Rhett Butler's People

CHAPTER ONE Affairs of Honor

One hour before sunrise, twelve years before the war, a closed carriage hurried through the Carolina Low Country. The Ashley River road was pitch-black except for the coach's sidelights, and fog swirled through the open windows, moistening the passengers' cheeks and the backs of their hands.

"Rhett Butler, damn your cross-grained soul." John Haynes sagged in his seat.

"As you like, John." Butler popped the overhead hatch to ask, "Are we near? I wouldn't wish to keep the gentlemen waiting.”

"We comin' down the main trunk now, Master Rhett." Although Hercules was Rhett's father's racehorse trainer and Broughton's highest-ranking servant, he'd insisted on driving the young men.

Rhett had warned, "When he learns you've helped, Langston will be angry.”

Hercules had stiffened. "Master Rhett, I knowed you when you was just a child. Was me, Hercules, put you up on your first horse. You and Mr. Haynes tie your horses behind. I'll be drivin' the rig tonight.”

John Haynes's plump cheeks belied his uncommonly determined chin.

His mouth was set in an unhappy line.

Rhett said, "I love these marshes. Hell, I never wanted to be a rice planter. Langston would go on about rice varieties or negro management and I'd not hear a word for dreaming about the river." Eyes sparkling, he leaned toward his friend, "I'd drift through the fog, steering with an oar.

One morning, I surprised a loggerhead sliding down an otter slide — sliding for the pure joy of it. John, have you ever seen a loggerhead turtle smile? "I don't know how many times I tried to slip past a sleeping anhinga without waking her. But that snaky head would pop from beneath her wing, sharp-eyed, not groggy in the least, and quick as that" — Rhett snapped his fingers — "she'd dive. Marsh hens weren't near as wary. Many's a time I'd drift 'round a bend and hundreds of 'em would explode into flight. Can you imagine flying through fog like this?”

"You have too much imagination," Rhett's friend said.

"And I've often wondered, John, why you are so cautious. For what great purpose are you reserving yourself?”

When John Haynes rubbed his spectacles with a damp handkerchief, he smeared them. "On some other day, I'd be flattered by your concern.”

"Oh hell, John, I'm sorry. Fast nerves. Is our powder dry?”

Haynes touched the glossy mahogany box cradled in his lap. "I stoppered it myself.”

"Hear the whippoorwill?”

The rapid pounding of the horse's hooves, the squeak of harness leather, Hercules crying, "Pick 'em up, you rascals, pick 'em up," the threenote song of the whippoorwill. Whippoorwill — hadn't John heard something about Shad Watling and a whippoorwill? "I've had a good life," Rhett Butler said.

Since John Haynes believed his friend's life had been a desperate shambles, he bit his tongue.

"Some good times, some good friends, my beloved little sister, Rosemary ...”

"What of Rosemary, Rhett? Without you, what will become of her?”

"You must not ask me that!" Rhett turned to the blank black window.

"For God's sake. If you were in my place, what would you do?”

The words in sturdy John Haynes's mind were, I would not be in your place, but he couldn't utter them, although they were as true as words have ever been.

Rhett's thick black hair was swept back off his forehead; his frock coat was lined with red silk jacquard, and the hat on the seat beside him was beaver fur. John's friend was as vital as any man John had ever known, as alive as wild creatures can be. Shot dead, Rhett Butler would be as emptied out as a swamp-lion pelt hung up on the fence of the Charleston market.

Rhett said, "I am disgraced already. Whatever happens, I can't be worse disgraced." His sudden grin flashed. "Won't this give the biddies something to gossip about?”

"You've managed that a time or two.”

"I have. By God, I've given respectable folk a satisfying tut-tut. Who has served Charleston's finger pointers better than I? Why, John, I have become the Bogeyman." He intoned solemnly, " 'Child, if you persist in your wicked ways, you'll end up just like Rhett Butler!' “

"I wish you'd stop joking," John said quietly.

"John, John, John ...”

"May I speak candidly?”

Rhett raised a dark eyebrow. "I can't prevent you.”

"You needn't go through with this. Have Hercules turn 'round — we'll enjoy a morning ride into town and a good breakfast. Shad Watling is no gentleman and you needn't fight him. Watling couldn't find one Charleston gentleman to second him. He pressed some hapless Yankee tourist into service.

"Belle Watling's brother has a right to satisfaction.”

"Rhett, for God's sake, Shad's your father's overseer's son. His employee!”

John Haynes waved dismissively. "Offer some monetary compensation...”

He paused, dismayed. "Surely you're not doing this ... this thing... for the girl?”

"Belle Watling is a better woman than many who condemn her. Forgive me, John, but you mustn't impugn my motives. Honor must be satisfied: Shad Watling told lies about me and I have called him out.”

John had so much to say, he could hardly talk. "Rhett, if it hadn't been for West Point...”

"My expulsion, you mean? That's merely my latest, most flamboyant S disgrace." Rhett clamped his friend's arm. "Must I enumerate my disgraces? More disgraces and failures than ..." He shook his head wearily. "I am sick of disgraces. John, should I have asked another to second me?”

"Damn it!" John Haynes cried. "Damn it to hell!”

John Haynes and Rhett Butler had become acquainted at Cathecarte Puryear's Charleston school. By the time Rhett left for West Point, John Haynes was established in his father's shipping business. After Rhett's expulsion and return, Haynes saw his old friend occasionally on the streets of town. Sometimes Rhett was sober, more often not. It troubled John to see a man with Rhett's natural grace reeking and slovenly.

John Haynes was one of those young Southerners from good families who take up the traces of civic virtue as if born to them. John was a St.

Michaels vestryman and the St. Cecilia Society's youngest ball manager.

Though John envied Rhett's spirit, he never accompanied Rhett and his friends — "Colonel Ravanel's Sports" — on their nightly routs through Charleston's brothels, gambling hells, and saloons.

Consequently, John had been astonished when Butler came to the wharfside offices of Haynes & Son seeking John's assistance in an affair of honor.

"But Rhett, your friends? Andrew Ravanel? Henry Kershaw? Edgar Puryear?”

"Ah, but John, you'll be sober.”

Few men or women could resist Rhett Butler's what-the-hell grin, and John Haynes didn't.

Perhaps John was dull. He never heard about amusing scandals until Charleston society was tiring of them. When John repeated a clever man's witticism, he invariably misspoke. If Charleston's mothers thought John Haynes a "good catch," maidens giggled about him behind their fans. But John Haynes had twice seconded affairs of honor. When duty came knocking, it found John Haynes at home.

Broughton Plantation's main trunk was a broad earthen dike separating its rice fields from the Ashley River. The carriage lurched when it quit the trunk to turn inland.

John Haynes had never felt so helpless. This thing — this ugly, deadly thing — would go forward whatever he might do. Honor must be satisfied.

It wasn't Hercules driving the team; it was Honor's bony hands on the lines. It wasn't .40-caliber Happoldt pistols in the mahogany box; it was Honor — ready to spit reproaches. A tune sang in John's head: "I could not love thee Cecilia, loved I not honor more" — what a stupid, stupid song!

Shad Watling was the best shot in the Low Country.

They turned into a brushy lane so infrequently traveled that Spanish moss whisked the carriage roof. Sometimes, Hercules lifted low-hanging branches so the rig could pass beneath.

With a start, John Haynes recalled the story of Shad Watling and a whippoorwill.

"Ah," Rhett mused. "Can you smell it? Marsh perfume: cattails, myrtle, sea aster, marsh gas, mud. When I was a boy, I'd get in my skiff and disappear for days, living like a red indian." Rhett's smile faded with his reverie.

"Let me beg one last favor. You know Tunis Bonneau?”

"The free colored seaman?”

"If you see him, ask him if he remembers the day we sailed to Beaufort.

Ask him to pray for my soul.”

"A free colored?”

"We were boys on the river together.”

Indeterminate gray light was filtering into the carriage. Rhett looked out. "Ah, we have arrived.”

John consulted his pocket hunter. "Sunrise in twenty minutes.”

The field of honor was a three-acre pasture edged with gloomy cypresses and moss-bedecked live oaks. The pasture vanished in the fog, inside which a voice was crying hoarsely, "Sooey! Soo cow! Soo cow!”

Rhett stepped down from the carriage, chafing his hands. "So. This is my destination. When I was a boy dreaming of glories awaiting me, I never dreamed of this.”

Cattle bawled inside the fog. "We wouldn't want to shoot a cow." Rhett stretched. "My father would be furious if we shot one of his cows.”

"Rhett...”

Rhett Butler laid a hand on John Haynes's shoulder. "I need you this morning, John, and I trust you to arrange matters properly. Please spare me your sound, kindly meant advice.”

John swallowed his advice, wishing he hadn't remembered about Shad Watling and the whippoorwill: After Langston Butler built Broughton's grand manor house, his overseer, Isaiah Watling, moved his family into the original Butler home, which was convenient to the rice fields and negro quarters. Huge live oaks, which had been saplings when the Butlers first arrived in the Low Country, shaded the small, plain farmhouse.

Nesting in a live oak, that whippoorwill welcomed them from twilight until dawn.

Apparently, Belle, the Watling girl, thought the bird was seeking a mate. Her mother, Sarah, said the bird was grieving.

The question of whether the bird was flirting or weeping was mooted at daybreak, not long after they moved in, when a shot blasted through the house. When his mother rushed into his bedroom, Shad Watling's smoking pistol lay on the windowsill. "Fool bird won't rise me up no more," Shad Watling grunted.

In poor light at sixty paces, Shad Watling had shot the tiny whippoorwill's head off its body.

John Haynes asked Rhett, "You've heard about that whippoorwill?”

"Just a yarn, John." Rhett scratched a match on his boot sole.

"Shad Watling has killed before, Rhett.”

The match sputtered and flared as Rhett lit his cigar. "But only negroes and men of his class.”

"Do you believe your gentle birth will turn a bullet?”

"Why, yes," Rhett said solemnly. "Hell yes! Gentle birth's got to be good for something!”

"Comes somebody," Hercules spoke from his elevated seat.

Breathing hard, a young man emerged from the fog. His frock coat was folded over his arm and his trouser knees were wet where he'd stumbled.

"Darn cows," he confided. He shifted his jacket and offered his hand to John Haynes, then thought better of it and made an awkward bow instead.

"Tom Jaffery. Amity, Massachusetts. At your service, gentlemen.”

"Well, Tom." Rhett smiled. "It seems your Charleston visit will be a memorable one.”

Jaffery was two or three years younger than Rhett and John. "They'll never believe this in Amity.”

"Lurid tales, Tom. Lurid tales are the South's principal export. When you describe us to your friends, remark the devilishly handsome, gallant Rhett Butler." Rhett's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "If I were telling the tale, I wouldn't mention the cows.”

"Has your principal arrived?" John asked the young Yankee.

Tom Jaffery gestured at the fog bank. "Watling and that Dr. Ward, too.

They don't care for each other.”

John Haynes took the younger man's arm, walking him out of Rhett's earshot. "Mr. Jaffery, have you seconded these affairs before?”

"No, sir. We don't hardly do this kind of thing in Amity. I mean, my grandfather might have done it, but nowadays we don't. I'm a novice, so to speak. My aunt Patience passed to her Heavenly Reward and she bequeathed me a sum, so I set out to see the country. Tom, I says to myself, if not now, for goodness' sake, when? So there I was, admiring your Charleston harbor, which is, if I might say so, every bit the equal of our famous Boston harbor.

Anyway, there I was when Mr. Watling approached me and asked was I a gentleman, and I said I certainly hoped so. When Mr. Watling asked if I would second him, I thought, Tom, you've come to see the country, and see the country you shall. I'll never get a chance like this in Amity.”

John Haynes didn't tell the younger man that Shad Watling's choosing a Yankee stranger to second him was a calculated insult.

"Are you familiar with your duties?”

"We seconds make sure everything happens regular.”

John Haynes eyed the young Yankee thoughtfully. "Seeking reconciliation between the principals is our primary duty," he said with the regret of the man who has failed that duty.

"Oh, my principal isn't contemplatin' reconciliation. My principal says he anticipates shootin' Mr. Butler in the heart. He and Mr. Butler are old acquaintances.”

"It will be light soon. We generally let sunrise be our signal.”

"Sunrise suits you, suits us.”

"When the sun comes over the horizon, the gentlemen choose their pistols.

As the challenged party, your man chooses first. Shall we load now?”

John Haynes braced the mahogany box on the carriage fender, unlatched it, and removed a pistol. The sleek knurled butt felt alive in his hand, as if he'd clutched a water moccasin. "As you see, the pistols are identical.

While you observe, I'll charge one pistol. You will charge the second.”

John poured powder, set a round lead ball into an oiled cloth patch, and rammed it home. He placed a cap under the hammer and eased the hammer to half cock.

"They'll never believe this back home," Thomas Jaffery said.

The morning gathered light, the fog tore into streamers, and two ghostly vehicles swam into sight across the meadow: a one-horse chaise and a mule-drawn farm wagon.

Rhett Butler untied his horse from behind the carriage and pressed his face against the beast's powerful neck. "You're not frightened, are you, Tecumseh? Don't be. Nothing's going to hurt you.”

"This meadow, John — they grew indigo here in my grandfather's day.

There's a pond in the woods where pintails hatch their young. Muskrats are fond of young pintails, and sometimes a brood will be paddling along, until one is pulled under — so swiftly, they don't make a flurry. Our trunk master, Will, trapped muskrats here.”

"Rhett, we seconds will speak with Watling. What apology will you accept?”

Rhett squeezed his eyes shut obstinately. "Shad Watling claims I am father of his sister's child. I have said Watling is a liar. If Watling admits his lie, I will withdraw my challenge.”

"Will you offer compensation? Money so the girl can go somewhere to have her baby?”

"If Belle needs money, I will give her money. Money has nothing to do with this.”

"As your friend, Rhett...”

"John, John ..." Rhett muffled his face in Tecumseh's neck. "A friend would help me finish this thing.”

Shadrach Watling's farm wagon was heaped with broken wheels, hubs, and rims. "Morning, Mr. Jaffery, Mr. Haynes. I see you brung Butler.”

"Shad...”

"It'll be 'Mr. Watling' today.”

"Mr. Watling, I trust we can reach an accommodation.”

"B'lieve Butler 'commodated my sister. B'lieve I'll 'commodate him.”

"When Rhett Butler treated you as a gentlemen, he complimented you.”

Shad spat. "I'm thinkin' of westering. Goddamn, I'm sick of the Low Country. Rich bastards and niggers. Niggers and rich bastards. I got cousins in Missouri.”

"Wherever you go, you'll want money. If your sister, Belle, were to go with you, the scandal would die.”

Watling chuckled. "Butler offering me money?”

"No, sir. I am.”

"All comes down to money, don't it?" Watling spat again.

Shadrach Watling was a beardless, thickset man. "Naw, not this time. I got a grudge against Butler. Even though Pa whipped Belle good, she never would say 'twas Rhett topped her. Ain't no nevermind. I'm craving to put a bullet in Butler. He weren't no 'count as the Young Master and I hear he weren't no 'count as a soldier boy, neither. Butler ain't worth a bootful of warm piss.”

Shad Watling eyed the river. "Gonna be light directly. I got four busted wheels for the wheelwright, and he starts his day early. Bein's I'm the challenged man, I'll be namin' the distance. Figure fifty paces'll be far enough for me to hit and him to miss. I wouldn't want be nicked by no stray ball.”

His stubby, stained teeth glistened in silent laughter.

Swaddled in thick woolen robes, the surgeon was snoring in his buggy.

When John Haynes tapped his boot toe, Franklin Ward opened his eyes and yawned. "Ah. Our business ..." He unbundled, stepped down, and faced away; the stink of his urine made John Haynes's nose twitch. The doctor wiped his fingers on his coattails.

i i Dr. Ward offered his hand to Rhett, "Ah, the patient, I presume!”

Rhett grinned. "You have appliances for extracting the bullet, Doctor? Probes? Bandages?”

"Sir, I studied in Philadelphia.”

"Doubtless, Philadelphia is an excellent city to have studied in.”

Shad Watling ambled behind, grinning absently and scratching his thigh.

"Mr. Butler," Tom Jaffery asked, "why are you removing your shirt?”

"Hold it for me, John? I take off my shirt, my Yankee friend, so the bullet won't push cloth into the wound.”

"Maybe you jest like goin' naked." Shad Watling eyed the slighter man disdainfully. "Me, I generally don't take off more clothes'n I got to.”

"Gentlemen," John Haynes interrupted, "this is a terrible, deadly business and I must ask again if honor wouldn't be served by Mr. Watling's retraction, an apology and recompense from Mr. Butler.”

Gooseflesh pimpled Rhett's arms in the chilly air.

"Fifty paces," Shad said, "oughta serve. Butler, you remember your nigger pal, Will? How Will cried for mercy? If n you cry for mercy, maybe I'll let you off." Watling showed his teeth again. "Let me see them pistols.

Yank, did you watch Mr. Haynes load? Didn't double-charge one of them pistols, did he? Might have had one charge already in the barrel 'fore he poured the second charge atop?”

The Yankee was shocked, "Mr. Haynes is a gentleman!”

"He score his bullet? Little ring cut into the bullet so it gobs when it hits. Inspected his bullet, did you, Yank?”

Young Jaffery repeated, "Mr. Haynes is a gentleman.”

"Sure as hell. Sure as hell. Gentleman don't score no bullet, no sir.

Gentlemen won't double-charge no pistol. Now, which of these here pistols did Mr. Haynes load?”

"I loaded the near pistol," John said.

