It was unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned

so tenderly blue could be profaned with cannon smoke that hung over

the town like low thunder clouds, that warm noontides filled 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 splinters hundreds of yards,

blowing people and animals to bits.

Quiet, drowsy afternoon siestas had ceased to be, for though the

clamor of battle might lull from time to time, Peachtree Street was

alive and noisy at all hours, cannon and ambulances rumbling by,

wounded stumbling in from the rifle pits, regiments hurrying past

at double-quick, ordered from 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 the Confederacy hung on them.

The hot nights brought a measure of quiet but it was a sinister

quiet. When the night was still, it was too still--as though the

tree frogs, katydids and sleepy mockingbirds were too frightened to

raise their voices in the usual summer-night chorus. Now and

again, the quiet was broken sharply by 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 silence pressed over the town, Scarlett, lying

awake, heard the latch of the front gate click and soft urgent

tappings on the front door.

Always, faceless soldiers stood on the dark porch and from the

darkness many different voices spoke to her. Sometimes a cultured

Voice came from the shadows: "Madam, my abject apologies for

disturbing you, but could I have water for myself and my horse?"

Sometimes it was the hard burring of a mountain voice, sometimes

the odd nasals of the flat Wiregrass country to the far south,

occasionally the lulling drawl of the Coast that caught at her

heart, reminding her of Ellen's voice.

"Missy, I got a pardner here who I wuz aimin' ter git ter the

horsepittle but looks like he ain't goin' 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 you none."

"Madam, forgive my intrusion but--could I spend the night on your

porch? I saw the roses and smelled 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, this could not be happening to her!

Once, late in July, it was Uncle Henry Hamilton who came tapping in

the night. Uncle Henry was minus his umbrella and carpetbag now,

and his fat stomach as well. The skin of his pink fat face hung

down in loose folds like the dewlaps of a bulldog and his long

white hair was indescribably dirty. He was almost barefoot,

crawling with lice, and he was hungry, but his irascible spirit was

unimpaired.

Despite his remark: "It's a foolish war when old fools like me are

out toting guns," the girls received the impression that Uncle

Henry was enjoying himself. He was needed, like the young men, 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 lumbago was troubling him greatly

and the Captain wanted to discharge him. But Grandpa wouldn't go

home. He said frankly that he preferred the Captain's swearing and

bullying to his daughter-in-law's coddling, and her incessant

demands that he give up chewing tobacco and launder his beard every

day.

Uncle Henry's visit was brief, for he had only a four-hour furlough

and he needed half of it for the 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. "Our

company 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 be a picnic if it wasn't for lice

and dysentery. Where'm I going? Well, I haven't been told but

I've got a 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 the railroad 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 frightened faces 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 that isn't all they've got. Maybe you girls

didn't know it, but they've got every road, too, every wagon lane

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 have us,

just like a possum in a poke. So, we don't aim to let them get

that railroad. . . . I may be gone a while, 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, and do 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 of lunch to take. Anything

you've got."

After he had kissed Melanie good-by, he went down to the kitchen

where Scarlett was wrapping a 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 personal things 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

this way here tonight just to tell you all good-by. I came to

bring Melly some bad news, but when I got up 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 seat of my pants in mud?" the old gentleman

asked testily. "No. It's about his father. John Wilkes is dead."

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 the long dead Mrs. Wilkes and a pair of

massive cuff buttons. At the sight of the watch which she had seen

in John Wilkes' hands a thousand times, the full realization came

over Scarlett that Ashley's father was really dead. And she was

too stunned to cry or to speak. Uncle Henry fidgeted, coughed and

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 good soldier 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. Tarleton about 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 in

secession and he hated the war and--"

"Plenty of us think that way, but what of it?" Uncle Henry blew

his nose grumpily. "Do you think I enjoy letting Yankee riflemen

use me for a target at my age? But there's no other choice for a

gentleman these days. Kiss me good-by, child, and don't worry

about me. I'll come through this war safely."

