Immortal soul by kissing you?"

A stony silence and an averted head were his answers.

"Ah, well, so he did kiss you. I suppose it was when he was here

on furlough. And now that he's probably dead you are cherishing it

to your heart. But I'm sure you'll get over it and when you've

forgotten his kiss, I'll--"

She turned in fury.

"You go to--Halifax," she said tensely, her green eyes slits of

rage. "And let me out of this carriage before I jump over the

wheels. And I don't ever want to speak to you again."

He stopped the carriage, but before he could alight and assist her

she sprang down. Her hoop caught on the wheel and for a moment the

crowd at Five Points had a flashing view of petticoats and

pantalets. Then Rhett leaned over and swiftly released it. She

flounced off without a word, without even a backward look, and he

laughed softly and clicked to the horse.

CHAPTER XVIII

For the first time since the war began, Atlanta could hear the

sound of battle. In the early morning hours before the noises of

the town awoke, the cannon at Kennesaw Mountain could be heard

faintly, far away, a low dim booming that might have passed for

summer thunder. Occasionally it was loud enough to be heard even

above the rattle of traffic at noon. People tried not to listen to

It, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on their business, just as

though the Yankees were not there, twenty-two miles away, but

always ears were strained for the sound. The town wore a

preoccupied look, for no matter what occupied their hands, all were

listening, listening, their hearts leaping suddenly a hundred times

a day. Was the booming louder? Or did they only think it was

louder? Would General Johnston hold them this time? Would he?

Panic lay just beneath the surface. Nerves which had been

stretched tighter and tighter each day of the retreat began to

reach the breaking point. No one spoke of fears. That subject was

taboo, but strained 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 the town.

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 the Home Guard marched out of

Atlanta, to defend the bridges and ferries of the Chattahoochee

River at Johnston's back. It was a gray, overcast day and, as they

marched through Five Points and out the Marietta road, a fine rain

began to fall. The whole town had turned out to see them off and

they stood, 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 and watch the men go out, because Uncle Henry

Hamilton and Grandpa Merriwether were in the Home Guard, 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 most reassuring things

about the progress of the fighting, felt cold as she watched the

motley ranks go by. Surely, things must be in a desperate pass if

this rabble of bombproofers, old men and little boys 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 contract with pity and with fear. There were graybeards

older than her father trying to step jauntily along in the needle-

fine rain to the rhythm of the fife and drum corps. Grandpa

Merriwether, with Mrs. Merriwether's best plaid shawl laid across

his shoulders to keep out the rain, was in the first rank and he

saluted the girls with a grin. They waved their handkerchiefs and

cried gay good-bys to him; but Maybelle, gripping Scarlett's arm,

whispered: "Oh, the poor old darling! A real good rainstorm will

just about finish him! His lumbago--"

Uncle Henry Hamilton marched in the rank behind Grandpa

Merriwether, the collar of his long black coat turned up about his

ears, two Mexican War pistols in his belt and a small carpetbag in

his hand. Beside him marched his black valet who was nearly as old

as Uncle Henry, with an open umbrella held over them both.

Shoulder to shoulder with their elders came the young boys, none of

them looking over sixteen. Many of them had run away from school

to join the army, and here and there were clumps of them in the

cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers on

their tight gray caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps

crossing their chests sodden. Phil Meade was among them, proudly

wearing his dead brother's saber and horse pistols, his hat bravely

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 strength had

suddenly left her.

Many of the men were totally unarmed, for the Confederacy had

neither rifles nor ammunition to issue to them. These men hoped to

equip themselves from killed and captured Yankees. Many carried

bowie knives in their boots and bore in their hands long thick

poles with iron-pointed tips known as "Joe Brown pikes." The lucky

ones had old flintlock muskets slung over their shoulders and

powder-horns at their belts.

Johnston had lost around ten thousand men in his retreat. He

needed ten thousand more fresh troops. 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, riding close to a cannon caught her eye.

He was a young, saddle-colored negro with a serious face, and when

Scarlett saw him she cried: "It's Mose! Ashley's Mose! Whatever