A horn sounded in the woods, a long exuberant note, like fox hunters sighting their quarry. Seconds later, moisture streaming off its wheels, an open landau clattered onto the field. Two young sports stood between its seats, one with a coach horn at his lips, which he dropped to grab a seat back, else the stop would have pitched him headlong. "Hallooo! Hallooo!

Have we missed the fun?”

Their elderly driver cackled. "Told you I'd get us here in time," he said.

"Didn't Colonel Jack find these scamps?”

Colonel Ravanel had been a respectable rice planter until his wife, Frances, was killed. Whether Jack's subsequent dissipation was from grief or the absence of marital inhibitions was not known. In Charleston, where gentlemanly drunkenness was only forbidden clergy, Colonel Jack Ravanel was a drunk. In a city where every gentleman gambled, Jack was banned from respectable gambling clubs. Jack was a genius with horseflesh, and horse-mad Charleston forgave him much for that.

John Haynes stepped to the landau. "Gentlemen, this is an affair of honor. Decorum ...”

The young men wore short brocade jackets, bright ascots, and pants so tight, a codpiece was unnecessary. Although Jack Ravanel was old enough to be the young men's father, he was similarly garbed.

"Country wench gets one in the oven and that's an affair of honor?”

The horn blower sounded a blast. "Whooooa, Johnny Haynes. It's one of Rhett's damn jokes, that's what it is.”

John Haynes bristled. "Henry Kershaw, this is an affront. You are unwelcome here.”

Big Henry Kershaw was reeling. "You mean Cousin Rhett is going through with this? Damn me, Edgar, I'll settle tomorrow. Rhett, that you? Ain't you cold? We been drivin' through this damn swamp for hours. Colonel Jack says he used to own this ground, but he must have been sober at the time. Edgar Puryear, don't you hog that whiskey!”

Tom Jaffery asked, "Mr. Haynes. Is this regular?”

"You the Yankee we heard about?" Henry Kershaw asked.

"Yes, sir. From Amity, Massachusetts.”

"Man can't help where he's born. Say, you ain't one of them damned abolitionists, are you?”

Rhett Butler silenced John Haynes with a touch and asked in the quietest voice, "Edgar, Henry, Jack — have you come to see me die?”

Edgar Puryear pasted an apologetic expression on his face. "Jack promised this was a lark, Rhett; a lark! He said you'd never fight a man over...

over ...”

"A 'lark,' Jack? If my father discovers your part in this, he'll see you in the workhouse.”

"Dear Rhett! Do not speak cruelly to Old Jack!”

"Henry Kershaw is drunk — Henry will do anything when he is drunk.

Edgar Allan has come to watch. Edgar is a great watcher. But what dragged the aged reprobate out of his whore's warm bed on a cold morning?”

Jack Ravanel's smile was ingratiating. "Why, Rhett, old Jack's come to help you. I've come to talk sense! We'll all have a friendly drink and recall happier times. Rhett, have I told you how I admire Tecumseh? By God, there's a horse!”

For an instant, Rhett was stunned. Then his mouth twitched into a chuckle, which became a laugh, which became so hearty Rhett bent over laughing. This laughter infected the sports, who wore smiles on their faces, and the young Yankee chuckled.

Rhett wiped his eyes. "No, Jack, you shan't have Tecumseh. John, if I am killed, my horse is yours. Now, Watling. Choose your pistol.”

"God Almighty!" Henry Kershaw gaped. "Rhett means to go through with it!”

Colonel Jack's eyes narrowed. He lashed his team off the field.

Deep in the woods, a grouse drummed on a hollow log. The huge sun rose steaming out of the river, restoring yellows, blues, and pale greens to the land from which fog had exiled them.

John Haynes shut his eyes briefly in a wordless prayer. Then he said, "Gentlemen.”

Shad Watling had lost something to Rhett's great laughter. Something had got away from him. His prey had tripped the trigger but left the trap empty. Shad snatched a pistol, examining it as if it might be faulty. " 'Young Marster' Butler. Christ, how the niggers fawned over you!”

The other long-barreled pistol hung loose in Rhett's hand; his smile was so big, it traveled down his naked arm to the muzzle, as if the pistol, too, were smiling.

In the river morning, a thick, angry man stood back-to-back with a half-naked, smiling man.

Each would step off twenty-five paces. When the sun cleared the horizon, John Haynes would give the command to turn and fire.

The duelists stepped off twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five paces... The sun clung to the horizon.

"They'll never believe this in Amity," Tom Jaffery whispered.

The sun strained upward until a white space opened between its rim and the riverbank. In a clear voice, John Haynes called, "Gentlemen! Turn! Fire!”

Rhett Butler's hair lifted to a wind gust off the river. Butler pivoted, presenting a fencer's profile as his pistol rose.

Shad Watling fired first, an explosion of white smoke at the muzzle when the hammer struck home.

Nine years earlier.

At his father's impatient gesture, Langston Butler's elder son prepared for his caning. He removed his shirt and folded it over a straight-backed chair.

The boy turned and set his palms flat on his father's desk. The fine leather surface gave infinitesimally under his weight. He fixed his eyes on his father's cut-glass inkwell. There can be a world of pain in a cut-glass inkwell. The first searing blow caught him by surprise. The inkwell was half-full of blue-black ink. Rhett wondered if this time his father might not be able to stop. When the boy's sight blurred, the inkwell seemed to float in a mist of tears.

This time, too, his father did stop.

Hands curled in frustration, Langston Butler hurled his cane to the floor and shouted, "By God, boy, if you weren't my son, you'd feel the bullwhip.”

At twelve years of age, Rhett was already tall. His skin was darker than his father's and his thick jet black hair hinted at Indian blood.

Although the boy's back was a mosaic of livid stripes, he hadn't begged.

"May I dress, sir?”

"Your brother, Julian, is dutiful. Why must my elder son defy me?”

"I cannot say, sir.”

Langston's office was as spare as Broughton's family quarters were opulent.

The broad desk, a straight-backed chair, inkwell, blotter, and pens were its entire furnishings. No engravings or paintings hung from the picture rail. Ten-foot-tall undraped windows offered an unimpeded panorama of the plantation's endless rice fields.

The boy took his white chambray shirt from the chair and with a just perceptible wince draped it over his shoulders.

"You refuse to accompany me when the legislature is in session. When prominent men meet at Broughton, you vanish. Wade Hampton himself asked why he never sees my elder son.”

The boy was mute.

"You will not drive our negroes. You refuse to learn to drive negroes!”

The boy said nothing.

"Indeed, it is safe to say you reject every proper duty of a Carolina gentleman's son. Sir, you are a renegade." With his handkerchief, Langston wiped sweat from his pale forehead. "Do you think I relish these punishments?”

"I cannot say, sir.”

"Your brother, Julian, is dutiful. Julian obeys me. Why won't you obey?”

"I cannot say, sir.”

"You cannot say! You will not! Nor will you accompany your family to Charleston. Instead, you swear you'll run away.”

"Yes, sir, I will.”

The angry father stared into the boy's eyes for a long time. "Then, by God, let the fevers have you!”

Next morning, the Butler family departed for their Charleston town house without their elder son. That night, Dollie, the colored midwife, rubbed salve into the welts on the boy's arm. "Master Langston, he a hard man," she said.

"I hate Charleston," Rhett said.

On the river plantations, the rice seed was clayed and planted in April and trunk gates were opened for the sprout flow. The rice would be flooded three more times before harvest in September. Maintenance and operation of the great and lesser trunk gates were so vital to the crop that Will, Broughton Plantation's trunk master, ranked in the slave hierarchy second only to Hercules.

Although Will obeyed Master Langston and Isaiah Watling, he obeyed no other man, including Shad Watling, the overseer's twenty-year-old son.

Will had a cabin to himself. He owned a table, two chairs, a rope bed, and three cracked Spanish bowls that Louis Valentine Butler had taken from the Mercato. A decent year after Will's first wife died, Will jumped the broomstick with Mistletoe, a comely girl of fifteen.

Fearing the deadly fevers, Low Country planters shunned their plantations during the hot months. When Langston came out from the city to inspect his crop, he arrived after daybreak and departed before dark.

Barefoot and shirtless, his son hunted, fished, and explored the tidal marshes along the Ashley River. Young Rhett Butler was educated by alligators, egrets, osprey, rice birds, loggerheads, and wild hogs. The boy knew where the negro conjure man found his herbs and where the catfish nested.

Sometimes Rhett stayed away from Broughton for days on end, and if his father visited during one of Rhett's absences, the elder Butler never asked after his son.

Overseer Watling supervised the floodings and hoeings of the tender rice plants. Watling determined when dike-burrowing muskrats must be poisoned and the rice birds shot.

Although they were more resistant to fever than their white masters, rice negroes worked knee-deep in a subtropical swamp, and inevitably some sickened. In Broughton's dispensary, Overseer Watling's wife, Sarah, and young Belle dosed victims with chinchona bark and slippery elm tea. The white woman and her child helped Dollie deliver babies and salved the backs of the men and women their husband and father had whipped.

Some negroes said Master Langston was less likely to pick up the bullwhip than Boss Watling. "Master Langston ain't gonna get no work out of a man laid up in the dispensary.”

Others preferred Isaiah Watling. "Boss Watling, he hard all right. But he don't lay no whip on you less'n he got to.”

Young Master Rhett pestered his father's servants with practical questions: Why were the trunk gates made of cypress? Why wasn't the rice hoed after the harvest flow? Why was the seed rice winnowed by hand? The negroes ate the fish and game Rhett brought and the white boy spent Sundays, the negroes' day of rest, in the quarters. Rhett accompanied Will on trunk inspections, and often at noontime the two shared a meal on the riverbank.

When he felt the urge, Shadrach Watling visited the quarters after dark.

Usually, Watling sent the girl's family away: "Might be you could take a meander down by the woods." Sometimes Shad gave the husband or father a demijohn of popskull to while away the hour.

But Mistletoe, the trunk master's new wife, didn't want to fool with the overseer's son, and when Shad Watling wouldn't leave his cabin, Will tossed him into the street, a circumstance that delighted the other negroes.

When Langston Butler heard what Will had done, he explained to Overseer Watling that negroes must not laugh at the Overseer's son, lest they laugh at the Overseer next and ultimately at the Master himself.

Three hundred negroes lived on Broughton with a handful of whites, some of them women. What prevented those negroes from rising up and murdering those whites? Langston Butler told Isaiah Watling that revolt could not be suppressed after negroes have begun muttering and sharpening their hoes, their rice knives. Rebellion is quelled by crushing the first defiant glance, the insolent whisper, the first disrespectful snicker.

"Will's a good nigger," Watling said.

"Your boy will do the punishing.”

“Shadrach?" Watling's eyes were anthracite. "Have you been satisfied with my work?”

"It has been satisfactory.”

Watling bowed his head and muttered, "I got to tell you, Master Langston. Will had just cause. My Shadrach ... Shadrach ain't no account.”

"But he's white," Master Langston replied.

The sky was unseasonably clear that August morning; the air was dead and heavy.

Broughton Plantation's rice mill was brick; its winnowing house was whitewashed clapboard. The dairy, negro houses, and infirmary were tabby — cement of crushed oyster shells and lime. Tall and windowless, with its thick iron-banded door, Broughton's meat house was as forbidding as a medieval keep. Every Sunday morning, standing before this vault of plentitude, Overseer Watling distributed the week's rations to the servants shuffling past. "Thank you, Boss Watling.”

“We sure does thank you, Boss.”

Isaiah Watling was the giver of all good things, as well as the source of all punishment.

Broughton's whipping post was a blunt black cypress stub five feet six inches high and eighteen inches in diameter. An iron ring was placed where a man's wrists might be fastened.

Will had asked the young Master to intercede, and Rhett confronted the overseer. "Watling, I am giving you an order!”

Isaiah Watling studied the boy as if he were something curious washed in on the tide. "Young Butler, when you defied Master Butler to stay, I asked him who was Master when he was off in town. Master Butler said I was to follow his orders, that you weren't to give no orders. Now, young Butler, the niggers is here to see justice done and to learn respect. Will's insolence bought him two hundred.”

"It'll kill Will. Damn it, Watling, it's murder.”

Isaiah Watling cocked his head as if listening for something faint and far away. "The nigger's your father's property. Very few of us, young Butler, get to be our own men.”

His son Shad's bullwhip coiled lazily before he popped a trumpet-vine blossom off the well house. The negroes stood silently, men to the fore, women and children behind. Tiny children clung to their mothers' shifts.

When Isaiah Watling led Will out of the meat house, the trunk master blinked in the brightness. When the overseer tied Will's wrists, Will didn't resist.

Rhett Butler had not yet come into his adult courage and could not watch his friend be killed. When Watling bared Will's back, Mistletoe fainted and Rhett bolted for the river, deaf to the whip crack and Will's grunts, which became screams.

Rhett jumped into his skiff, loosed the mooring line, and let the river take him away. A rainsquall descended and he got soaked through. His boat went where the current willed. Rain drummed in the boy's ears and he blinked rain from his eyelids.

Rhett Butler swore that when he was a man, he would never be helpless again.

Rain fell on the boy. Rain fell harder. Rhett couldn't see the bow of his boat. Water lapped at its thwarts.

His sail exploded into tatters. He lost an oar. When a drifting cypress trunk threatened to roll the skiff, he broke his other oar fending it off. He inspected the stub as if, had he the wit, he might yet row with it. He bailed until his arms ached. When he shouted to ease the pressure in his ears, the wind snatched his shout away.

The river broached the trunks and flooded rice fields, and sometimes Rhett's skiff was in the channel and sometimes scudding above what had been acres of Carolina's finest golden rice.

Suddenly, as if he'd been washed into a different universe, the wind and rain stopped. In the calm, Rhett's skiff drifted gently through brightness at the tip of a whirling funnel that rose up, up into a heaven, which was so dark blue, Rhett imagined he saw stars. He had heard about the hurricano's eye. He never thought he'd see one.

The current bumped the waterlogged skiff against a jumbled shoreline of uprooted, broken trees. Rhett tied his skiff to a branch before clambering inland toward the sound of hammering.

As a young man, Thomas Bonneau had been freed by the master who had fathered him. Thomas Bonneau's white father deeded his son five acres of land on a low rise beside the river, where Thomas built a modest tabby house, whose thick, homely walls had resisted previous hurricanoes. Bonneau and a boy about Rhett's age were on the roof, nailing shingles.

"Look, Papa, yon's a white boy," the boy, Tunis, said.

The two slid to the ground and Thomas greeted the half-drowned Rhett. "Come with us now, Young Master. These walls has sustained us thus far. God grant they sustain us a mite longer.”

Inside his one-room house, Thomas Bonneau's wife, Pearl, and two younger children were piling trunks, fish traps, a chopping block, and chicken coops onto a rickety mound to clamber onto the ceiling joists.

"It ain't hurricano's rain nor wind kills you," Bonneau explained as he took his joist. "Ol' hurricano raises up a mighty tide what drowns you.”

Tunis passed the youngest children to his father, who set them next to him under his strong arm. When they all were astride a joist, Bonneau spoke in a singsong: "And God said to Noah, 'The peoples is corrupt and so I will raise a mighty flood. But you and your family gonna swim above the flood... ' " Whatever more he said was snatched away by the wind.

When it came, the storm surge crashed against the little tabby house and forced the door. Water foamed beneath Rhett's dangling feet and the joist he straddled vibrated between his thighs. Thomas Bonneau leaned his head back and shut his eyes and the cords of his neck were taut with praising God.

That was the worst of it.

As all storms must, this storm ended, the waters receded, and as ever after such storms, the sun illuminated a brilliant new world.

Thomas Bonneau said, "If I ain't mistook, that's a macaw in yon tree.”

A bedraggled blue-and-yellow bird clung weakly to a leafless branch. "Lord knows where he been blowed from.”

They dragged the muddy trunks and broken fish traps outside and Pearl Bonneau stretched a line to dry their clothes. Pearl wore her wet petticoat while her dress dried; the others went naked.

Tunis and Rhett collected storm-beached fish while Thomas Bonneau started a fire with the dry inner bark of a cedar tree.

When they were seated around the fire, turning fish on sticks, Thomas Bonneau offered thanks to God for sparing his family and the Young Master.

"I'm not the Young Master," the white boy said. "I'm Rhett.”

Ten days later, when Rhett returned to Broughton, Will had been buried in the slave cemetery and Mistletoe had been sold South. Broughton Plantation was miles of drowned, stinking rice plants.

Langston Butler was personally supervising a gang repairing breaks in the main trunk while Watling's gang restored the interior trunks. Men trundled wheelbarrels of fill; women and children emptied pails and buckets in the breaches.

Rhett's father's boots were filthy and he hadn't shaved in days. His soft hands were cracked and his fingernails were broken. Langston Butler greeted his son, "We accounted you dead. Your mother is grieving.”

"My mother has a tender heart, sir.”

"Where have you been?”

"The free colored Thomas Bonneau saved me from the hurricane I have been helping his family restore their homestead.”

"Your duty was with your people.”

Rhett said nothing.

His father ran his forearm across his sweaty forehead. "The crop is lost," he said distantly. "A year's work destroyed. Wade Hampton asked me to run for Governor, but now, of course ..." Langston Butler looked into his son's unforgiving eyes. "Sir, have you learned anything from the trunk master's fate?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Humility? Obedience? A proper deference to authority?”

"I have often heard you say, Father, that knowledge is power. I accept that conclusion.”

Despite his obligations at Broughton, that same week Langston Butler took his son to Charleston to begin acquiring the education that distinguishes a Low Country gentleman.

Cathecarte Puryear was Charleston's most visible intellectual, and the city took pride in him, as they might in any curiosity — a two-headed calf or a talking duck. In Cathecarte's student years, he'd boarded beside Edgar Poe at the University of Virginia, and, as everyone knows, poetry is contagious.