Scarlett kissed him and heard him go down the steps into the dark,

heard the latch click on the front gate. She stood for a minute

looking at the keepsakes in her hand. And then she went up the

stairs to tell Melanie.

At the end of July came the unwelcome news, predicted by Uncle

Henry, that the Yankees had swung around again toward Jonesboro.

They had cut the railroad four miles below the town, but they had

been beaten off by the Confederate cavalry; and the engineering

corps, sweating in the broiling sun, had repaired the line.

Scarlett was frantic with anxiety. For three days she waited, fear

growing in her heart. Then a reassuring letter came from Gerald.

The enemy had not reached Tara. They had heard the sound of the

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 the railroad that one would have

thought he personally had accomplished the feat, single handed.

He wrote for three pages about the gallantry of the troops and then,

at the end of his letter, mentioned briefly that Carreen was ill.

The typhoid, Mrs. O'Hara said it was. She was not very ill and

Scarlett was not to worry about her, but on no condition must she

come home now, even if the railroad should become safe. Mrs. O'Hara

was very glad now that Scarlett and Wade had not come home when the

siege began. Mrs. O'Hara said Scarlett must go to church and say

some Rosaries for Carreen's recovery.

Scarlett's conscience smote her at this last, for it had been

months since she had been to church. Once she would have thought

this omission a mortal sin but, somehow, staying away from church

did not seem so sinful now as it formerly had. But she obeyed her

mother and going to her room gabbled a hasty Rosary. When she rose

from her knees she did not feel as comforted as she had formerly

felt after prayer. For some time she had felt that God was not

watching out for her, the Confederates or the South, in spite of

the millions of prayers ascending to Him daily.

That night she sat on the front porch with Gerald's letter in her

bosom where she could touch it occasionally and bring Tara and

Ellen closer to her. The lamp in the parlor window threw odd

golden shadows onto the dark vine-shrouded porch, and the matted

tangle of yellow climbing roses and honeysuckle made a wall of

mingled fragrance about her. The night was utterly still. Not

even the crack of a rifle had sounded since sunset and the world

seemed far away. Scarlett rocked back and forth, lonely, miserable

since reading the news from Tara, wishing that someone, anyone,

even Mrs. Merriwether, were with her. But Mrs. Merriwether was on

night duty at the hospital, Mrs. Meade was at home making a feast

for Phil, who was in from the front lines, and Melanie was asleep.

There was not even the hope of a chance caller. Visitors had

fallen off to nothing this last week, for every man who could walk

was in the rifle pits or chasing the Yankees about the countryside

near Jonesboro.

It was not often that she was alone like this and she did not like

it. When she was alone she had to think and, these days, thoughts

were not so pleasant. Like everyone else, she had fallen into the

habit of thinking of the past, the dead.

Tonight when Atlanta was so quiet, she could close her eyes and

imagine she was back in the rural stillness of Tara and that life

was unchanged, unchanging. But she knew that life in the County

would never be the same again. She thought of the four Tarletons,

the red-haired twins and Tom and Boyd, and a passionate sadness

caught at her throat. Why, either Stu or Brent might have been her

husband. But now, when the war was over and she went back to Tara

to live, she would never again hear their wild halloos as they

dashed up the avenue of cedars. And Raiford Calvert, who danced so

divinely, would never again choose her to be his partner. And the

Munroe boys and little Joe Fontaine and--

"Oh, Ashley!" she sobbed, dropping her head into her hands. "I'll

never get used to you being gone!"

She heard the front gate click and she hastily raised her head and

dashed her hand across her wet eyes. She rose and saw it was Rhett

Butler coming up the walk, carrying his wide Panama hat in his

hand. She had not seen him since the day when she had alighted

from his carriage so precipitously at Five Points. On that

occasion, she had expressed the desire never to lay eyes on him

again. But she was so glad now to have someone to talk to, someone

to divert her thoughts from Ashley, that she hastily put the memory

from her mind. Evidently he had forgotten the contretemps, or

pretended to have forgotten it, for he settled himself on the top

step at her feet without mention of their late difference.

