all, Mammy dosed them, never waiting to ask foolish questions about the state of theirorgans and, one and all, they drank her doses meekly and with wry faces, remembering, perhaps,other stern black faces in far-off places and other inexorable black hands holding medicine spoons.

　　In the matter of “comp’ny” Mammy was equally adamant. No lice-ridden soldier should comeinto Tara. She marched them behind a clump of thick bushes, relieved them of their uniforms, gavethem a basin of water and strong lye soap to wash with and provided them with quilts and blanketsto cover their nakedness, while she boiled their clothing in her huge wash pot. It was useless forthe girls to argue hotly that such conduct humiliated the soldiers. Mammy replied that the girlswould be a sight more humiliated if they found lice upon themselves.

　　When the soldiers began arriving almost daily, Mammy protested against their being allowed touse the bedrooms. Always she feared lest some louse had escaped her. Rather than argue thematter, Scarlett turned the parlor with its deep velvet rug into a dormitory. Mammy cried outequally loudly at the sacrilege of soldiers being permitted to sleep on Miss Ellen’s rug but Scarlettwas firm. They had to sleep somewhere. And, in the months after the surrender, the deep soft napbegan to show signs of wear and finally the heavy warp and woof showed through in spots whereheels had worn it and spurs dug carelessly.

　　Of each soldier, they asked eagerly of Ashley. Suellen, bridling, always asked news of Mr.

　　Kennedy. But none of the soldiers had ever heard of them nor were they inclined to talk about themissing. It was enough that they themselves were alive, and they did not care to think of thethousands in unmarked graves who would never come home.

　　The family tried to bolster Melanie’s courage after each of these disappointments. Of course, Ashley hadn’t died in prison. Some Yankee chaplain would have written if this were true. Ofcourse, he was coming home but his prison was so far away. Why, goodness, it took days riding ona train to make the trip and if Ashley was walking, like these men ... Why hadn’t he written? Well,darling, you know what the mails are now—so uncertain and slipshod even where mail routes arere-established. But suppose—suppose he had died on the way home. Now, Melanie, some Yankeewoman would have surely written us about it! ... Yankee women! Bah! ... Melly, there are somenice Yankee women. Oh, yes, there are! God couldn’t make a whole nation without having somenice women in it! Scarlett, you remember we did meet a nice Yankee woman at Saratoga that time—Scarlett, tell Melly about her!

　　“Nice, my foot!” replied Scarlett. “She asked me how many bloodhounds we kept to chase ourdarkies with! I agree with Melly. I never saw a nice Yankee, male or female. But don’t cry, Melly!

　　Ashley’ll come home. It’s a long walk and maybe—maybe he hasn’t got any boots.”

　　Then at the thought of Ashley barefooted, Scarlett could have cried. Let other soldiers limp by inrags with their feet tied up in sacks and strips of carpet, but not Ashley. He should come home on aprancing horse, dressed in fine clothes and shining boots, a plume in his hat. It was the finaldegradation for her to think of Ashley reduced to the state of these other soldiers.

　　One afternoon in June when everyone at Tara assembled on the back porch eagerly watchingPorkcutthefirsthalf-ripewatermelonofthese(was) ason, they heard hooves on the gravel ofthe front drive. Prissy started languidly toward the front door, while those left behind argued hotlyas to whether they should hide the melon or keep it for supper, should the caller at the door proveto be a soldier.

　　Melly and Carreen whispered that the soldier guest should have a share and Scarlett, backed bySuellen and Mammy, hissed to Pork to hide it quickly.

　　“Don’t be a goose, girls! There’s not enough for us as it is and if there are two or three famishedsoldiers out there, none of us will even get a taste,” said Scarlett.

　　While Pork stood with the little melon clutched to him, uncertain as to the final decision, theyheard Prissy cry out.

　　“Gawdlmighty! Miss Scarlett! Miss Melly! Come quick!”

　　“Who is it?” cried Scarlett, leaping up from the steps and racing through the hall with Melly ather shoulder and the others streaming after her.

　　Ashley! she thought Oh, perhaps—“It’s Uncle Peter! Miss Pittypat’s Uncle Peter!”

　　They all ran out to the front porch and saw the tall grizzled old despot of Aunt Pitty’s houseclimbing down from a rat-tailed nag on which a section of quilting had been strapped. On his wideblack face, accustomed dignity strove with delight at seeing old friends, with the result that hisbrow was furrowed in a frown but his mouth was hanging open like a happy toothless old hound’s.

　　Everyone ran down the steps to greet him, black and white shaking his hand and askingquestions, but Melly’s voice rose above them all.

　　“Auntie isn’t sick, is she?”

　　“No’m. She’s po’ly, thank God,” answered Peter, fastening a severe look first on Melly and thenon Scarlett, so that they suddenly felt guilty but could think of no reason why. “She’s po’ly but sheis plum outdone wid you young Misses, an’ ef it come right down to it, Ah is too!”