Cathecarte Puryear's contentious essays in the Southern Literary Messenger had twice produced challenges, which he had accepted, but on both occasions, after declaiming his belief that affairs of honor were "designed by the mentally unfit, for the mentally unfit," Cathecarte discharged his pistol into the air. He was never challenged again. There is no honor — and may be dishonor — calling out a man who will not return fire.

Cathecarte was president of the St. Cecilia Society, which sponsored uplifting concerts and Charleston's most popular balls. Most of Charleston's intellectuals were clergymen or, like the Unionist Louis Petigru, lawyers by profession, but thanks to his deceased wife's considerable fortune, Cathecarte Puryear never had to earn his bread. He tutored a few wellbred young gentlemen because, as Cathecarte often explained, "noblesse oblige.”

Eleanor Baldwin Puryear (d. 1836) was Cathecarte's sole poetic subject.

Philistines said exchanging Eleanor's handsome dowry for literary immortality was a fool's bargain.

A weary, preoccupied Langston Butler assessed his son for the prospective tutor: "My eldest son is intelligent but defiant. The boy disregards my orders and flouts those distinctions of rank and race that undergird our society. Though Rhett reads, writes, and does sums, gentlemen would not recognize my son as one of them.”

Cathecarte beamed encouragement. "Every young man's mind is a 'tabula rasa,' sir. We may impress upon that blank slate whatever we desire.”

Langston smiled wearily. "We shall see, shan't we?”

After Langston left, the tutor said, "Sit down, young man. Do sit down.

You prowl like a caged beast.”

In rapid succession, Cathecarte asked: "Aristotle taught which famous general, young man? Please decline amare. Which British king succeeded Charles the First? Explain the doctrine of separation of powers. Recite Mr. Poe's 'The Raven,' Mr. Keats's 'La Belle Dame sans Merci.' “

After the silence became oppressive, Cathecarte smiled. "Young man, apparently I know many things which you do not. Just what do you know?”

Rhett leaned forward. "I know why trunk gates are made of cypress.

Everybody says the mother alligator eats her own babies, but she doesn't; she totes 'em in her mouth. Conjure men take four different cures from the jimsonweed. Muskrat dens always have one entrance below the water.”

Cathecarte Puryear blinked. "You are a natural philosopher?”

The boy dismissed that possibility. "No, sir. I'm a renegade.”

After that interview with Cathecarte Puryear, Rhett Butler climbed steep stairs into the heat of an angular room whose window overlooked Charleston harbor.

Dirty clothes were strewn on one unmade bed and highly polished riding boots rested on the pillow of the other.

Rhett unpacked his carpetbag, tossed the boots on the floor, and sat by the window, watching the harbor. So many ships. What a vast place the world was. He wondered if he would ever succeed at anything.

A half hour later, his roommate came clattering up the stairs. He was a slight lad, whose long fingers nervously flicked pale hair off his forehead.

He lifted his boots and examined them suspiciously. "You're Butler, I suppose,”

he said.

"And you are?”

The lad drew himself up. "I am Andrew Ravanel. What do you make of that?”

"I don't make anything of that. Should I?”

"Well, I guess you'd better!”

When Andrew cocked his fists, Rhett hit him in the stomach. The other boy slumped onto his bed, trying to catch his breath. "You shouldn't have done that," he gasped, "You had no right...”

"You were going to hit me.”

"Well," Andrew Ravanel's smile was innocent as an angel's. "Well, maybe I would. But maybe I wouldn't have.”

In the next few months, Rhett understood how lonely he had been.

Andrew Ravanel was a city boy; Rhett had never lived where gaslights flickered. Rhett looked at the practical side of things; Andrew was a dreamer. Andrew was shocked by Rhett's indifference to rank: "Rhett, you don't thank a servant for serving you; serving you is his reason for being.”

Rhett excelled at mathematics and Andrew liked to show his friend off by asking Rhett to add complex figures in his head. Rhett didn't know how he could do it; he just could.

Andrew was an indifferent scholar so Rhett tutored him.

Cathecarte's other pupils were Henry Kershaw, a hulking seventeen-year-old who spent his evenings on the town; Cathecarte's own son, Edgar Allan, who was Henry Kershaw's acolyte; and John Haynes, heir to the Haynes Shipping Company. John's father, Congress Haynes, approved Cathecarte Puryear's pedagogy but not his good sense. Consequently, Congress's son lived at home.

As night cooled the great port city, Rhett and Andrew would perch in their dormer window, discussing duty, honor, and love — those great questions every boy puzzles over.

Rhett didn't understand the bleak moods that sometimes overwhelmed Andrew. Although Andrew was almost recklessly brave, trifles could prostrate him.

"But Cathecarte condescends to everybody," Rhett explained patiently.

"That's what he does. You must not pay him any mind.”

Rhett could neither reason nor jolly Andrew out of his despair, but since it seemed to help, Rhett sat quietly with Andrew through the darkest hours.

Though Cathecarte Puryear railed against "planter philistines," he never questioned Charleston's tradition that young gentlemen should raise hell until they were safely married. Andrew's father, Colonel Jack Ravanel, acquainted Rhett with spirits and escorted the boy on his fifteenth birthday to Miss Polly's brothel.

When Rhett came downstairs, Old Jack grinned. "Well, young sir. What do you think about love?”

"Love? Is that what it's called?”

After three years studying with Cathecarte Puryear, Rhett could do calculus, read Latin (with a dictionary), knew the names of every English monarch since Alfred, the fancies of Charleston's prettiest whores, and that a straight never, never beats a flush.

In the same year Texas annexation was debated in the United States Senate, Cathecarte Puryear published his notorious letter. Why Cathecarte was impelled to advance his opinions wasn't clear. Some thought he envied poet Henry Timrod's growing fame; others said it was the rejection of Cathecarte's poems by the selfsame Charleston Mercury that published his scurrilous letter (bracketed with its editor's disclaimers).

"Nullification," Cathecarte Puryear wrote, "is stupendous folly; and nullification's adherents are reckless fools. Can any sane man believe the Federal government will permit a cabal of Carolina 'gentlemen' to determine which Federal laws they might choose to obey and which they will not? Some of these gentlemen are whispering the dread word 'secession.' I trust that when Mr. Langston Butler and his friends finally commit suicide, they will do so privately, without involving the rest of us in their folly.”

Although Rhett's father couldn't challenge Cathecarte Puryear — "the villain has made a mockery of the code of honor" — Langston could and did remove his son from Puryear's influence.

As their carriage rolled down King Street, Langston told Rhett, "Senator Wade Hampton has engaged a tutor for his children. Henceforth, Hampton's tutor will instruct you too." He examined his son skeptically. "I pray you are not already infected by Puryear's treasonous beliefs.”

Rhett studied his father's sour, angry face and thought, He wants me to be the man he is. Rhett jumped out of the carriage, darted behind a brewer's dray, and disappeared down the street.

Thomas Bonneau laid down the net he'd been mending. "What you doin' here, young man?”

Rhett's smile was tentative. "I had hoped I might be welcome.”

"Well, you ain't. You's trouble.”

Glasses dangling from one hand, Tunis came outdoors. He held The Seaman's Friend m the other.

Desperately, Rhett pronounced, "That book has ketch rigging wrong.”

Tunis rolled his eyes. "Daddy, I b'lieve young Master Butler sayin' he a sailor. You reckon?”

Rhett wore a short blue jacket over a broadcloth shirt. His trousers were so tight, he dared not touch his toes.

The Bonneaus were barefoot and Tunis's dirty canvas trousers were belted with a rope.

Quietly, Rhett said, "I've nowhere else to go.”

Tunis examined Rhett for a long time before he laughed, "Eight bushel of oysters that book cost me and Young Master here says it's mistook.”

Thomas Bonneau's cheeks filled and expelled a puff of air. "I expect I gonna regret this. Sit yourself down and I'll show you how to mend a net.”

The Bonneaus raked oyster banks below Morris Island and fished off Sullivan's Island. Rhett rose with them hours before dawn, worked with them, laughed with them, and one memorable Sunday when Thomas, his wife, and the younger children were at church, Rhett and Tunis sailed Thomas Bonneau's skiff down the coast all the way to Beaufort.

Young Rhett Butler had never imagined he could be so happy.

Every negro on the Ashley River knew about Thomas Bonneau's white "son," but it was thirteen weeks before Langston Butler discovered Rhett's whereabouts and Broughton's launch tied up at the Bonneaus' rickety dock.

Langston Butler towered over Thomas Bonneau, "Many legislators wish to exile Carolina's free coloreds or return them to slavery. That is my view, as well. Should you interfere with my family again, I vow that you, your wife, and your children will toil under Mr. Watling's lash.”

On the long pull upstream to Broughton, Langston Butler didn't speak to his son, and when they landed, he turned Rhett over to Isaiah Watling.

"He's a rice hand like any other. If he runs or disobeys, introduce him to the bullwhip.”

Watling assigned Rhett a cabin in the negro quarters. Its straw pallet danced with fleas.

The stretch flow had been drained two weeks previously and the rice was thriving. His first morning in the fields, the mosquitoes and gnats were so thick, Rhett swallowed mouthfuls. Twenty minutes after sunrise, the overheated air sucked his breath away.

Thigh-deep in mud, he hoed as far as his arms could reach before, extracting one leg at a time, he shifted to a new stance.

A big man on a big horse, Shadrach Watling watched from the levee.

At noon, the work gang paused for beans and cornmeal ladled from a common pot. Since Rhett didn't have a bowl or spoon, he waited until another man finished to borrow his.

It was ninety-five degrees that first afternoon and red and purple flashes played across Rhett's eyes.

By custom, after a worker finished his allotted task, his time was his own. By three o'clock some of the stronger men left the field and by five o'clock only two middle-aged women and Rhett were still working. At 8:30, when Rhett was done, he and Shad Watling remained.

"Best watch for snakes." Shad grinned. "We lost a nigger in this patch last week.”

Rhett's delirium of working, eating, and working again was relieved by fitful snatches of sleep. When Rhett did meet a water moccasin, he watched indifferently as the snake slithered past his bare legs.

On his tall, bony mule, Overseer Watling visited each of his gangs. The handle of the bullwhip hanging from his saddle bow was bleached from the sweat of his hand.

Despite the heat, the overseer wore a black frock coat and his shirt was buttoned to his chin. His wide-brimmed straw hat clasped his close-cropped skull.

At dinnertime on Saturday, he beckoned to Rhett.

Watling had big ears, a big nose, long arms, big hands; his face was lined with hard work and bitterness.

Watling laid his pale, empty gaze on Rhett. "When I was bankrupted and come to Broughton, many stretch flows past, you was an ornery child, but I believed there was hope for you. It is writ that by tribulations we shall one day rise. Young Butler" — the overseer started his mule — "our day will come.”

By the second week, Rhett worked as well as an old woman, and by the end of the third he could keep up with a negro boy of ten.

In the evenings, Rhett slumped on a chopping block in the dooryard.

Although Broughton's negroes had been told to shun him, they slipped him food from their own meager stores.

By September, young Rhett Butler was a full-task rice hand on Broughton Plantation.

As Carolina's delegates were boarding the schooner for Baltimore and the Democratic party's convention, Senator Wade Hampton took Langston Butler aside to ask about a rumor that Langston's son was working beside negroes in the rice fields.

"My son wants discipline.”

Wade Hampton was a physical giant who owned 3,500 slaves. Now, he frowned.

Hampton explained the Democratic party could not afford a scandal.

"Sir, my son must have discipline.”

So Senator Wade Hampton arranged Rhett Butler's appointment to West Point.

When Isaiah Watling rode into the quarters that evening, Rhett Butler was sitting cross-legged in the doorway of his cabin, watching rice birds wheel over the river.

Isaiah Watling dismounted. "Master Butler wants you in town," he said. "Boat's waitin' at the landing." After a pause, Watling added, "For a white boy, you was a pretty fair nigger.”

In Charleston, Rhett was bathed and barbered. His clothing was altered for his new musculature. Before all his insect bites had healed, Rhett boarded a northbound schooner.

Young Rhett Butler stood at the rail as the schooner cleared Charleston harbor. He should have been excited about his prospects, but he wasn't. His body didn't feel right in gentleman's clothing. Fort Sumter grew smaller and smaller, until it was a dot on the gray ocean.

CHAPTER TWO Rosemary Penelope Butler

Rhett's sister, Rosemary, was four years old when Rhett left the Low Country, and afterward, when the child tried to remember her brother, no matter where she tried to force her thoughts, an image crept into her mind: the wolf on the front of her fairy-tale book. The wolf was long-snouted and scraggly, but how sly and what big teeth!

Those weeks Rhett was hidden by the Bonneaus, Langston Butler's anger filled every nook and cranny of the Charleston town house. Servants tiptoed, little Rosemary hid in the nursery, and Elizabeth Butler retired to her bedroom with a sick headache. Rosemary thought Rhett must be powerful and very wicked, since her father hated him so.

Rashes erupted on Rosemary's arms and legs. She woke at the least sound and couldn't get back to sleep. If she just didn't think about that scraggly wolf, if she could picture dolls or dancers or pretty dresses, that wolf wasn't lurking in the dark shadows beneath her bedroom window and couldn't be hiding under her bed.

Rosemary's mother, Elizabeth, had been the beloved only daughter of the very wealthy Ezra Ball Kershaw. A dutiful, pious wife, Elizabeth trusted the Bible to answer her questions and provide eventual justice. She prayed for her children and, without mentioning it to him, she prayed for her husband. Now, Elizabeth Butler took uncharacteristically bold action and asked her friend Constance Fisher — nobody in Charleston was more RIII-TT BUTLER'S PEOPLE respectable, or richer, than Grandmother Fisher — if Rosemary might visit the Fishers for a time.

Grandmother promptly agreed. "Rosemary and my granddaughter Charlotte will keep each other occupied.”

That afternoon, Rosemary's clothes and favorite dolls were packed and loaded in Grandmother Fisher's carriage. Afterward, Rosemary slept more nights in the Fishers' East Bay mansion than in her own home. Her rashes disappeared.

Little Charlotte Fisher was a serene, uncomplaining child who thought the best of everyone. Charlotte believed Rosemary's brother couldn't be that bad. Nobody was that bad. Charlotte never complained when her older brother, Jamie, teased her. One afternoon when Rosemary was out of sorts, she snatched Charlotte's favorite doll. Charlotte wouldn't take it back when Rosemary repented. Weeping, Rosemary threw her arms around her friend's neck. "Charlotte, I'm sorry, but when I want something, I want it now.”

Three years after Rhett left for West Point, Charlotte's brother, Jamie, burst into the family room.

Charlotte closed her book on her finger and sighed. "Yes, brother ...”

"Yes, yourself." Arms folded, Jamie leaned against a sofa arm so he wouldn't crease his trousers.

Jamie ...

"Rhett Butler's been expelled," Jamie blurted. "He's back in Charleston, though heaven knows why." Jamie raised his eyebrows theatrically. "I mean, nobody — absolutely nobody — will receive him. He's living with Old Jack Ravanel. He and Andrew always were thick as thieves.”

Rosemary frowned. "What's 'expelled'?”

"Thrown out of West Point. Exiled. Entirely and totally disgraced!”

Rosemary felt sad. How can a wolf not be a wolf? she wondered.

Hastily, Jamie added, "You mustn't worry, Rosemary. Your brother has lots of friends. Andrew and there's Henry Kershaw, Edgar Puryear — the, uh ... that crowd.”

Which was not reassuring. Jamie had previously regaled the Fishers' supper table with tales about "the Flash Sports." Everything Rosemary had heard about these young men was wicked or alarming.

That evening, Grandmother Fisher scolded Jamie for upsetting the child.

"But Rhett is disgraced. It's true," Jamie insisted.

"The truth, Jamie, isn't always kind.”

Rhett Butler's reappearance inspired the Flash Sports to new outrages.

Somehow, Rhett slipped two of Miss Polly's pretty, overdressed young Cyprians past the ball managers into the Jockey Club Ball. Before they were escorted out, the giggling girls recognized a St. Michael's vestryman of previously impeccable reputation.

One midnight outside a waterfront gambling hell, two ruffians accosted Rhett.

Rhett said mildly, "I've only one bullet in my pistol. Who wants the bullet and who wants his neck broken?”

The thieves backed down.

Rhett and Andrew brought a dozen horses from Tennessee to Charleston in four days, changing horses on the fly. Rumor persisted they'd barely outrun the horses' legitimate owners.

And all Charleston buzzed when on a two-dollar bet, the blindfolded Rhett Butler jumped his gelding, Tecumseh, over the five-foot spiked iron fence into St. Michael's churchyard. Sunday morning, curious parishioners and an angry vicar inspected the deep holes Tecumseh's hooves had left in the turf. Knowledgeable horsemen shuddered.

Jamie Fisher had a better heart than he liked to admit and he censored that news. "Rhett plays poker," Jamie stated. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "He plays for money!”

"Of course he does," sensible Charlotte retorted. "He has to get money somehow, doesn't he?”

Although the girls didn't know all Rhett's sins, they knew his sins were very numerous. One morning, when the sympathetic Charlotte called her friend "poor, dear Rosemary" once too often, Rosemary smacked her friend in the eye. The startled child burst into tears and Rosemary fell into her arms and, as little girls will, they solaced one another.

One special morning, when Grandmother Fisher entered the family room, Charlotte forgot the toast she had been slathering with red currant jelly and Rosemary set her teacup down.

Grandmother Fisher was not quite wringing her hands. She studied Rosemary as if the child's demeanor might answer some question.

