In spite of Scarlett's problem of getting help from the others in

the picking and in spite of the weariness of doing the labor

herself, her spirits lifted as the cotton slowly made its way from

the fields to the cabins. There was something about cotton that

was reassuring, steadying. Tara had risen to riches on cotton,

even as the whole South had risen, and Scarlett was Southerner

enough to believe that both Tara and the South would rise again out

of the red fields.

Of course, this little cotton she had gathered was not much but it

was something. It would bring a little in Confederate money and

that little would help her to save the hoarded greenbacks and gold

In the Yankee's wallet until they had to be spent. Next spring

she would try to make the Confederate government send back Big

Sam and the other field hands they had commandeered, and if the

government wouldn't release them, she'd use the Yankee's money to

hire field hands from the neighbors. Next spring, she would plant

and plant. . . . She straightened her tired back and, looking over

the browning autumn fields, she saw next year's crop standing sturdy

and green, acre upon acre.

Next spring! Perhaps by next spring the war would be over and good

times would be back. And whether the Confederacy won or lost,

times would be better. Anything was better than the constant

danger of raids from both armies. When the war was over, a

plantation could earn an honest living. Oh, if the war were only

over! Then people could plant crops with some certainty of reaping

them!

There was hope now. The war couldn't last forever. She had her

little cotton, she had food, she had a horse, she had her small but

treasured hoard of money. Yes, the worst was over!

CHAPTER XXVII

On a noonday in mid-November, they all sat grouped about the dinner

table, eating the last of the dessert concocted by Mammy from corn

meal and dried huckleberries, sweetened with sorghum. There was a

chill in the air, the first chill of the year, and Pork, standing

behind Scarlett's chair, rubbed his hands together in glee and

questioned: "Ain' it 'bout time fer de hawg killin', Miss

Scarlett?"

"You can taste those chitlins already, can't you?" said Scarlett

with a grin. "Well, I can taste fresh pork myself and if the

weather holds for a few days more, we'll--"

Melanie interrupted, her spoon at her lips,

"Listen, dear! Somebody's coming!"

"Somebody hollerin'," said Pork uneasily.

On the crisp autumn air came clear the sound of horse's hooves,

thudding as swiftly as a frightened heart, and a woman's voice,

high pitched, screaming: "Scarlett! Scarlett!"

Eye met eye for a dreadful second around the table before chairs

were pushed back and everyone leaped up. Despite the fear that

made it shrill, they recognized the voice of Sally Fontaine who,

only an hour before, had stopped at Tara for a brief chat on her

way to Jonesboro. Now, as they all rushed pell-mell to crowd the

front door, they saw her coming up the drive like the wind on a

lathered horse, her hair streaming behind her, her bonnet dangling

by its ribbons. She did not draw rein but as she galloped madly

toward them, she waved her arm back in the direction from which she

had come.

"The Yankees are coming! I saw them! Down the road! The Yankees--"

She sawed savagely at the horse's mouth just in time to swerve him

from leaping up the front steps. He swung around sharply, covered

the side lawn in three leaps and she put him across the four-foot

hedge as if she were on the hunting field. They heard the heavy

pounding of his hooves as he went through the back yard and down

the narrow lane between the cabins of the quarters and knew she was

cutting across the fields to Mimosa.

For a moment they stood paralyzed and then Suellen and Carreen

began to sob and clutch each other's fingers. Little Wade stood

rooted, trembling, unable to cry. What he had feared since the

night he left Atlanta had happened. The Yankees were coming to get

him.

"Yankees?" said Gerald vaguely. "But the Yankees have already been

here."

"Mother of God!" cried Scarlett, her eyes meeting Melanie's

frightened eyes. For a swift instant there went through her memory

again the horrors of her last night in Atlanta, the ruined homes

that dotted the countryside, all the stories of rape and torture

and murder. She saw again the Yankee soldier standing in the hall

with Ellen's sewing box in his hand. She thought: "I shall die.

I shall die right here. I thought we were through with all that.

I shall die. I can't stand any more."

Then her eyes fell on the horse saddled and hitched and waiting for

Pork to ride him to the Tarleton place on an errand. Her horse!