"So you didn't refugee to Macon! I heard that Miss Pitty had

retreated and, of course, I thought you had gone too. So, when I

saw your light I came here to investigate. Why did you stay?"

"To keep Melanie company. You see, she--well, she can't refugee

just now."

"Thunderation," he said, and in the lamplight she saw that he was

frowning. "You don't mean to tell me Mrs. Wilkes is still here? I

never heard of such idiocy. It's quite dangerous for her in her

condition."

Scarlett was silent, embarrassed, for Melanie's condition was not a

subject she could discuss with a man. She was embarrassed, too,

that Rhett should know it was dangerous for Melanie. Such

knowledge sat ill upon a bachelor.

"It's quite ungallant of you not to think that I might get hurt

too," she said tartly.

His eyes flickered with amusement.

"I'd back you against the Yankees any day."

"I'm not sure that that's a compliment," she said uncertainly.

"It isn't," he answered. "When will you stop looking for

compliments in men's lightest utterances?"

"When I'm on my deathbed," she replied and smiled, thinking that

there would always be men to compliment her, even if Rhett never

did.

"Vanity, vanity," he said. "At least, you are frank about it."

He opened his cigar case, extracted a black cigar and held it to

his nose for a moment. A match flared, he leaned back against a

post and, clasping his hands about his knees, smoked a while in

silence. Scarlett resumed her rocking and the still darkness of

the warm night closed about them. The mockingbird, which nested in

the tangle of roses and honeysuckle, roused from slumber and gave

one timid, liquid note. Then, as if thinking better of the matter,

it was silent again.

From the shadow of the porch, Rhett suddenly laughed, a low, soft

laugh.

"So you stayed with Mrs. Wilkes! This is the strangest situation I

ever encountered!"

"I see nothing strange about it," she answered uncomfortably,

immediately on the alert.

"No? But then you lack the impersonal viewpoint. My impression

has been for some time past that you could hardly endure Mrs.

Wilkes. You think her silly and stupid and her patriotic notions

bore you. You seldom pass by the opportunity to slip in some

belittling remark about her, so naturally it seems strange to me

that you should elect to do the unselfish thing and stay here with

her during this shelling. Now, just why did you do it?"

"Because she's Charlie's sister--and like a sister to me," answered

Scarlett with as much dignity as possible though her cheeks were

growing hot.

"You mean because she's Ashley's Wilkes' widow."

Scarlett rose quickly, struggling with her anger.

"I was almost on the point of forgiving you for your former boorish

conduct but now I shan't do it. I wouldn't have ever let you come

upon this porch at all, if I hadn't been feeling so blue and--"

"Sit down and smooth your ruffled fur," he said, and his voice

changed. He reached up and taking her hand pulled her back into

her chair. "Why are you blue?"

"Oh, I had a letter from Tara today. The Yankees are close to home

and my little sister is ill with typhoid and--and--so now, even if

I could go home, like I want to, Mother wouldn't let me for fear

I'd catch it too. Oh, dear, and I do so want to go home!"

"Well, don't cry about it," he said, but his voice was kinder.

"You are much safer here in Atlanta even if the Yankees do come

than you'd be at Tara. The Yankees won't hurt you and typhoid

would."

"The Yankees wouldn't hurt me! How can you say such a lie?"

"My dear girl, the Yankees aren't fiends. They haven't horns and

hoofs, as you seem to think. They are pretty much like

Southerners--except with worse manners, of course, and terrible

accents."

"Why, the Yankees would--"

"Rape you? I think not. Though, of course, they'd want to."

"If you are going to talk vilely I shall go into the house," she

cried, grateful that the shadows hid her crimson face.

"Be frank. Wasn't that what you were thinking?"

"Oh, certainly not!"

"Oh, but it was! No use getting mad at me for reading your

thoughts. That's what all our delicately nurtured and pure-minded

Southern ladies think. They have it on their minds constantly.