"Grandmother," Charlotte asked, "is anything wrong?”

Constance Fisher shook her head — a little shake — and straightened.

"Rosemary, you've a caller in the withdrawing room.”

"A caller, Grandmother? For me?”

"Your brother Rhett has come for you.”

That story-book wolf flashed into Rosemary's mind and she glanced at Charlotte in alarm.

Grandmother said, "You are not obliged to see him, child. If you prefer, I'll turn him away.”

"Rosemary, he's disgraced," Charlotte fretted.

Rosemary set her lips in a determined line. She was old enough now to face a story-book wolf. Besides, Rosemary was curious: Would her brother's sins show in his person? Would he be hunchbacked, or hairy, with long fingernails? Would he smell bad? As they passed down the hall, Grandmother murmured, "Rosemary, you mustn't mention this visit to your father.”

Rhett Butler wasn't a scraggly old wolf. He was young and tall and his black hair glittered like a raven's wing. His coat was the russet of a newborn fawn and his black planter's hat rested in his big hands like an old friend.

"Who have we here?" her brother asked. "You needn't be afraid of me, little one.”

When Rosemary looked into Rhett's smiling eyes, the wolf went away forever. "I'm not afraid," she said stoutly.

"Grandmother Fisher told me you're a spark," Rhett told her. "I believe you are. I've come this morning to take you for a drive.”

"Young Butler, I may live to regret this. How in the world you managed to get expelled from West Point, I don't know" — Grandmother raised a preemptory hand — "and do not wish to know. But John Haynes speaks well of you, and John has a level head. If your father hears you've been here, he'll be ...”

Rhett grinned. "Outraged? Outrage is my father's dearest companion.”

Rhett's bow was deferential. "I am indebted to you, Grandmother Fisher.

I'll have Rosemary home for supper." He knelt then so he was no taller than she. "Sister Rosemary, I've a spirited horse and the lightest sulky in the Low Country. Wouldn't you like to fly?”

That afternoon, Rosemary met Tecumseh, Rhett's three-year-old Morgan gelding. The sulky was not much more than a woven cane seat on tall wheels whose spokes were thinner than Rhett's thumbs. Tecumseh floated along at a trot, and when Rhett Butler asked for the gallop, their sulky left the ground.

When Rosemary'd flown about as long as a little girl should fly, Rhett returned her to Grandmother Fisher's and carried her into the house. Rosemary had never felt as safe as she felt in her brother's arms.

On his second visit, Rhett took Rosemary boating. Everyone in the harbor seemed to know him. The sloop they boarded belonged to a free colored man who called her brother by his Christian name. Rosemary was surprised when her brother clasped a negro's hand.

Charleston harbor was busy that afternoon with fishing boats, coastal ketches, and oceangoing schooners. With Old Glory snapping from its parapet, Fort Sumter guarded the harbor mouth. The waves were higher outside the harbor, and Rosemary got thoroughly wetted with spray.

When they returned to Grandmother Fisher's, Rosemary was sunburned, tired, and thoughtful.

"What is it, little one?”

"Rhett, do you love me?”

Her brother touched her cheek. "As my life.”

Inevitably, Langston learned his son had visited the Fishers, and he removed Rosemary to Broughton.

A month later, Rosemary was roused after midnight by a carriage in the drive — Grandmother Fisher's carriage — and before she was fully awake, Charlotte was in her bedroom and in her arms. "Oh, Rosemary," she said.

"I'm so sorry this is happening.”

Which is when Rosemary Butler learned that her brother Rhett was to fight at daybreak, a duel with Shadrach Watling, who once shot a whippoorwill's head from its body.

Daybreak came and went. At the sound of distant shots, Rhett's mother rushed to the withdrawing room window, peering with myopic, blinking intensity.

"Probably market hunters," Rhett's brother, Julian, announced. "Shooting passenger pigeons." Dr. Ward's wife, Eulalie, nodded in agreement.

Charlotte Fisher's warm hand found Rosemary's cold one and squeezed it hard.

Color flushing her ashen cheeks, Elizabeth Butler rang for a servant.

"We will take refreshment.”

Rosemary closed her eyes so tightly, red spots flashed behind her eyelids as she prayed silently, Please God, keep my brother safe. Please God. Make Rhett safe!

Quiet as church mice, concealed behind a love seat's curving arm, Rosemary and Charlotte were in the farthest corner of the big, chilly room.

Constance Venable Fisher cleared her throat to issue an opinion.

"Langston has chosen a singularly unfortunate time to do his accounts!”

Mrs. Fisher's judgmental nod bored through the withdrawing room door, marched down the hall, down the grand staircase, through the public parlor into Langston Butler's office.

Julian replied, "Father is a man of regular habits. Saturday mornings, he does accounts.”

Seated on the hard upright chair she had taken as the spinster's due, Miss Juliet Ravanel said, "Sometimes men conceal their fears by punctiliousness.

Perhaps Mr. Butler — “

"Nonsense!" Constance Fisher pronounced. "Langston Butler is stubborn as a root hog.”

Uncle Solomon, Broughton's houseman, brought tea and a platter heaped with the ginger cookies Cook usually baked only during Race Week. When Mrs. Butler asked for sherry Uncle Solomon replied, "But Missus, it ain't hardly day. Sun just comin' up.”

"We will take sherry," Mrs. Butler insisted. After Solomon shut the door too noisily, she said, "As Mr. Butler says, 'Negroes take advantage of their masters' kindness.' “

"Everyone recalls how the Butlers kept slavery in the United States Constitution." Miss Ravanel refreshed a boast with which everyone present was all too familiar. Mrs. Butler took her bait. "Why, yes. My husband's beloved uncle Middleton headed the South Carolina delegation...”

"Yes, dear," Constance Fisher said, not unkindly. "We know all that. Rhett is nothing like Middleton. Rhett favors his grandfather Louis Valentine.”

Elizabeth Butler put a hand to her mouth. "We mustn't speak of him.

Langston never mentions his father's name.”

"Dear me, why ever not?" Constance Fisher said cheerfully, "America is a new nation. Blood money is scrubbed clean in a generation.”

Broughton had been an unprofitable indigo plantation that couldn't provide for the brothers who'd inherited it. Louis Valentine Butler took himself off to New Orleans and a lifelong association with buccaneer Jean Lafitte, while Middleton Butler entered the slave trade. Fortunes were being made importing Africans, but Middleton's captains paid too much for sickly specimens and his negroes who survived the Middle Passage were discounted at the sales. Middleton quit the business when Charleston's council ordered him to dump dead negroes farther out to sea. Corpses were washing ashore at White Point, where Charleston's gentry took Sabbath promenades.

Since Middleton Butler didn't choose sides until the American Revolution was safely won, he acquired three hundred Loyalist acres forfeited to patriots. As a delegate to the Philadelphia convention, Middleton Butler did keep slavery in the newly minted Constitution.

In 1810, Louis Valentine Butler captured the Mercato, a Spanish silver ship, off Tampico and bought a thousand acres of prime rice land for Broughton. Langston Butler, Louis Valentine's son, quarreled fiercely with his father and moved in with his bachelor uncle, Middleton. Louis Valentine bought two thousand more acres. The purchase money came from prizes taken off the Texas coast. (Although Louis Valentine swore they'd been Spanish and Mexican ships, rumor persisted they'd been flying the American flag.) Successive Broughton overseers were hard-pressed to support Middleton's extravagant Charleston establishment.

One bright morning in 1825, Louis Valentine Butler sailed from Galveston in The Pride of Charleston, and was never seen again. Later that year, Middleton Butler's creditors attended that gentleman's funeral, paying homage to an American patriot while seeking their due from Langston Butler, the Butler heir. Langston Butler sold two hundred slaves to satisfy creditors' claims and married fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Kershaw. Miss Elizabeth was notable for her piety and plain features.

When Elizabeth Butler's firstborn, Rhett Kershaw Butler, emerged into the world, the infant had his caul clenched in his fist, a circumstance Broughton's conjure men said was an unusual, powerful omen. Whether for good or ill, they wouldn't say.

Although the African slave trade had been oudawed two decades before, slave ships sometimes slipped into Charleston harbor, and Langston Butler was a willing buyer of Angolans, Coromantees, Gambians, and Ebos: coastal Africans resistant to fevers and familiar with rice production.

He completed Broughton Plantation with two thousand acres from Colonel Ravanel (who was too despondent after his wife's death to drive a hard bargain).

Rhett's father founded the Ashley River Agricultural Society. After experimenting with rice varieties, Langston selected Soonchurcher Puddy, an African variety that winnowed well and produced a plump grain. When Wade Hampton invited Langston to run for the Carolina legislature, Langston entered the Low Country's richest, most exclusive men's club.

The morning of Rhett's duel, Langston's younger son, Julian, drank tea while the ladies took sherry. When Solomon failed to brim her glass, Constance Fisher tapped it impatiently.

From behind the sheltering love seat, Charlotte Fisher smelled ginger cookies — a warm tingling in the back of her nose. With a sigh, Charlotte set her wants aside. How could she be thinking of ginger cookies when Rosemary's brother might be wounded or dead? Charlotte Fisher had a thoroughgoing respect for grown-up wisdom — grown-ups were grown-ups, after all — but Charlotte had concluded they were wrong about Rhett Butler.

"Belle Watling is pretty," the unpretty Miss Ravanel remarked, "for a rustic.”

Elizabeth Butler shook her head, "That girl has sorely tried her father's patience." When Langston was away, Elizabeth Butler joined the overseer's family for Sunday prayers. Elizabeth was vaguely comforted by the simple farmhouse where she'd once had her hopes — giddy newlywed hopes — for a happy life. Isaiah Watling's fierce, unbending Christianity consoled her.

"The field of honor — it's a lovely meadow beside the river. The oaks are dripping with Spanish moss. When I married, I dreamed Langston and I might picnic there one day. We would have such fine picnics." Mrs. Butler dropped her eyes. "How I ramble on; pray forgive me." She glanced at the tall clock, upon whose serene face a gilt quarter moon was slowly plunging into an enameled sea. She rang Uncle Solomon again. Had he wound the clock recently, and if so, had he changed the hands? "No, missus." Solomon licked his lips. "I winds the clock Sundays. You want it winded now?”

She dismissed him with a dispirited wave. "An apology ..." Mrs. Butler said. "No one expects Rhett to marry the girl.”

"Excellent notion! An apology!" Miss Ravanel applauded.

"My brother would never apologize!" Rosemary's protest startled her elders, who had forgotten the little girls. "Shad Watling is a bully and a liar! Rhett would never apologize to Shad Watling." Though Rosemary's cheeks flushed, she wouldn't recant — not one word! When sensible Charlotte squeezed her friend's ankle, Rosemary shoved her hand away.

"Rhett never liked Charleston." Mrs. Butler's eyes roved. "Rhett said the only difference between alligators and Charlestonians was that alligators showed their teeth before they bit.”

"Rhett favors his grandfather," Constance Fisher repeated. "That raven hair, those laughing black eyes." Her voice traveled back in time. "Mercy, how Louis Valentine could dance.”

"Why couldn't that girl have gone away!" Elizabeth Butler cried. "She has connections in Missouri.”

Miss Ravanel averred there were many bastards in Missouri. Perhaps there were even more bastards in Missouri than in Texas.

Julian Butler compared his watch with the tall clock and retarded the clock. "We won't hear the shots. Too distant.”

His mother gasped.

"Julian," Constance Fisher said, "your brother may be a rogue, but you are a dunce.”

Julian shrugged. "Rhett's latest escapade has upset our household. All the servants wear long faces. Thinking Cook had prepared these cookies for honored guests" — Julian afforded them a nod — "I complimented her. 'Oh no, Master Julian. I bakes 'em for Master Rhett. After he done fightin'.”

Charlotte whispered, "Rosemary, please don't say any more. We must be perfect possums." Charlotte added wistfully, "I would so like a ginger cookie.”

The big clock ticked.

Julian cleared his throat, "Mrs. Ward, I'm less familiar with Savannah's first families than I should be. You were a Robillard, I believe?”

Miss Ravanel remembered some gossip. "Wasn't some Robillard on the brink of consummating an unfortunate alliance — with a cousin, was it?”

"Dear Cousin Philippe. My sister Ellen thought Philippe was magnificent.”

Eulalie giggled (by now she'd had her third glass of sherry). "I suppose a lion is magnificent — until he eats you.”

Miss Ravanel recalled details. "Didn't the Robillards exile Cousin Philippe and marry the girl off to an Irish storekeeper?”

Eulalie tried to bolster family dignity. "My sister Ellen married a successful businessman. She and Mr. Gerald O'Hara have a cotton plantation near Jonesboro. Tara it is called." She sniffed. "After his family estate in Ireland, I presume.”

"Jonesboro would be in ... Georgia?" Miss Ravanel stifled her yawn.

"Indeed. Ellen writes that her daughter Scarlett is 'a Robillard through and through.' “

"Scarlett? What a curious name. Scarlett O'Hara — those Irish, dear me.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Julian said, "It'll be over now.”

Elizabeth Butler's voice chimed with false hope. "Rhett and Shad will have made amends and galloped off to Mr. Turner's tavern.”

Constance Fisher said, "Julian: If your father has finished his accounts, might he condescend to join us?”

"Langston Butler's work is never done," Julian intoned. "Fourteen thousand acres, three hundred and fifty negroes, sixty horses, including five of the finest Thoroughbreds ...”

"But only two sons," Constance Fisher snapped. "One of whom may be dying of a bullet wound.”

Elizabeth Butler put her hand to her mouth. "Rhett is at Mr. Turner's tavern," she whispered. "He must be.”

hen Rosemary heard the hoofbeats, she ran to the window, flinging it open wide, so damp air rushed into the house. On tiptoes, the child pushed her torso outside. "It's Tecumseh!" she cried. "I'd know his gallop anywhere. Oh, listen, Mama! Can't you hear? Rhett's in the lane.

It « him! It's Tecumseh!”

The child bolted from the room, hurtled pell-mell down the broad staircase, past her father's office, and outside onto the oyster-shell drive, where her brother was reining in his lathered horse. A grinning Uncle Solomon took Tecumseh's bridle, "I gratified you home, Master Rhett,”

Uncle Solomon said. "All us coloreds gratified.”

The young man slid off his horse and scooped his sister into the air, squeezing her so fiercely, it took her breath. "I'm sorry I frightened you, little one. I wouldn't have you frightened for the world.”

"Rhett, you're hurt!”

His left sleeve was empty. His arm hung inside his black frock coat.

"The ball didn't touch bone. It's gusty beside the river at sunrise.

Watling didn't allow for gusts.”

"Oh, Rhett, I was so afraid. What would I do if I lost you?”

"You haven't lost me, child. Only the good die young." He set his sister at arm's length, as if stamping her forever on his memory. His black eyes were so sad. "Come with me, Rosemary," he said, and for one exalted instant the child misunderstood. For a few seconds, Rosemary thought she and Rhett would flee this joyless house, that she'd wave farewell from Tecumseh's back as brother and sister flew away.

She followed her brother onto the long, empty piazza in front of the house. Rhett put his good arm around his sister's thin shoulder and turned her so they overlooked their family's world. On the patchwork of sunlit rectangular rice fields, gangs were spreading marl, chanting as they worked.

Though the words were inaudible, the tone was sweet and sorrowing. The Ashley River's tidal arc outlined Broughton's main trunk. On that trunk, a horseman galloped toward the east field and Isaiah Watling.

"Bad news rides the swiftest horse," Rhett said quietly. After a pause, he added, "I shan't ever forget how beautiful this is.”

"Is he ... Is Shad Watling ...”

"Yes," Rhett said.

"Are you sad?" Rosemary asked. "He was a bully. You needn't be sad.”

Rhett smiled. "What a wonder you are.”

Mrs. Butler and her guests were waiting in the public parlor.

When she saw her son's empty sleeve, Elizabeth Butler gasped and her eyes rolled back until the whites showed. Julian helped her to a bench, murmuring, "Dear Mother. Mother, please.”

Eulalie Ward's eyes were enormous. "Franklin?" she squeaked.

"Madam, your Franklin is unscathed except by his own flask. The good doctor has no stomach for this business.”

Ledger in hand, Langston Butler erupted from his office and strode to the shelves, where he slotted the ledger among its fellows.

Turning, he glanced at his elder son. "Ah yes, the bad penny." Langston Butler went to the family Bible and opened it to those pages where Butler births, marriages, and deaths had been recorded since the Bible had been printed in 1607. He extracted a silver penknife from his waistcoat to whittle quick curls from his goose-quill pen. He laid the quill against the glossy walnut stand and when he tipped his nib, he cut so deep, he marred the wood.

With trembling hands, Langston Butler inspected the Bible record.

"The Butlers have boasted patriots, faithful wives, dutiful children, and respectable citizens. But there is a wicked strain in Butler blood and some herein this Book, my own father among them, have been hangman's bait.”

Langston's glare at Grandmother Fisher dared her disagreement.

Langston continued. "Today, we concern ourselves with a disobedient scion, a rebellious and impertinent youth. When his parent sought acceptable conduct, that youth defied him.”

Elizabeth Butler wept silently. Julian Butler stifled a cough.

"When, at wit's end, that parent enrolled the boy in West Point, even their famous disciplinarians could not subdue him. Cadet Butler was expelled and returned to the Low Country, where he proved a dissolute rakehell and impregnated a girl of the lower classes. Did you offer Watling money?”

"You are the rich planter, sir, not I.”

"Why did you challenge Watling?”

"Watling lied about me, sir.”

Langston brushed it away. "Watling is dead?”

"He is emptied of mischief.”