　　“Why, Uncle Peter! What on earth—”

　　“Y’all nee’n try ter ‘scuse you’seffs. Ain’ Miss Pitty writ you an’ writ you ter come home? Ain’

　　Ah seed her write an’ seed her a-cryin’ w’en y’all writ her back dat you got too much ter do ondisyere ole farm ter come home?”

　　“But, Uncle Peter—”

　　“Huccome you leave Miss Pitty by herseff lak dis w’en she so scary lak? You know well’s Ah doMiss Pitty ain’ never live by herseff an’ she been shakin’ in her lil shoes ever since she come backfrum Macom. She say fer me ter tell y’all plain as Ah knows how dat she jes’ kain unnerstan’ y’alldesertin’ her in her hour of need.”

　　“Now, hesh!” said Mammy tartly, for it sat ill upon her to hear Tara referred to as an “ole farm.”

　　Trust an ignorant city-bred darky not to know the difference between a farm and a plantation.

　　“Ain’ us got no hours of need? Ain’ us needin’ Miss Scarlett an’ Miss Melly right hyah an’ needin’

　　dem bad? Huccome Miss Pitty doan ast her brudder fer ‘sistance, does she need any?”

　　Uncle Peter gave her a withering look.

　　“Us ain’ had nuthin’ ter do wid Mist’ Henry fer y’ars, an’ us is too ole ter start now.” He turnedback to the girls, who were trying to suppress their smiles. “You young Misses ought ter tekshame, leavin’ po’ Miss Pitty lone, wid half her frens daid an’ de other half in Macom, an’ ‘Lantafull of Yankee sojers an’ trashy free issue niggers.”

　　The two girls had borne the castigation with straight faces as long as they could, but the thoughtof Aunt Pitty sending Peter to scold them and bring them back bodily to Atlanta was too much fortheir control. They burst into laughter and hung on each other’s shoulders for support. Naturally,Pork and Dilcey and Mammy gave vent to loud guffaws at hearing the detractor of their belovedTara set at naught. Suellen and Carreen giggled and even Gerald’s face wore a vague smile.

　　Everyone laughed except Peter, who shifted from one large splayed foot to the other in mountingindignation.

　　“Whut’s wrong wid you, nigger?” inquired Mammy with a grin. “Is you gittin’ too ole terperteck yo’ own Missus?” Peter was outraged.

　　“Too ole! Me too ole? No, Ma’m! Ah kin perteck Miss Pitty lak Ah allus done. Ain’ Ah perteckher down ter Macom when us refugeed? Ain’Ah perteck her w’en de Yankees come ter Macom an’

　　she so sceered she faintin’ all de time? An’ ain’ Ah ‘quire disyere nag ter bring her back ter ‘Lantaan’ perteck her an’ her pa’s silver all de way?” Peter drew himself to his full height as he vindicatedhimself. “Ah ain’ talkin’ about perteckin’. Ah’s talkin’ ‘bout how it look.”

　　“How who look?”

　　“Ah’m talkin’ ‘bout how it look ter folks, seein’ Miss Pitty livin’ lone. Folks talks scanlous ‘boutmaiden ladies dat lives by deyseff,” continued Peter, and it was obvious to his listeners thatPittypat, in his mind, was still a plump and charming miss of sixteen who must be sheltered against evil tongues. “An’ Ah ain’ figgerin’ on havin’ folks criticize her. No, Ma’m. … An’ Ah ain’

　　figgerin’ on her takin’ in no bo’ders, jes’ fer comp’ny needer. Ah done tole her dat. ‘Not w’ile yougot yo’ flesh an’ blood dat belongs wid you,’ Ah says. An’ now her flesh an’ blood denyin’ her.

　　Miss Pitty ain’ nuthin’ but a chile an’—”

　　At this, Scarlett and Melly whooped louder and sank down to the steps. Finally Melly wipedtears of mirth from her eyes.

　　“Poor Uncle Peter! I’m sorry I laughed. Really and truly. There! Do forgive me. Miss Scarlettand I just can’t come home now. Maybe I’ll come in September after the cotton is picked. DidAuntie send you all the way down here just to bring us back on that bag of bones?”

　　At this question, Peter’s jaw suddenly dropped and guilt and consternation swept over hiswrinkled black face. His protruding underlip retreated to normal as swiftly as a turtle withdraws itshead beneath its shell.

　　“Miss Melly, Ah is gittin’ ole, Ah spec’, ‘cause Ah clean fergit fer de moment whut she sent mefer, an’ it’s important too. Ah got a letter fer you. Miss Pitty wouldn’ trust de mails or nobody butme ter bring it an’—”

　　“A letter? For me? Who from?”

　　“Well’m, it’s—Miss Pitty, she says ter me, “You, Peter, you brek it gen’ly ter Miss Melly,’ an’

　　Ah say—”

　　Melly rose from the steps, her hand at her heart.

　　“Ashley! Ashley! He’s dead!”

　　“No’m! No’m!” cried Peter, his voice rising to a shrill bawl, as he fumbled in the breast pocketof his ragged coat. “He’s live! Disyere a letter frum him. He comin’ home. He— Gawdlmighty!