Her only horse! The Yankees would take him and the cow and the

calf. And the sow and her litter-- Oh, how many tiring hours it

had taken to catch that sow and her agile young! And they'd take

the rooster and the setting hens and the ducks the Fontaines had

given her. And the apples and the yams in the pantry bins. And

the flour and rice and dried peas. And the money in the Yankee

soldier's wallet. They'd take everything and leave them to starve.

"They shan't have them!" she cried aloud and they all turned

startled faces to her, fearful her mind had cracked under the

tidings. "I won't go hungry! They shan't have them!"

"What is it, Scarlett? What is it?"

"The horse! The cow! The pigs! They shan't have them! I won't

let them have them!"

She turned swiftly to the four negroes who huddled in the doorway,

their black faces a peculiarly ashen shade.

"The swamp," she said rapidly.

"Whut swamp?"

"The river swamp, you fools! Take the pigs to the swamp. All of

you. Quickly. Pork, you and Prissy crawl under the house and get

the pigs out. Suellen, you and Carreen fill the baskets with as

much food as you can carry and get to the woods. Mammy, put the

silver in the well again. And Pork! Pork, listen to me, don't

stand there like that! Take Pa with you. Don't ask me where!

Anywhere! Go with Pork, Pa. That's a sweet pa."

Even in her frenzy she thought what the sight of bluecoats might do

to Gerald's wavering mind. She stopped and wrung her hands and the

frightened sobbing of little Wade who was clutching Melanie's skirt

added to her panic.

"What shall I do, Scarlett?" Melanie's voice was calm amid the

wailing and tears and scurrying feet. Though her face was paper

white and her whole body trembled, the very quietness of her voice

steadied Scarlett, revealing to her that they all looked to her for

commands, for guidance.

"The cow and the calf," she said quickly. "They're in the old

pasture. Take the horse and drive them into the swamp and--"

Before she could finish her sentence, Melanie shook off Wade's

clutches and was down the front steps and running toward the horse,

pulling up her wide skirts as she ran. Scarlett caught a flashing

glimpse of thin legs, a flurry of skirts and underclothing and

Melanie was in the saddle, her feet dangling far above the

stirrups. She gathered up the reins and clapped her heels against

the animal's sides and then abruptly pulled him in, her face

twisting with horror.

"My baby!" she cried. "Oh, my baby! The Yankees will kill him!

Give him to me!"

Her hand was on the pommel and she was preparing to slide off but

Scarlett screamed at her.

"Go on! Go on! Get the cow! I'll look after the baby! Go on, I

tell you! Do you think I'd let them get Ashley's baby? Go on!"

Melly looked despairingly backward but hammered her heels into the

horse and, with a scattering of gravel, was off down the drive

toward the pasture.

Scarlett thought: "I never expected to see Melly Hamilton

straddling a horse!" and then she ran into the house. Wade was at

her heels, sobbing, trying to catch her flying skirts. As she went

up the steps, three at a bound, she saw Suellen and Carreen with

split-oak baskets on their arms, running toward the pantry, and

Pork tugging none too gently at Gerald's arm, dragging him toward

the back porch. Gerald was mumbling querulously and pulling away

like a child.

From the back yard she heard Mammy's strident voice: "You, Priss!

You git unner dat house an' han' me dem shoats! You knows mighty

well Ah's too big ter crawl thoo dem lattices. Dilcey, comyere an'

mek dis wuthless chile--"

"And I thought it was such a good idea to keep the pigs under the

house, so nobody could steal them," thought Scarlett, running into

her room. "Why, oh, why didn't I build a pen for them down in the

swamp?"

She tore open her top bureau drawer and scratched about in the

clothing until the Yankee's wallet was in her hand. Hastily she

picked up the solitaire ring and the diamond earbobs from where she

had hidden them in her sewing basket and shoved them into the

wallet. But where to hide it? In the mattress? Up the chimney?

Throw it in the well? Put it in her bosom? No, never there! The

outlines of the wallet might show through her basque and if the

Yankees saw it they would strip her naked and search her.

"I shall die if they do!" she thought wildly.

Downstairs there was a pandemonium of racing feet and sobbing