With deliberate strokes, Langston Butler struck his son's name from the Bible. He capped the inkwell, wiped the nib, and laid the pen down.

Wordlessly, Langston Butler herded his family and friends back through the broad doors into the family quarters. Julian took Rosemary's hand before she could elude him.

Langston Butler closed the walnut doors and set his back against them.

The air shimmered between father and son. "As you have no further business with the Butler family, sir, you may depart.”

CHAPTER THREE "Beloved Brother Rhett ..."

In the years to come, little Rosemary wrote her brother faithfully. She told him about her piebald pony, Jack, who had the pleasantest manners.

Rosemary rode Jack everywhere. "Mother says I am becoming a Wild Indian.

Have you met any Wild Indians? "When I ask him to jump," Rosemary wrote, "Jack swivels his head and rolls his eyes and lays his ears flat. I believe Jack is insulted!”

When a water moccasin struck Jack, Rosemary wrote how she and Hercules sat up through the night with her dying pony. Though Rosemary's hand was steady, this letter was spotted with tearstains.

Rosemary had returned to the Fishers and wrote about that household.

Charlotte doesn't think ill of anyone. I don't think her brother, Jamie, intends to be cruel, but his friends are so clever and reckless, Jamie must act as they do. One morning, he came home while Charlotte and I were at breakfast. Jamie's clothes were filthy! He stumbled and he smelled very bad' When Charlotte reproved him, Jamie called Charlotte "an interfering hussy. " Charlotte set her lip and refused to speak to Jamie. For days and days, Jamie pretended nothing was wrong but in the end he apologized!

Charlotte is exactly like Grandmother Fisher — the best of friends but stubborn to a fault!

Jamie is gentler than he wants us to think! When he isn't with his friends, he tells us amusing stories. Some are not true! Jamie loves horses and is the best rider I have ever seen! Hercules lets Jamie ride Gero, though Father would be furious if he knew! Have I told you about Gero? Hercules says Gero is the fastest Thoroughbred in the Low Country.

Jamie's friends are Andrew Ravanel, Henry Kershaw, and Edgar Puryear. Weren't they your friends, too? Jamie says John Haynes is a "young stick," but he daren't criticize John Haynes in Grandmother Fisher's hearing!

John Haynes asks if I've heard from you and I am sorry I must tell him I haven't!

If I were older I would join you and we could travel even to Egypt. I should very much like to see the pyramids. Have you seen the pyramids?

In much the same way that Rosemary knew Jesus loved little children, she knew Abolitionists were wicked and Yankees hated and feared Southerners, even children like herself. From more personal experience, Rosemary knew grown-ups argued fiercely about politics and that friendships were made or discarded depending on what other grown-ups were doing far away in the United States Congress.

When Rosemary was ten, Congress passed the Compromise of 1850 and Nullifiers and Unionists became friendly for a time. Langston Butler, who hadn't spoken to Cathecarte Puryear since he removed Rhett from Cathecarte's tutelage, nodded to Puryear on Queen Street.

When Mrs. Stowe's novel, Uncle Tom's Cabin, was published, all Charleston deplored the wicked book. Grandmother Fisher said it was too simple for Rosemary and Charlotte.

"How can it be too simple for children?" Rosemary asked, desperate to read the book everybody was talking about.

"Simple in the sense of being simpleminded," Grandmother Fisher grumbled.

In her next letter, Rosemary asked if Rhett had read Uncle Tom's Cabin.

This brief political tranquillity ended when Rosemary was fourteen and Congress passed the Kansas-Nebraska Act. In the West, slave owners and abolitionists were murdering one another.

At about this time, Rosemary began paying rather more attention to Charleston's eligible bachelors. "Edgar Allan Puryear claimed Andrew Ravanel cheated at cards, so Andrew challenged him," Rosemary wrote.

"Everybody thought they'd fight, but Edgar apologized, so now people suspect Edgar is a coward. Jamie Fisher calls Andrew a 'beautiful' horseman.

Do you think a man can be beautiful? "Henry Kershaw caned a free colored tailor in front of his shop after the tailor asked payment of an overdue bill. The man died of his injuries.

(Father joked that the tailor got his due!)”

Rosemary described Congress Haynes's funeral, when mourners blocked Meeting Street from Queen Street to White Point. "John Haynes asked about you again. How I wish I had some news of you, dear brother!

"Do you remember visiting me when you first came back from West Point? I was such a child and you seemed so very tall! Do you remember going sailing? "Last Saturday, Gero beat Mr. Canby's Planet, and Colonel Ravanel's Chapultapec. Hercules took credit and tried to order a basket of champagne to celebrate his victory. Hercules said he wanted to 'treat all the white gentlemen.' What a notion! Father sent Hercules back to Broughton to 'refresh his manners.' “

Rosemary assured Rhett: "Mother loves you, Rhett! I know she does!”

This was conjecture; after her elder son was banished, Elizabeth Butler burst into tears on the rare occasions Rhett's name was mentioned.

Abolitionist murders in distant Kansas disrupted long-standing Charleston connections. Cousins quit speaking to cousins. Charlestonians once deemed extreme were lauded as visionaries. Grandmother Fisher kept Langston Butler's friends from expelling the Unionist Cathecarte Puryear from the St. Cecilia Society. In response, Langston Butler withdrew his fifteen-year-old daughter from the Fisher home again.

Thereafter, Rosemary saw Charlotte and Jamie Fisher only at social gatherings. To Rhett, she wrote, "Jamie and Andrew Ravanel's sister, Juliet, have become bosom friends. She and Jamie hone their tongues on one another, sharpening them for their victims.”

Rosemary told her brother that Andrew Ravanel had swept Mary Loring off her feet. All Charleston expected Andrew and Mary to be affianced, but, attended by salacious rumors, Mary Loring left suddenly for Split Rock, North Carolina. Andrew was now courting Cynthia Peterson.

"My maid Cleo means well but is upset by trifles. Cleo is a flibbertigibbet!

"You remember pert little Sudie? Well, Sudie has jumped the broomstick with Hercules and has her firstborn! Hercules couldn't be prouder. He sends his regards!”

She concluded this letter, "Please do write. I miss you awfully and yearn to hear all your news. Your loving sister, Rosemary.”

Hercules told Rosemary where to send her letters.

When Rosemary asked how Hercules knew Rhett's whereabouts, he laughed. "Miss Rosemary, don't you reckon horses talk to each other? Everywhere they goes, horses is talkin'. I sneaks into the stalls at night and listens.”

So Rosemary addressed letters to "Rhett Butler, San Francisco, California Territory" and "Rhett Butler, General Delivery, New Orleans, Louisiana.”

She sealed them carefully and doubled the postage. "Be sure and mail this today, Uncle.”

"Yes, Miss," Uncle Solomon replied, although for some reason, her letters made the old houseman uneasy.

Rosemary never heard from her brother, and as the years passed, her weekly letters became fortnightly and then monthly.

Rosemary's final letter was written on the eve of her debut to Charleston society at the Jockey Club Ball. In that letter, sixteen-year-old Rosemary confided her fears that no young man would sign her dance card and that her white satin gown was more girlish than womanly.

Cleo fussed at her: "We ain't gonna get ready less'n you quit scribblin' and get to dressin', Missy." Rosemary ignored her maid and went out to the yard, where Hercules was grooming Gero.

Without preliminary, Rosemary said, "Writing to my brother is useless.

My brother is dead.”

"No'm, Master Rhett ain't dead.”

Rosemary put her hands firmly on her hips. "How do you know?”

"The horses, they — “

She stamped her foot, "Hercules! I am no longer a child.”

"Yes, Miss." He sighed. "I can see you ain't." As Rosemary stormed back to the house, he returned to grooming. "Be easy now, Gero. Miss Rosemary distress 'count of she goin' to the Jockey Club and she feared the young gentlemen won't favor her.”

Rosemary concluded her letter: "Although some of my letters may have gone astray, you must have received others. Your silence is too cruel. How I wish I knew your whereabouts and circumstances. I will always love you, brother, but in the face of your obstinate silence, I will not write again.”

Rosemary was as good as her word. She didn't write Rhett that her debut had been notable, that Andrew Ravanel had flirted outrageously and taken four waltzes. Nor did she tell him that during the intermission, Grandmother Fisher had said, "John Haynes is thoroughly besotted with you. A girl could do worse than John Haynes.”

Nor that she had replied, tossing her head, "John Haynes can't sit a horse. It's a wonder he doesn't injure himself.”

"But Andrew Ravanel can sit a horse?”

"He is the handsomest man in Charleston. Every belle has set her cap for Andrew.”

"I believe what you call a 'cap,' dear, Mr. Ravanel's sporting friends call a 'scalp,' " Constance Fisher replied.

CHAPTER FOUR Race Week

Three years before the War, a full nine years after Rhett Butler left the Low Country, on a February afternoon Rosemary Butler stood before her pier glass, dissatisfied. She thought herself too tall and her torso was unfashionably long. Her entirely ordinary auburn hair was parted in the center and curled in ringlets. Her features were, Rosemary believed, too strong, and her mouth too generous. Her candid gray eyes, she thought, were her only good feature. Rosemary stuck her tongue out at the mirror. "You are no friend!" she announced.

Rosemary's dress, a textured print in green polished cotton, was new for Race Week.

Race Week was the pinnacle of Charleston's social season. The rice had been harvested, dried, winnowed, hulled, sold, and shipped; the negroes had been given their annual clothing issue and enjoyed their Christmas holiday. The planter families were in town and their mornings hummed with gossip about the rare doings of the night before and anticipations for the evening ahead. Smart new carriages and refurbished, highly polished older ones promenaded in the great loop down East Bay, up Meeting Street, and down East Bay again. The latest Paris fashions (as adapted by London pattern makers and sewed by Charleston's free colored seamstresses) were admired at the Jockey Club and St. Cecilia Society balls. Yankee excursionists gawked at grand town houses, throngs of negroes, splendid racehorses, and the most beautiful belles in the South.

Cleo burst into Rosemary's bedroom, wringing her hands. "Missy, they's somebody here to see you.”

"I'll be down directly. Show the gentleman into the drawing room.”

"He ain't... Missy, he waitin' in the yard. He ... he ain't no gentleman!”

Cleo's lips clamped tight. She would say no more.

The public rooms of Langston Butler's Greek Revival town house had carved marble mantels and varnished cherry wainscoting. A shaded piazza encircled the entire second story.

The servants' staircase at the back of the house was narrow, steep, and unpainted. Up these stairs, servants carried plates and tureens for Langston Butler's political dinners. Armloads of fresh linens came up these steps.

Down came dirty sheets, pillowcases, underclothing, and tablecloths. Down, carefully, came the family's chamber pots.

During this season, just fifteen Broughton servants attended the Butlers.

Uncle Solomon, Cleo, Hercules and Sudie, and Cook had a room each above the kitchen/laundry house. Lesser servants slept in cramped quarters above the stable.

Usually, the yard was a beehive of washing, laundering, mucking out stables, and grooming horses, but Gero was running in today's noon race and everybody was at the racecourse.

"Hello?" Rosemary called.

The stable smelled of axle grease, neat's-foot oil, and manure. Curious horses lifted their heads above their stall doors.

Rosemary's visitor clutched his parcel so hard, he'd indented it.

"Why, is it Tunis? Tunis Bonneau?”

Like his father, Tunis Bonneau had been a fisherman and market hunter, but these days Tunis was a pilot for Haynes & Son. Rosemary knew the man by sight, although they had never spoken.

"Tunis Bonneau ... didn't someone tell me you'd married?”

"Yes'm. Last September. My Ruthie, she's Reverend Prescott's eldest.”

Tunis's wire-rimmed spectacles and solemn expression made him seem a dark edition of a Puritan schoolmaster. His clothing was spotless, pressed, and he smelled faintly of lye soap.

"I was asked to bring you this." Bonneau pushed his parcel at Rosemary and turned to leave.

"Wait, Tunis. Please. There is no card. Who sent it?" Untied, the parcel revealed an oversized yellow silk scarf fringed with exquisite black knots.

"My goodness! What a gorgeous shawl.”

"Yes, Miss.”

When the virginal girl settled the silk on her shoulders, it caressed and made her feel vaguely uneasy. "Tunis, who sent this to me?”

"Miss Rosemary. I don't need trouble with Master Langston.”

"Was it ... was it Andrew Ravanel?”

"It weren't Andrew Ravanel gifted you. No, Miss.”

Rosemary said determinedly, "You will not leave until you tell me.”

Tunis Bonneau took off his glasses and rubbed the mark they'd left on his nose. "He reckoned his letters weren't getting to you, so he asked me to bring you this. I seen him in Freeport. He ain't changed none." Tunis turned the glasses in his hand as if they were an unfamiliar object. "I sailed as pilot on the John B. Elliot, carryin' rice and cotton, bringin' back locomotive wheels for the Georgia railroad. Soon as I seen him, I knowed who he was. Rhett Butler ain't changed none.”

Rosemary felt a catch at her throat and she gripped a stall rail to steady herself.

"Rhett been with them freebooters in Nicaragua, but he quit that business.”

"But he's ... Rhett's dead!”

"Oh no, Miss. Mr. Rhett ain't dead. Why, he's right lively. That man always sees the amusin' side of things.”

"But... but... not a single word to me in nine years.”

Tunis Bonneau breathed on his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief.

"Miss Rosemary, your brother did write to you. He wrote plenty.”

CHAPTER FIVE Notes in Bottles

Occidental Hotel,

San Francisco, California Territory

May 17, 1849

Dear Little Sister, Although I disembarked from The Glory of the Seas six long hours ago, the earth still wobbles beneath my feet.

Our captain and his son rowed we passengers ashore fearing The Glory might join the hundred ships deserted by sailors who became gold seekers.

Their masts are a dismal forest beside Long Wharf.

The wharf itself was a hubbub of runners for restaurants and hotels, brothels and gambling houses. Sharpers offered to buy and sell gold. One well-dressed man diffidently begged a meal.

I played cards on the voyage around the Horn. Because they were going to be rich soon, the aspirant gold seekers were contemptuous of the cash money already in their possession and played as if prudence showed no faith in their glorious future. Consequently I arrived in this city with a considerable "grubstake" (the money the argonaut uses to finance his prospecting).

During our tedious voyage around the Horn, the argonauts explained why they had uprooted themselves from occupations, friends, and family for a dangerous voyage and uncertain future. To a man, and earnestly, they insisted they were not doing it for themselves. No indeed! They were adventuring for those selfiame wives and children they'd left behind.

They'd left their families for the sake of their families! Apparently, American wives and children cannot be satisfied until an argonaut showers them with gold!

This is not Charleston. San Francisco boardwalks flank mud streets, which suck the shoes off my feet. Tents and wooden shacks coexist side by side with brick buildings so new, they glisten.

Three years ago, before gold was discovered San Francisco had eight hundred citizens. Today it boasts thirty-six thousand. From the wharf to the sheltering hills, the city echoes with the banging and clattering of new construction. In this town, Sister, even loafers with nowhere to go hurry to get there.

Chinese, Irish, Italians, Connecticut Yankees, and Mexicans: The new city hums with new people and newfangled notions.

Although I miss you and my Low Country friends, I am no exile. I feel the exultation of a prisoner released into the sunlight of a new morning.

There are cities besides Charleston and they are good places to be!

Please do write me here at the hotel. They will hold my mail for me.

Tell me about Charlotte and Grandmother Fisher and especially about your doings. Of all my old life, Dear Sister, I miss you most.

Your Loving Brother, Rhett

March 12, 1850

Goodyear's Bar, California Territory

Dear Little Sister, Goodyear's Bar is a surpassing ugly gold camp: a high-country mudflat spotted with dugouts, tents, and windowless log huts where lucky miners occasionally earn two thousand dollars from a wheelbarrel of pay dirt.

Even rich argonauts must eat, and their picks and shovels have a way of wearing out, and common decency (and below-zero nights) demand trousers and shoes.

Sister, I have become a merchant — one of those tedious fellows whose efforts underpin every aristocracy. With my grubstake, I purchased a heavy freight wagon and four sturdy mules. I paid twice as much as I would have in Carolina for brined beef, whiskey, flour, shovels, picks, and rolls of canvas.

I loaded my rig and goods on a steamship, which puffed up the river to Sacramento, where I chaffed until the trails into the high gold country were almost passable. Sister, your merchant brother shoveled through three-foot snowdrifts to deliver his goods to Goodyear's Bar.

I have never had such a glorious welcome. No provisions had reached the camp since October; the miners were famished and fell on your brother with hosannas.

They had gold but nothing to spend it on! Within an hour of my arrival, I sold everything except my revolvers and a mule.

I returned through the snowbanks, keeping a wary eye on my back trail. I had much to protect.

When I delivered this booty to Lucas and Turners bank vault, even the impassive Mr. Sherman, the managing partner, raised his eyebrows.

I've had no reply to my letters. I pray you are well and yearn to hear your news.

Now it is time for a warm bath and bed

Your Loving Brother, Rhett

September 17, 1850

St. Francis Hotel San Francisco, California

Dear Little Sister, Don't tell Father that I've become respectable. Butler General Merchandise has a second-floor office on Union Square and warehouses in Stockton and Sacramento.

Would you recognize your brother in his dark business suit, neat gaiters, and inoffensive foulard? I feel like an actor in a very strange play.

I do have a knack for it — making and getting money. Perhaps because I see money as a commodity with no religious significance.

I no longer play cards. Getting wagons to gold camps like Goodyear's Bar, Bogus Thunder, and Mugfuzzle (though no metropolis, Mugfuzzle exists) makes poker seem a puny gamble. Why should I sit, midnight after midnight, in a room rank with tobacco smoke just to separate drunken fools from their money? The argonauts are crazed with greed. No insurance company will insure their lives. Cholera kills them, drink kills them, and accidents kill them. Since there is no law in the camps, disputes are routinely settled with pickaxes, fists, or guns. If all else fails, often they kill themselves.