　　Ketch her, Mammy! Lemme—”

　　“Doan you tech her, you ole fool!” thundered Mammy, struggling to keep Melanie’s saggingbody from falling to the ground. “You pious black ape! Brek it gen’ly! You, Poke, tek her feet.

　　Miss Carreen, steady her haid. Lessus lay her on de sofa in de parlor.”

　　There was a tumult of sound as everyone but Scarlett swarmed about the fainting Melanie,everyone crying out in alarm, scurrying into the house for water and pillows, and in a momentScarlett and Uncle Peter were left standing alone on the walk. She stood rooted, unable to movefrom the position to which she had leaped when she heard his words, staring at the old man whostood feebly waving a letter. His old black face was as pitiful as a child’s under its mother’sdisapproval, his dignity collapsed.

　　For a moment she could not speak or move, and though her mind shouted: “He isn’t dead! He’scoming home!” the knowledge brought neither joy nor excitement, only a stunned immobility.

　　Uncle Peter’s voice came as from a far distance, plaintive, placating.

　　“Mist’ Willie Burr frum Macom whut is kin ter us, he brung it ter Miss Pitty. Mist’ Willie he inde same jail house wid Mist’ Ashley. Mist’ Willie he got a hawse an’ he got hyah soon. But Mist’

　　Ashley he a-walkin’ an’—”

　　Scarlett snatched the letter from his hand. It was addressed to Melly in Miss Pitty’s writing butthat did not make her hesitate a moment. She ripped it open and Miss Pitty’s enclosed note fell tothe ground. Within the envelope there was a piece of folded paper, grimy from the dirty pocket inwhich it had been carried, creased and ragged about the edges. It bore the inscription in Ashley’shand: “Mrs. George Ashley Wilkes, Care Miss Sarah Jane Hamilton, Atlanta, or Twelve Oaks,Jonesboro, Ga.”

　　With fingers that shook, she opened it and read:

　　“Beloved, I am coming home to you—”

　　Tears began to stream down her face so that she could not read and her heart swelled up untilshe felt she could not bear the joy of it. Clutching the letter to her, she raced up the porch steps anddown the hall, past the parlor where an the inhabitants of Tara were getting in one another’s way asthey worked over the unconscious Melanie, and into Ellen’s office. She shut the door and locked itand flung herself down on the sagging old sofa crying, laughing, kissing the letter.

　　“Beloved,” she whispered, “I am coming home to you.”

　　Common sense told them that unless Ashley developed wings, it would be weeks or evenmonths before he could travel from Illinois to Georgia, but hearts nevertheless beat wildlywhenever a soldier turned into the avenue at Tara. Each bearded scarecrow might be Ashley. And ifit were not Ashley, perhaps the soldier would have news of him or a letter from Aunt Pitty abouthim. Black and white, they rushed to the front porch every time they heard footsteps. The sight of auniform was enough to bring everyone flying from the woodpile, the pasture and the cotton patch.

　　For a month after the letter came, work was almost at a standstill. No one wanted to be out of thehouse when he arrived. Scarlett least of all. And she could not insist on the others attending to theirduties when she so neglected hers.

　　But when the weeks crawled by and Ashley did not come or any news of him, Tara settled backinto its old routine. Longing hearts could only stand so much of longing. An uneasy fear crept intoScarlett’s mind that something had happened to him along the way. Rock Island was so far awayand he might have been weak or sick when released from prison. And he had no money and wastramping through a country where Confederates were hated. If only she knew where he was, shewould send money to him, send every penny she had and let the family go hungry, so he couldcome home swiftly on the train.

　　“Beloved, I am coming home to you.”

　　In the first rush of joy when her eyes met those words, they had meant only that Ashley wascoming home to her. Now, in the light of cooler reason, it was Melanie to whom he was returning,Melanie who went about the house these days singing with joy. Occasionally, Scarlett wonderedbitterly why Melanie could not have died in childbirth in Atlanta. That would have made thingsperfect. Then she could have married Ashley after a decent interval and made little Beau a goodstepmother too. When such thoughts came she did not pray hastily to God, telling Him she did notmean it. God did not frighten her any more.

　　Soldiers came singly and in pairs and dozens and they were always hungry. Scarlett thought despairingly that a plague of locusts would be more welcome. She cursed again the old custom ofhospitality which had flowered in the era of plenty, the custom which would not permit anytraveler, great or humble, to go on his journey without a night’s lodging, food for himself and hishorse and the utmost courtesy the house could give. She knew that era had passed forever, but therest of the household did not, nor did the soldiers, and each soldier was welcomed as if he were along-awaited guest.

　　As the never-ending line went by, her heart hardened. They were eating the food meant for themouths of Tara, vegetables over whose long rows she had wearied her back, food she had drivenendless miles to buy. Food was so hard to get and the money in the Yankee’s wallet would not lastforever. Only a few greenbacks and the two gold pieces were left now. Why should she feed thishorde of hungry men? The war was over. They would never again stand between her and danger.

　　So, she gave orders to Pork tha............