The argonauts are as ready to fight as our Low Country aristocrats, but their reasons are more transparent. There is no prattle about "honor" here.

We Californians say "back in America" to refer to our farmer home. Mr. Clay's clever compromise and Mr. Calhoun's death were hardly noticed here.

Men move faster out here, but are no wiser.

I have not received one letter from you and no longer expect one. You cannot be deceased — I would feel it if you were. I assume Father has forbidden you to write.

Things may improve, even at Broughton, and writing to you refreshes you in my mind and heart. I feel your love as I write and return it to you tenfold

Your faithful correspondent,

Rhett

June 19, 1851

St. Francis Hotel San Francisco, California

Dearest Rosemary, "The Sydney Ducks are cackling tonight." That's what this city's wits say when some honest man is robbed beaten, or shot. While San Francisco has always had rough elements, a recent immigration of freed Australian convicts has made it far more dangerous.

I am not worried for myself, my business, or my drivers. I have a (entirely undeserved) reputation for ferocity.

As Mr. Newton taught us, for every reaction, there's an equal and opposite reaction, and when I was invited to dine with three upstanding citizens, I suspected their motives.

The banker W T. Sherman is older than I, with the triangular face of a praying mantis, a short beard and phenomenally large eyes. Brown eyes are supposed to be soft and revealing of character. Shermans are as revealing as two lumps of coal. He is asthmatic, one of the palest men I've ever seen. Neither he nor anyone else anticipates a long life for him.

He is a practical man, one who does not flinch at necessity.

Collis Huntington is one of those men who believe their own rectitude gives them the right to make other men cower. He is a competitor of Butler General Merchandise and we've crossed swords a time or two.

Dr. Wright, the least of this triumvirate, is nervous, dressed like Beau Brummell, and claims to have invented the phrase "the Paris of the Pacific”

to describe this city. He has, so far as I can make out, no other accomplishments of which to boast.

We dined in a private dining room at the St. Francis, where, after the usual hemming and hawing, they proposed I join their nucleus of a vigilante society, which would, as Huntington elegantly put it, "hang every thief and miscreant on this shore of the Bay. “

Mr. Sherman said civic disorder threatened business interests. He spoke of the "necessity" of action.

I reminded Sherman that necessity is not always just or worthy.

Huntington and Wright were genuinely offended — they'd assumed I was their natural ally: a man who could kill with clean hands.

I told them neither yea nor nay.

Sister, I am not a reflective man, but that night I wondered who I had become. What distinguishes the merchant who hangs a thief to preserve his fortune from the planter who whips a negro to death for insolence? I determined I would not be that man. As I would not be hanged I would not be a hangman.

I have determined to try my fortunes elsewhere. Volunteers are combining to overthrow Cuba's Spanish overlords, and perhaps I'll lend them a hand If you can write, I will pick up my mail do General Delivery, New Orleans.

Your puzzled brother, Rhett

March 14, 1853

Hotel St. Louis

New Orleans

Dear Little Sister, Proper Charlestonians would be shocked by this city. It is so French.

New Orleans' citizens — all good Catholics — are preoccupied with food, drink, and love — though not necessarily in that order. In the old quarter, the Vieux Carr?, the fragrance of sin drifts through the orange and lemon blossoms. I can attend a ball every night: formal, informal, masked or the sort of affair I attend with a pistol in my pocket. I play cards at Mcgarth's, Perritts, or the Boston Club. I enjoy four racetracks, three theaters, and the French Opera House.

The city is the freebooters' home port. These young Americans have taken Manifest Destiny as a personal creed. Their destiny, manifestly, is to conquer and loot any Caribbean or South American nation too weak to defend itself. Most believe Cuba would make a first-class American state once we run off the Spanish.

I have invested in several freebooting expeditions — if demand increases profits, patriotism swells the trickle into a flood. Until now, I haven't been tempted to enlist myself.

New Orleans is a city of beautiful women and its Creole ladies are cultured cosmopolitan, and wise. They have taught me much about love — a pursuit which is second only to the longing for God.

Doubtless my Creole mistress, Didi Gayerre, loves me. She loves me to distraction. After six months together, she is eager to marry, bear my children, and share my uncertain fortunes. She is everything a man could want.

I do not want her.

My initial fascination has turned to boredom and a mild contempt for myself and Didi for pretending to believe what we know is not so.

Love, Dear Sister, can be terribly cruel.

I will not stay with her from pity. Pity is even crueler than love.

The less I love her, the more desperate Didi becomes, and only physical separation will cure our problem.

We were supping with Narciso Lopez, a Cuban General who is organizing an expedition. He already has three or four hundred volunteers — enough, he assured me, to defeat any Spanish army. Once we land Cuban patriots will swell our ranks. He told me with a wink that there is conquistador gold in the Spanish treasury. Havana, he added is a beautiful city.

Didi ignored his barrage of reasons. She was wearing a high-bodiced brocade gown and an astonishingly red hat. She ate nothing. She was pouting.

Our omelettes were perfectly prepared and our champagne chilled but Didi was grumpy and objected to everything the General said. No, the Cubans wouldn't rise up. The Spanish army was more formidable than a few hundred American adventurers.

Lopez, who is a pompous man, explained how conquering Cuba would make us rich. "It's the white mans duty, Butler, " he advised.

"I'd become rich?" I teased him.

"Our duty to transform a primitive, superstitious, authoritarian country into a modern democracy. “

That theory prompted a torrent of Didi's angry French, whose precise meaning Lopez may not have understood but he certainly got the gist.

He leaned forward and with a condescending smile said "Butler, are you one of those fellows whose wench tells him what to do?”

Didi stood so abruptly she knocked over the champagne bucket. She stabbed pins into her bright red hat. "Rhett?" she insisted "Please...”

"You must excuse us, General," I said.

Didi was rigid on my arm. The St. Louis's doorman summoned our cab.

A filthy woman beggar limped toward us, mumbling her feeble entreaty.

Lopez followed us onto the sidewalk, apologizing "Senor Butler, I did not intend to insult you, nor your lovely companion.

"Madre de Dios!" The beggar had come close enough to offend his nostrils. She was one of those desperate creatures that service Irish stevedores behind the levees. Her hand trembled with entreaty.

"Leave us!" The General raised his cane.

"Don't, General "As I went into my pocket for a dime, I recognized a familiar face beneath her grime. "Dear God, are you ... are you Belle Watting?”

It was she, Dear Sister, a woman I had never thought to see again, John Haynes had financed Belle's escape from the Low Country. I hadn't known she'd come to New Orleans.

Some weeks later Belle told me, "I always loved the sea. I thought things would be different here." Apparently, Belle fell in with a cardsharp who used her as collateral when the pasteboards failed him. Belle's son is in the Asylum for Orphan Boys.

I will try to improve her circumstances before General Lopez and I embark for Cuba.

Belle begs you not say anything to her father, Isaiah. She is as thoroughly disowned as I am.

All my love, Rhett

July 1853

Cuba

Beloved Sister Rosemary, The beach at Bahia Hondo is the most beautiful I have ever seen. Silver sand and cerulean sea seem as endless as eternity — a destination certain Spanish officers are hastening me toward The Spanish forces were not defeated The Cubans did not welcome us as liberators. Ah well Fleeing Didi's arms into a Spanish firing squad was not my cleverest maneuver.

I've set a gamble into motion and may yet escape my fate, but the odds are long and time is short.

A corporal promises to post this letter. As with the bottle the marooned sailor tosses into the sea, I pray it will find some reader.

How dear is soft, warm sand How tender the sandpipers wading in the shallows. Though their lives are only a few seasons, they are no less God's creatures than we.

Sister, if I leave you with one piece of advice, it is: Live your life. Let no other live it for you.

The Spaniards ordered us to dig our graves for the afternoon entertainment.

As American gentlemen, naturally we refused. Ha, ha. Let the peasants dirty their hands!

Rosemary, of all those I have known on this gracious earth, I regret only leaving you...

Think of me sometimes, Rhett

CHAPTER SIX A Negro Sale

Rosemary's head was spinning. "My father burned my brother's letters? My letters, too?”

"I sees Solomon in the fish market one day — your houseman Solomon — and we gets to talkin'. Ol' Solomon, he hates to hand over them letters to Master Langston, but he got to do what he been told.”

Rosemary felt sick. She asked the question that, as Langston's dutiful daughter, she had never dared. "Tunis, why does my father hate his son? Tunis Bonneau was a free colored — free to walk the streets without a pass; free to gather for worship services at the First African Baptist (provided one white man was present at the service); free to marry another free colored or a slave he bought out of servitude. He could not vote nor hold office, but he could keep his own money and own property. He could legally learn to read.

Because they were neither property nor white men, free coloreds made the Masters nervous.

Hence, Tunis Bonneau didn't see what he saw, didn't speak of what he knew, and pretended an ignorance so profound that it defied penetration.

When white men questioned him, Tunis would reply, "Mr. Haynes, he tells me to do it." Or "You have to ask Mr. Haynes 'bout that.”

Although she knew this perfectly well, Rosemary was too upset to think clearly, and she grasped Tunis's sleeve as if to shake the answers out of him. "Why does Langston hate Rhett?”

Tunis sighed and told Rosemary everything she had never before wanted to know.

While Tunis was informing Rosemary about Will, the trunk master, the hurricano, and that summer, long ago, when her brother became a full-task rice hand, her father, Langston Butler, was losing a horse race.

The Washington Racecourse was a four-mile flattened oval bordered by Charleston's oldest live oaks. Its white stucco clubhouse was reserved for Jockey Club members, but its clapboard grandstand and the great meadow were free to all. White and black, free and slave alike, witnessed Langston Butler's defeat.

Virginia and Tennessee horses came to Charleston for the fastest track and richest purses in the South. Horses, grooms, and trainers boarded in great wooden stables whose wide center aisles accommodated horse and negro sales.

The noon race had been a rematch between Langston Butler's Gero and Colonel Jack Ravanel's Chapultapec. The horses were evenly matched, betting was brisk, and the pair started to a roar from the stands. Although Chapultapec was behind at the far turn, he passed the tiring Gero in the straight and won by two lengths. In the winner's circle, Colonel Jack jigged with pleasure.

At the clubhouse rail, three young sports and Colonel Jack's spinster daughter relished the Colonel's extravagant self-satisfaction.

"Jackie, Jackie." Jamie Fisher chuckled. "Mustn't tweak the tiger's tail.

Juliet, your father makes a wonderfully smug bow.”

Edgar Puryear was an assiduous student of powerful men and noted Langston Butler's overseer conferring with his master. "Hmm, what might those two be up to?”

"Who gives a damn," Henry Kershaw growled. "Lend me a double eagle!”

Henry Kershaw was big as a prime young bear and had a similar temper.

"Henry, it was my double eagle you wagered on Gero. I haven't another.”

Edgar Puryear turned his pocket inside out. "So, Gentlemen — and Lady — how will Langston even the score?”

"Perhaps he'll welsh on his bets," Juliet Ravanel suggested.

"No, no, sweet Juliet," Jamie Fisher said. "You've confused one Charleston gentleman with another. Rosemary's father, Langston, is the bully; your father, Jack, is the welsher.”

Miss Ravanel sniffed. "Why I tolerate you, I do not know.”

"Because you are so easily bored," Jamie Fisher replied.

Although the acerbic spinster and the tiny youth were inseparable, no scandal touched them. Whatever the nature of their attachment, everyone understood that it was not romantic.

The next race was at two o'clock. Whites and coloreds promenaded the racecourse and meadow, while in the Jockey clubhouse, servants unpacked picnic hampers and popped corks.

On the racecourse, auctioneer's men were crying the negro sale: "John Huger's negroes. Rice hands, sawyers, cotton hands, mechanics, house niggers, and children! One hundred prime specimens!”

Edgar Puryear relieved an auctioneer's man of a sale catalog and ran his finger down the list. "Andrew means to bid on Lot sixty-one. 'Cassius, eighteen years. Musician.' “

"Cassius will fetch a thousand," Henry Kershaw said.

"Eleven hundred at least," Jamie Fisher corrected.

"A double eagle?" Henry wagered.

"You haven't a double eagle," Jamie Fisher replied.

Though he outweighed Jamie Fisher by eighty pounds and was used to getting his way, Henry Kershaw smiled. Whatever their inclination, given Fisher's wealth, even prime young bears smiled.

"Juliet, what does Andrew want with a banjo player?" Edgar Puryear asked.

"When Andrew is melancholy, music uplifts him.”

Henry Kershaw drank and offered Juliet his flask, which she refused, shuddering. Henry remarked, "You can't guess what horse I saw last week pulling a nigger's fish wagon.”

"Tecumseh?" Jamie Fisher said. "Didn't Rhett Butler leave his horse with the Bonneaus?”

"The best Morgan in the Low Country hauling fish," Henry Kershaw continued. "I offered two hundred, but the nigger said the horse wasn't his to sell.”

"Tecumseh is worth a thousand," Edgar Puryear said. "Why didn't you force the nigger to sell?”

Henry Kershaw grinned. "Maybe you'd try that trick, Edgar, but I'll be damned if I would. Rhett might return one day.”

"Where is Butler anyway?" Jamie asked.

"Nicaragua, Santa Domingue?" Henry Kershaw shrugged.

Edgar said, "I hear he's in New Orleans. Belle Watling, Rhett Butler, Rhett's bastard ... isn't that a brew?”

Juliet Ravanel raised her eyebrows. "Edgar, you hear the most fascinating gossip. Didn't the Watling girl go to kin in Kansas?”

"Missouri. And no, she didn't," Edgar replied. "The Missouri Watlings are death on abolitionists. Don't you read the papers?”

"Now Edgar," Juliet said coquettishly, "why should we frivolous ladies read the papers when we have our gentlemen to explain everything!”

Jamie Fisher coughed to hide his grin.

"I think," Miss Ravanel said, "it is far more interesting to ask what Langston's daughter will do with my dear brother. Rosemary is positively throwing herself at Andrew.”

"Some hussy is always throwing herself at Andrew. I don't know why he puts up with it." Jamie sniffed.

"For the same reason he tolerates you, dear Jamie." Juliet smiled sweetly.

"My brother needs his admirers.”

"How long will it take Andrew to catch Miss Rosemary?" Edgar mused.

"Before the end of Race Week." Juliet Ravanel wagered five dollars on it.

Shaded by live oaks across the racecourse, Grandmother Fisher, her granddaughter, Charlotte, and John Haynes were picnicking. Haynes & Son placed advertisements in Philadelphia and New York City papers: "CHARLESTON RACE WEEK: ROUND-TRIP PASSAGE, LODGING, MEALS — ALL INCLUDED!" John booked his tourists into the Mills Hotel on Queen Street, where Mr. Mills set Charleston's finest table.

One New York tourist made no secret of his abolitionist sympathies and offended Southerners who boarded the excursion schooner in Baltimore.

When the Abolitionist learned Mr. Mills was a free colored, he rejected his accommodations and demanded his money back. Since there were no other rooms to be had in Charleston during Race Week, he finally accepted his, but he still wanted a refund. "Yankee principles are wonderfully flexible,”

John Haynes said. "Charlotte, you aren't yourself this afternoon.

Where is our Charlotte's sunny smile?”

"Charlotte's mooning over Andrew Ravanel," Grandmother Fisher said, tapping the picnic hamper peremptorily. "Cook does the finest chicken in the Carolinas.”

"Grandmother! I am not mooning!”

"Of course you are, dear. Andrew Ravanel is gallant, daring, handsome, charming, and bankrupt. What young lady could ask for a better suitor?”

After praising Cook's chicken, John continued: "I hoped I'd see Rosemary this afternoon. I begged for a waltz last night, but her dance card was full.”

Despite the efforts of Charleston's cleverest dressmakers, Charlotte Fisher was not attractive. Her hair was mouse-colored, her complexion unfortunate, and her waist more resembled the bee's than the wasp's. Charlotte set her lip. "I'm not certain Rosemary and I are friends anymore.”

"Charlotte, don't be a goose. You and Rosemary have been friends since you were five years old," her grandmother objected.

John Haynes sighed. "Why must Charleston's most charming belles vie for the same gentleman? An ordinary fellow like myself doesn't stand a chance. Though I've no grudge against Andrew, if he stumbled and broke his aristocratic nose — a slight disfigurement, I'd wish him no worse — I'd not grieve.”

Grandmother Fisher said, "John, you do go on.”

Haynes smiled. "I suppose I do. I must ask you ladies: Don't you think I would make an excellent husband?... Thank you, Grandmother Fisher, I will try a drumstick.”

Spectators and buyers drifted toward the long barn that housed the negro sale. Inside, buyers mixed freely with the merchandise. The negro women wore modest cotton dresses and handkerchief turbans, the men linsey-woolsey jackets, their trousers belted with rope. At each wearer's whim, the men's slouch hats had been shaped into dashing or practical or disreputable configurations. The negro children wore cleaner, newer clothing than their parents.

Novice slave buyers had that nonchalant, knowing expression men assume when out of their depth.

Cassius, the musician Andrew Ravanel coveted, leaned against a stall door, arms crossed and banjo slung over his shoulder. He was a smoothfaced, fattish, very black young negro, with a complacent air some whites thought disrespectful.

"Let me hear you pluck that thing, boy.”

Cassius tapped his banjo respectfully, as if it had powers of its own.

"Can't do it, Master. No sir. Auctioneer say I'm zactly like a fancy wench: I can't give nothin' away for nothin'! Who buys me, buys my music...

Master," he said solemnly, "I can make a Presbyterian kick up his heels!”

Most negroes made themselves agreeable, seeking kindly buyers and those who might buy a family intact. "Yes, Master, I a full-task rice hand.

Been in them rice fields since I was a tad. Got most my teeth, yes sir. My nose broke account of a horse kick me. I ain't no hand with horses. My wife, she a laundress, and my son, he a quarter-task hand and he ain't got all his growth.”

Field hands were commanded to bend this way and that so any ruptures would be apparent. Some were asked to pace rapidly to and fro or prance in place as shrewd buyers evaluated their stamina and wind.

"How often you get to the dispensary, boy?”

"You say you bore three live children? Hips like yours?”

The auctioneer was florid, jolly, and on the best of terms with the buyers.

"Say, Mr. Cavanaugh, you needn't bid on this lot. Lot fifty-two's what you want: light-skinned wench, fourteen years old, Lot fifty-two. Don't I keep you in mind? Don't I now? "Mr. Johnston, if you don't bid more than seven hundred dollars for this prime buck, you ain't as shrewd as I make you to be! Seven, seven, I say seven. Won't you help me out, boys? Seven, going once, going twice. Sold for seven hundred dollars to Drayton Plantation!" The auctioneer took a quick sip of water.

"I remind you, gentlemen, of our terms. The successful bidder pays one half the winning bid in cash and signs surety for the balance to be remitted no later than thirty days, secured by a mortgage on the purchased negro.”

He smiled broadly. "Now, let's get on with the sale. Lot fifty-one: Joe's a prime boy, twelve or thirteen years. Step up on the platform, Joe, so folks can see you. Now, Joe ain't one of your spindle-shanked boys; he's already putting on frame, and in a year or so he'll be a full-task hand. A sharp fellow" — the auctioneer put his finger to his nose and winked — "could buy Joe cheap, feed him up, and by next planting he'd own a man, having paid a boy's price! Joe, turn 'round and pull off that shirt. Anyone see a mark on that back? Mr. Huger, he was a fine gentleman, but he weren't scared of the bullwhip, no sir. Joe never needed no whip because Joe's a respectful nigger, ain't you, Joe? Do I hear two hundred, two hundred dollars? Two, two, five, I have five. Do I hear five fifty, five fifty, five fifty? ... Sold to Mr. Owen Ball of Magnolia Plantation.”

Andrew Ravanel leaned indolently against an empty stall. His horseman's sinewy legs were cased in fawn-colored trousers, his frilled shirt was framed by the lapels of a short yellow jacket, his broad-brimmed hat was beaver felt, and his boots had the deep transparent gleam of frequent polishing. Andrew raised one indolent finger to Puryear and Kershaw as they came near. Andrew had a nighthawk's complexion, his pale skin so transparent, one could almost see his moods. There was tension under his fashionable languor, as if the fop were a coiled spring.

Edgar Puryear struck a match to light Andrew's cigar and nodded at the high yellow on the block. "Fine wench.”

Henry Kershaw craned to identify the bidder. "That's old Cavanaugh.

I wonder if Cavanaugh's wife knows she wants a housemaid.”

"Maid she may be ..." Andrew drawled. Henry Kershaw guffawed.

Edgar Puryear said, "Isn't that Butler's man? Isaiah Watling? There, behind the stanchion.”

Andrew Ravanel said, "One wonders how he could remain at Broughton after Rhett killed his son.”

"Man's cracker trash," Henry Kershaw snorted. "Overseer's jobs ain't as easy to find as sons. If Watling wants more sons, he can go to the quarters and make 'em.”

Andrew Ravanel said, "But Watling is said to be pious?”

"Supposed to be. Him and Elizabeth Butler pray together every time ol' Langston's out of town. Course, there's prayin' and prayin'.”

"Henry, you are a vulgar fellow," Andrew said without animosity. "Lot sixty-one. That's my Cassius.”

Kershaw scratched himself where a vulgar man scratches and said, "My flask's dry. I'm off to the clubhouse. Edgar?”

"I'll stay.”

Andrew opened the bidding for Cassius at four hundred dollars.

"I have four hundred... Six? Sir, are you sure? Yes, sir. I have six hundred for this fine young negro. Banjo throwed in with the man — one price takes both of 'em.”

"Why's Watling bidding?" Edgar Puryear asked. "Langston has no need of a banjo player.”

At eight hundred, everyone had dropped out except Isaiah Watling and Andrew Ravanel.

Isaiah Watling bid nine fifty.

When Andrew Ravanel bid one thousand dollars, Watling lifted his hand until he had everyone's attention. He climbed onto a tack box, head and shoulders above the crowd. "Mr. Ravanel, sir. I have my instructions from Master Langston Butler. I'm to ask how, if you win this nigger, you will pay for him. Where's the cash to be paid today? Where's your five hundred dollars?”

Andrew Ravanel stiffened as if struck. Surprise, outrage, and embarrassment chased across his face. When Andrew turned to Edgar Allan, his friend was gone. Those closest to Andrew pretended they weren't looking at him. Those farther away concealed grins.

"Good sirs, good sirs!" the auctioneer cried.

"You gave us the rules," Watling reminded the auctioneer. "I suppose you'll stick to 'em.”

Someone cried, "Yes, yes.”

Another: "Rules are rules.”

"Stick to the damn rules.”

Andrew shouted, "Watling, by God, I'll — “

"Mr. Ravanel, I ain't actin' for Isaiah Watling. I ain't my own man no more. I'm actin' for Master Langston Butler. It's Master Butler askin' Mr. Ravanel: 'Where's your five hundred?' “

"Are you saying, my word, the sworn word of Andrew Ravanel — “

"His word?" an anonymous voice.

"A Ravanel's word?" an anonymous guffaw.

"If Mr. Ravanel ain't got it, Mr. Auctioneer, my nine hundred fifty dollars buys the nigger. I'll pay cash in full.”

The news of Andrew Ravanel's humiliation (some called it his "comeuppance") flashed through the clubhouse. Jamie Fisher felt like someone had punched him under the heart.

When Jamie found his friend Andrew Ravanel was clutching the grandstand rail, white-knuckled.

"My friend Edgar saw it coming. Edgar Puryear can spot these plays a mile off. But when I turned to Edgar, Edgar wasn't there. I've seen Henry Kershaw lose a thousand on the turn of a card. But where was friend Henry?" Andrew's wounded eyes passed over the crowd, which was more indifferent to Andrew Ravanel than that young man imagined. "My little friend, Jamie Fisher. They tell me Jamie is the richest gent in the Carolinas.

Five hundred dollars is pocket change to young Fisher!”

"I'm sorry, Andrew. If I'd been there ...”

"Christ, Jamie. How can I bear it! In front of everyone — everyone!

Christ! You should have heard them laughing at me. Andrew Ravanel, Andrew'll bid when he can't pay! Oh my God, Jamie, I wish I were dead!”

"Should you challenge Watling, I will second — “

"Jamie, Jamie. I cannot challenge Watling." Andrew's voice was weak as a ragpicker's horse. "Isaiah Watling is no more a gentleman than his son was. If I challenge Watling, I confess Andrew Ravanel is no gentleman.”

"But Rhett fought Shad Watling.”

"I don't want to talk about Rhett Butler! Jamie. I have never wished to talk about Rhett Butler! Surely I have made myself clear!" When he tried to light a cigar, his hands shook and he flung the match down.

"Damn Langston Butler! I know that auctioneer; he would have taken my IOU.”

"It's only a banjo player, Andrew.”

" 'Only a banjo player'?" Andrew's tight laugh condescended to Jamie's naivety. "Is Langston Butler planning a musicale? Perhaps Langston Butler wants instruction in banjo picking? Do you think so, Jamie? I think Langston Butler has purchased an unusually expensive rice hand." Andrew continued as if explaining to a child. "Langston Butler revenged himself on Jack Ravanel by humiliating his son. All Charleston has the measure of Andrew Ravanel now. Andrew Ravanel is a sham!”

Jamie Fisher's throat constricted. "Andrew, I ... I don't know...

Andrew. You are so fine and rare. I'd — “

Andrew cut him off with a gesture.

Negroes with Jockey Club armbands were clearing people off the track.

"Andrew?”

"For God's sake, Jamie. Won't you be silent!”

As the track emptied, a horsewoman trotted through the officials, ignoring their gestures to leave the track.

Andrew froze: a hawk who sees its future. He breathed, "Why, there's Rosemary.”

"Looking for you, surely." Relief at the distraction lifted Jamie's voice an octave. "Andrew, I must tell you about Juliet's amusing wager...”

"Oh dear, Jamie. Something's wrong. Rosemary's upset. Look how she saws the bit, asks her horse to trot, then curbs it.”

Jockey Club functionaries cried, "Miss!" and "The race, miss!" but jumped out of her way. Rosemary searched faces along the rail, her yellow silk scarf streaming behind her, a defiant banner.

"My," Andrew Ravanel said thoughtfully, "Rosemary is angry, isn't she?”

Rosemary's horse reared when she jerked its reins. "Goddamn you, horse, settle! Andrew! Where is my father? Have you seen my father?”

Andrew Ravanel fell into a deep, cool stillness. Time had slowed to this simple moment. "Beautiful Rosemary," Andrew said almost wistfully, "your esteemed parent has left the racecourse.”

A Jockey Club steward, a white man with a his green sash of office, hurried toward them. "Madam! Madam!”

"Damn you, horse! Damn you! Will you stand still!" Rosemary used her quirt. "I must find my father." Rosemary's face twisted. "I have news.

This day I have learned why my father is truly damned.”

With an imperious gesture, Andrew Ravanel stopped the steward in his tracks, stepped onto the track, caught Rosemary's bridle, and brought her agitated horse to a standstill.

One steward, one horsewoman, one gentleman holding her horse — otherwise, the racecourse was empty.

The rage at the core of their tableau drew every eye.

On the clubhouse veranda, a Yankee visitor turned to his Charleston host, "What the devil?”

His host replied, "You're in Charleston now, Sam. Enjoy the fireworks.”

If Rosemary hadn't been adrift in helpless, inarticulate fury, she would have been alerted by Andrew's too-sweet tone. "Stay a moment, dear Rosemary.

We'll sort things out. Here, let me help." Andrew formed a stirrup with his hands.

Hastily, Rosemary dismounted. "Must I still call Langston Butler 'father,' Andrew? He has lied to me. He has destroyed my brother. He ...”

"Langston Butler has so much to answer for.”

Andrew Ravanel took Rosemary into his arms and, in the full view of all Charleston, kissed her fiercely and lingeringly on the lips.

CHAPTER SEVEN Matrimony Is an Honorable Estate ...

"I believe Rosemary rather enjoyed it," Andrew Ravanel said carelessly.

Andrew, his father, Jack, and Langston Butler stood in the foyer of Colonel Jack's King Street town house. The room had been hard used — the broad plank floor scarred by spurs, the benches scuffed from serving as bootjacks.

Butler had neither removed his hat nor relinquished his cane to the stand. He gripped that cane as if it might become a weapon. "My daughter's romantic impulses are not at issue.”

Langston Butler emptied a pouch onto the hall table. His disdainful index finger stirred the due bills, notes, and promises to pay. "Twenty cents on the dollar is the fair market value of Ravanel honor.”

"Perhaps, sir, you intend my son to be affianced to your daughter?”

Colonel Jack hoped.

"A Ravanel for a son-in-law?" Red spots blossomed on Langston Butler's pale cheeks. "A Ravanel for my son-in-law?”

Andrew Ravanel took a step forward, but his father caught his arm.

"I have come to advise I have purchased your notes and mortgages and they are of this date due and payable. This house and your remaining properties will be sold to satisfy your debts. Henceforth, Chapultapec will race under Butler colors.”

"Now Langston." Colonel Jack chuckled. "You didn't come to our humble home to possess it. Butlers grabbed Jack's good lands already, and an agriculturalist like yourself doesn't covet the poor ground I still hold.

I know you, Langston. I've known you since you were a grasping, flinthearted, arrogant boy. You've a proposition for Old Jack, some little arrangement to quell gossip and, may I suggest, improve the Ravanel fortunes to a modest degree? Have I the right of it, sir?”

Langston smiled a singularly unpleasant smile. "Your wife, Frances, was widely admired, Jack. There was no more gracious gentlewoman in the Low Country.”

Jack Ravanel went white. "You will not speak of my wife, Langston.

You will not sully her precious name.”

Langston tapped the heaped notes. "Do I have your undivided attention? Tonight at the Jockey Club Ball, I shall announce my daughter's engagement to Mr. John Haynes. After my announcement, your son will make a public apology for any misunderstanding caused by his unseemly behavior at the racetrack this afternoon." Langston turned a cold eye on Andrew. "Perhaps you were inebriated, sir. Perhaps you were so overcome with joy on learning of my daughter's betrothal you forgot yourself.”

Langston shrugged. "I leave the details to you. If you cannot tell a plausible lie, I daresay your father can coach you. After I accept your apology, you will announce your engagement to Miss Charlotte Fisher.”

"Sir, I would not marry that girl if every blemish on her face were worth ten thousand dollars.”

"As you wish." Langston Butler waited silently while the Ravanels, father and son, uttered all the hot, helpless words they had to utter before accepting the inevitable.

In the face of her granddaughter's joy, Constance Fisher reluctantly acceded to her engagement to Andrew Ravanel.

To escape her father's house, Rosemary agreed to marry John Haynes; what Tunis had told her made living there intolerable. When she said as much, Langston replied, "I do not ask why you obey, merely that you do.”

When the betrothed couple met privately in Langston Butler's drawing room, John Haynes said, "Rosemary, this is more than I ever had dared to hope." He knelt before her. "Although I fear your answer, dearest, I must know. Is our marriage your decision?”

Rosemary hesitated before saying, "John, I shall try.”

Stolid, respectable John Haynes became a happy, grinning boy. "Well then. Dear me. Well then. Nothing fairer. Dearest Rosemary. My dearest Rosemary...”

Charlotte and Andrew were married in April, and Charlotte was, if not a beautiful bride, a radiant one. Charleston matrons clicked their tongues and hoped marriage would steady Andrew Ravanel.

Langston Butler gave a certain negro banjo player to Mr. and Mrs. Ravanel.

Even Isaiah Watling hadn't been able to turn Cassius into a rice hand.

Two weeks later, when Rosemary and John Haynes stood before St.

Michael's altar, John glowed with happiness. Rosemary was wan, and uttered her vows so quietly, few behind the front pews heard them.

As the couple emerged from the church, Tunis Bonneau waited at the curb, holding a roan horse by its bridle.

"My God," Rosemary said. "Tecumseh!”

"Your brother Rhett gives him to you and Mr. Haynes, Miss Rosemary,”

Tunis said. "He writes that he is wishin' you happiness on your wedding day.”

Langston Butler turned to his new son-in-law. "Sir, I will take that animal and dispose of it.”

John Haynes squeezed his bride's hand. "Thank you sir, but no. The horse is a gift from my friend and Mrs. Haynes's brother which she, and I, accept with pleasure.”

CHAPTER EIGHT A Patriotic Ball

Few Charlestonians believed Andrew Ravanel's racecourse kiss had been as innocent as that gentleman afterward claimed, but the compromised parties were safely married. On the strength of Andrew's new Fisher connections, Langston Butler quiedy unloaded Colonel Jack's notes at fifty cents on the dollar.

Mr. and Mrs. John Haynes were seen about Charleston in a handsome blue sulky with Tecumseh in the shafts. John Haynes had paid three hundred for the rig — on his bride's whim, it was reported.

Some said Rhett Butler had been seen in New York. An English ship captain told John Haynes his brother-in-law was speculating on the London bourse. Tunis Bonneau, who was now Haynes & Son's chief pilot, said Rhett was in New Orleans.

Although the Hayneses showed proper deference to Rosemary's parents and exchanged pleasantries after Sunday services, the younger couple retained their separate pew and Rosemary visited her mother only when her father was out of town. Mr. and Mrs. Haynes resided quietly at 46 Church Street and in due course were blessed with a daughter they christened Margaret Ann.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Ravanel took up housekeeping in the Fishers' East Bay establishment. Charleston's moneylenders were dismayed to learn Constance Fisher would not be responsible for Ravanel debts.

Andrew Ravanel's new manservant, Cassius, accompanied Andrew everywhere, waiting outside gambling hells or saloons until all hours. Often, Cassius led his master's horse home at daybreak, with Andrew nodding in the saddle. When Andrew, Jamie Fisher, Henry Kershaw, and Edgar Allan Puryear went hunting, Cassius cooked their simple meals, blacked their boots, and picked lively tunes. Henry Kershaw insisted that Cassius's sojourn in Langston Butler's rice fields had improved the negro's picking.

Cassius's music had become more, Henry vowed, "heartfelt.”

After Grandmother Fisher deplored Andrew's habits once too often, Mr. and Mrs. Ravanel quit Charlotte's childhood home for Colonel Jack's shabby town house, where the couple abided with that gentleman and his daughter, Juliet.

In happier times, these matters might have excited greater curiosity, but these were not happy times. "Secession" — for thirty years the firebrands' whisper — had become a full-throated shout.

On October 16, 1859, John Brown murdered the peace. John Brown discredited peacemakers, sundered families into Unionists and Secessionists, and divided Presbyterians, Episcopalians, and Baptists into Northern and Southern congregations. With a handful of men, vague plans, and a willingness to murder for principle, John Brown descended on Harpers Ferry, Virginia, intending to spark a slave insurrection. Brown brought a thousand sharp steel pikes for the slaves to use on their masters.

Low Country planters had a blood fear of insurrections. French refugees from the Santa Domingue insurrection (Eulalie Ward's parents, the Robillards, among them) had arrived with dreadful stories of innocents murdered in their beds, ravished women, infants' brains dashed out against doorsills. Nat Turner's and Denmark Vesey's slave insurrections had failed, but John Brown was a white man backed and financed by white men. Some Yankees claimed the murderer was a saint.

After Brown's raid, moderates were discredited, firebrands like Langston Butler controlled the legislature, and ordinarily prudent men hung on their every word. Cathecarte Puryear was voted out of the St. Cecilia Society.

Although John Brown was captured, tried, and hanged, Low Country militias were forming before his body cooled: the Palmetto Brigade, the Charleston Rifles, the Charleston Light Horse, Hampton's Legion. British ships delivered rifles, cannons, and military uniforms to Charleston's wharves. Young men swore off drinking, and gambling hells fell on hard times. Cassius mastered new patriotic tunes as they were written.

The year between Brown's raid and Abraham Lincoln's election was rife with omens. Seven pilot whales stranded themselves on the sands of Sullivan's Island. Geese flew south two months earlier than usual. The rice crop was the most bountiful in living memory. Negro conjure men muttered and prophesied Armageddon. Jamie Fisher told his sister, Charlotte, he felt like a bird hypnotized by a snake.

Andrew Ravanel was elected captain of the Charleston Light Horse.

When a subscription was begun to provide uniforms for the elite militia company, differences were set aside and Langston Butler made a generous contribution.

One Saturday morning in early November, Colonel Jack Ravanel was found dead on the breakwater behind Adger's Wharf. Although Tunis Bonneau's father-in-law, the Reverend William Prescott, mentioned the old sinner's demise in his Sunday sermon, Old Jack's passing went otherwise unremarked. Charleston's attention was fixed on the presidential election to be held the following Tuesday.

Of the four presidential candidates that year, only one was thought to be an outright abolitionist, and though that man received almost three million fewer votes than his rivals and not a single vote in ten Southern states, that man was elected President. Many white Southerners believed the only distinction between President Abraham Lincoln and John Brown was that John Brown was dead.

Just six weeks after Lincoln's election, the Convention of the People of South Carolina met to briefly debate, then unanimously adopt an Ordinance of Secession. Church bells pealed, militiamen marched, and bonfires roared in the streets.

The new militias drilled on the Washington Racecourse. The Charleston Light Horse wore gray pantaloons, high cordovan boots, and a short green jacket crisscrossed with gold braid. Enlisted men had gray kepis; officers wore a black planter's hat embellished with an egret's plume.

Edgar Puryear and Henry Kershaw were elected lieutenants and Jamie Fisher was enrolled as Chief of Scouts.

Charleston's ladies turned out to admire the Light Horse's agreeably frightening drills: left hand on the reins, right on the saber, each bold rider drawing his blade in a flashing silver arc before crashing through the ranks of straw dummies. The dummies carried broomstick rifles and were dressed in Federal blue.

The ladies admired these young men who had spurned the dishonored red, white, and blue for the brave new palmetto banner.

Rosemary Haynes cheered until she was hoarse.

Andrew Ravanel was transformed. The melancholic roisterer became cheerful; the man who'd been oblivious of other's sensitivities became solicitous.

As a servant of the new republic, Andrew Ravanel became a king.

Like thieves in the night, Charleston's Federal garrison withdrew itself into Fort Sumter, the powerful island fortress in the heart of Charleston harbor. Indignant Charlestonians protested this seizure of Carolina property and Mr. Lincoln was informed that any attempt to relieve or supply Fort Sumter would be severely rebuked.

When she came home to her own doorstep after a morning applauding cavalry drills, Rosemary's heart sank. She took a deep breath and comforted herself: Meg is waiting for me. Those mornings the Light Horse didn't drill, Rosemary woke with a headache and stayed in bed until noon.

Rosemary Butler Haynes knew she mustn't give in to disaffection. John Haynes was a good man. Had John Haynes ever claimed to be a horseman? On the contrary, he joked about his poor seat. If John Haynes's fingers were ink-stained, John was in trade: how could they not be stained? Yet some mornings after her husband left for work, sitting alone, the memory of Andrew Ravanel's kiss overwhelmed her. A chasm had opened between her and Charlotte. When her old friend called at 46 Church Street, "Miss Rosemary, she ain't at home"; "Miss Rosemary, she indisposed.'' How could Rosemary chat with the old friend who shared Andrew's home, his life, his bright hopes, his bed? Rosemary tried very hard to banish regrets for what her life might have been.

Rosemary's husband brought small gifts; a silver bud vase, a rose-gold filigree brooch. Was it John's fault the vase was too fussy and the brooch didn't match anything Rosemary wore? John never talked politics and never watched the Light Horse drills. He even defended Charleston's few remaining Unionists: "Can't we differ without impugning honest men?" Every morning excepting the Sabbath, John walked from Church Street to his office on the Haynes & Son wharf.

All day, he negotiated with ship captains, shippers, consignors, and insurers.

One spring evening, Rosemary happened to be at the front windows as her husband hurried up the steps of his home, a glad smile flickering on his lips. Thereafter, she avoided the front windows when John was due. Rosemary stayed in her room while John played with Meg for an hour before supper.

After supper, they heard Meg say her simple prayers and put her to bed.

Then John Haynes read aloud to Rosemary from Bulwer-Lytton or some other improving novelist. "Of course, my dear, if you'd prefer something lighter? One of Mr. Scott's works?”

John concluded every evening with prayers for Charleston and the South. He prayed its leaders would be wise. He prayed for the health and happiness of friends and kinfolk, one at a time, naming each. At the top of the stairs, as they turned to their separate bedrooms, John Haynes sometimes inquired hopefully how his wife was feeling.

"No dear," Rosemary would murmur. "Not tonight.”

Sometimes, Rosemary felt so guilty that she'd say too brightly, "Oh, I feel fine, John." Her husband would spend the night with her and depart the house next morning whistling. Rosemary desperately wished John wouldn't whistle. Whistling gave her a headache.

Their little daughter was Rosemary and John's shared joy.

The father said, "When I drove little Meg to White Point Park, she stood up in her yellow shawl and saluted the soldiers. When a cavalryman drew his saber to return her little salute, the blade's scrape against its scabbard frightened Meg and our poor darling burst into tears.”

The mother said, "Did you see what our scamp did with her blue shoes? She never liked them, so she told Cleo to give them to some poorer child. 'I gots too many shoes.' “

Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas followed South Carolina out of the Union.

Although that January was exceptionally cold — there'd been snow in the Piedmont — Charlestonians ignored the discomfort to attend the first Race Week ever held in an independent South Carolina.

John Haynes had canceled his New York and Philadelphia excursion boats but filled vacancies with Richmond and Baltimore tourists.

Judges of horseflesh said Langston Butler's Gero's matchup with John Carney's Albine was the most thrilling race in a hundred years; it was rumored Butler had turned down $25,000 for Gero.

Hibernian Hall had been decorated in patriotic motifs for the St. Cecilia Society ball. The gay banners of Charleston's militia companies adorned the walls and a ferocious (if somewhat cockeyed) eagle had been painted upon the dance floor.

As a ball manager, John Haynes wore a white boutonniere.

The society's orchestra was composed of house servants spared from their usual duties. It was a standing Charleston joke that Horace, the orchestra master, could not read a note of the music he arranged so fussily before him. Nevertheless, his versatile orchestra performed stately French quadrilles as well as the exuberant reels the young people preferred — reels driven by Cassius's flashing banjo.

This evening on the brink of war, Charleston's belles had never been more beautiful. These young virgins were every grace and prayer for which brave men have ever fought and died. No one in the ballroom that night ever forgot their heartbreaking beauty.

Their squires were solemn and proud under the grave responsibilities thrust upon them. Not far beneath their visible bravado was each young man's desperate hope that he might prove worthy when the test came.

War fever pushed gaiety toward hysteria. Would the Federals abandon Fort Sumter, or must it be shelled into submission? Would Virginia and North Carolina secede? Langston Butler and Wade Hampton were in Montgomery, Alabama, to help choose a provisional president for the new Confederate States of America. Toombs, Yancey, Davis — who would be the man of the hour? Why, Jamie," Rosemary said, "why aren't you in uniform?”

"I look like a jumped-up monkey in my uniform," the slender youth admitted.

Rosemary's face was flushed with excitement. "Will we go to war, Jamie? It's awful of me, but I hope we will.”

"Andrew is bloodthirsty, too." Jamie shuddered. "Look at him. Wearing spurs at the St. Cecilia Ball! Dear me.”

Andrew Ravanel smiled at her.

Rosemary wouldn't meet his eye. "And you, Jamie? How is it with you?”

Jamie Fisher shrugged. "I am not warlike. Oh, I'll fight if I must, but war will be so darned uncomfortable." His ironic smile dropped from his lips. "What will war do to our horses? What do horses care about politics?”

Juliet Ravanel tapped Jamie's elbow with her fan. Miss Ravanel was much in demand as a regimental flag embroiderer, and her new prominence had mellowed her. Her taffeta ball gown was perfectly cut and sewed but, alas, purple was just not Juliet's color. "Mrs. Haynes." She mockcurtsied.

"Isn't this a gala? Is your card filled?”

"What dances John didn't take, elderly Haynes cousins have. Balding men with wooden teeth and execrable breath are eager to squire their captivating kinswoman.”

Miss Ravanel examined her card, "Jamie, I have two waltzes and the promenade open.”

"Do you promise not to lead?”

Juliet's smile could have frozen salt water.

Provided his partner was careful of her toes during intricate figures, John Haynes could manage a quadrille. Rosemary smiled fixedly during the deux temps. "Sorry, dear," her husband whispered. "Mercy. What a clodhopper I am." John's hand on her back was flat as a meat platter, and his hand at her waist was thick and possessive. Bowing afterward, John said earnestly, "Rosemary, you are the most beautiful woman in the hall. I am the happiest husband in South Carolina.”

Rosemary fought the urge to reclaim her hand. "Only South Carolina?”

she managed to say.

"In the world. On every blessed continent of the blessed world." His plump, warm lips kissed her hand.

Another deux temps, a promenade. As they were forming for the quadrille, there was a stir at the door and a manager hurried up to them. John bent his head to the man's whisper.

John Haynes turned to his wife. "Dearest, I must go to the wharf.

Someone has landed munitions that may have been intended for the Yankees.

Give others my dances. Please don't let me spoil your evening.”

Rosemary promised.

Ten minutes after John Haynes left, Andrew Ravanel was at Rosemary's side. He smelled strongly of bay rum and slightly of perspiration.

His bow was lavish. "Rosemary ...”

"Captain Ravanel, are we speaking?”

Andrew's smile was wistful. "You have every right to be angry. I am the worst scoundrel in the Low Country.”

"The last time we were on familiar terms, sir, you compromised me. I believe I owe you my matrimonial status.”

"Are you the worse off? Surely John Haynes is an ... adequate husband.”

Rosemary narrowed her eyes. "Take care, sir.”

Andrew's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "If I have given fresh offense ...”

"I haven't forgiven you for your earlier offense," Rosemary said.

"I haven't forgiven myself! I lie awake wondering if my mad kiss was worth the reckoning. But Rosemary, wasn't that a transporting moment? God! I will never forget how ... Rosemary, I despise irony. Don't you hate it, too? How ironic that my declaration of love should drive us apart — each into another's arms.”

"Declaration of love? Captain, am I an idiot? Do you think I might mistake what you did for a declaration of love?”

Andrew put a hand over his heart. "When I am mortally wounded, on some distant battlefield, my last thoughts will be of that kiss. Would you let me go to war without a waltz?”

"In that extremis, sir, one's last thoughts are of one's beloved. As you pass to your eternal reward, it will be Charlotte's face you will recall, not mine. Unless, of course, a more recent conquest pushes Charlotte aside.”

Andrew flushed, then laughed so infectiously nearby couples smiled.

Andrew laid his hand upon his heart. "Rosemary, I cannot promise fidelity, but I guarantee your exclusive possession of my last thoughts.”

"There won't be a war anyway.”

"Dear Rosemary, of course there'll be a war. Our uniforms are pressed, swords honed, and pistols primed. Rosemary, the orchestra is tuning. I haven't forgotten what a marvelous dancer you are.”

Dancing with Andrew Ravanel was a dangerous, brilliant conversation.

Andrew anticipated her nuances and enhanced them; his rhythms reflected Rosemary's and commented upon them.

The music — one of Mr. Strauss's waltzes in three-quarter time — ended too soon. As other dancers were honoring their partners, Rosemary fluttered her fan.

"Another?”

Andrew Ravanel danced all John Haynes's dances. During the first intermission, Grandmother Fisher took Rosemary aside. "Charlotte has left in tears! Rosemary, think what you are doing!”

But Rosemary couldn't think about it. She had denied herself too long.

At midnight, after the quadrille, couples promenaded into the dining room for the cold collation. Men stepped out onto the piazza to smoke and the scent of tobacco wafted into the too-hot high-ceilinged dining room.

Men and women Rosemary had known all her life wouldn't meet her eye.

She might have been invisible.

"As well be hung for a sheep ..." Andrew murmured in her ear, and then called, "Henry Kershaw, you rogue. Will you take supper with us?”

Us? Us? Rosemary hadn't thought to become an us. "No," she blurted, jerking her arm from Andrew Ravanel's.

Gentlemen moved aside when Rosemary fled onto the piazza. Across the street, in the circle of gaslight outside Garrity's saloon, drunken militiamen were singing.

Damn, damn, damn!

Constance Fisher joined her, pulling her shawl close. "Child, where is your cloak?”

Rosemary shook her head.

"I must say, my dear ...”

Tears flooded Rosemary's cheeks, "Oh, Grandmother Fisher, I am a fool, such a fool. Whatever have I done?”

The old woman relaxed slightly. "Child, you have been extremely unwise.”

"What must John think? What will Charlotte?”

"Were she I..." The older woman warned.

"Oh, Grandmother Fisher! What shall I do?" Rosemary grasped the balustrade to steady herself.

Grandmother Fisher gripped her shoulders. "You will do what Charleston ladies do. Presented with mulatto children who resemble their husbands like peas in a pod; awakened by their husbands' drunken footfalls approaching their bed you will do what Charleston ladies have always done: you will fix a smile on your face and pretend that God's in His heavens and nothing — absolutely nothing — is wrong in His world.”

For the rest of that evening, Rosemary sat with Constance Fisher.

When Andrew Ravanel sought to approach, his wife's grandmother's glare repelled him.

Andrew whirled by with the youngest, loveliest maiden at the ball. The girl never took her adoring eyes off the chevalier.

He is a magnet, Rosemary thought. What does a magnet think of consequences? Very late in the evening, there was a flurry at the doorway. John Haynes bustled toward his wife, beaming with pleasure. He shrugged off Juliet Ravanel's importuning hand with, "Another time, Juliet, please.”

The dark-haired gentleman who'd followed John Haynes into Hibernian Hall gave his cloak to a footman. Horace, the orchestra leader, lost the beat, and the musicians faltered. Gradually, dancers stopped, turned, stared.

Rosemary gasped.

A red carnation adorned Rhett Butler's wide velvet lapels. His shirtfront was resplendent with ruffles; his studs were gold nuggets the size of peas.

He held a wide-brimmed planter's hat at his side. Her brother's hands were so much bigger than Rosemary remembered.

"Evening, Cap'n Butler," Horace said. "We ain't seen you in such a spell.”

"Evening, Horace. And you — you must be Cassius, the banjo man? You're known, son. They've heard about your picking as far away as New Orleans.”

Cassius struck three high lonesome chords. "Sir, thank you, sir. I reckon everybody's heard of Cap'n Butler.”

Rhett raised his hands. "Please don't stop the dancing on my account.

Don't let me interrupt your festivities. There's far much too much to celebrate.

Who would have predicted brave Charleston would goad the sleeping Federal giant?" When Rhett Butler bowed, his black hair gleamed.

"Edgar Puryear. So you're an officer now. Is that Henry Kershaw? My God, it's Lieutenant Henry Kershaw? And my old friend Andrew ...”

Andrew Ravanel was speechless, transfixed.

The laugh lines at the corners of Rosemary's brother's eyes were familiar and dear. How could she have forgotten how graceful he was? Rosemary walked to him as if in a dream.

Rhett's eyes stopped laughing.

Cassius struck the first gentle notes of Stephen Foster's "Slumber My Darling" and paused.

"Little Rosemary, my beloved sister." Her brother's eyes were moist as he took her hands. "May I have the honor of this dance?”

CHAPTER NINE A Barbecue at a Georgia Plantation

Rhett Butler hadn't felt so helpless since that night twelve years ago, when he drank whiskey on Colonel Jack's porch and found nothing worth living for.

Fort Sumter fired upon! What did the fools think they were playing at!

Rhett said, "I'll take delivery at the railhead, Mr. Kennedy, my Atlanta bank will honor the draft.”

Frank Kennedy stroked his skimpy gingerish beard and turned Rhett's check over, as if there might be more information on the blank side. "Yes, of course," he said. "Of course ...”

"If you are worried ...”

"Oh no, Mr. Butler. No sir." Frank Kennedy shook his head too vigorously.

The two men stood in the main room of Kennedy's Jonesboro store.

Hay cradles, smoked hams, and pitchforks hung from the rafters. Aisles were crammed with dry goods and farm supplies. The store stank of liniment, molasses, and pine tar.

The respectable citizens of Charleston, Langston Butler among them, had ignited a war! The smug, virtuous, hymn-singing, damnable fools!

A negro clerk was cautiously ladling turpentine into an earthenware crock, another swept the floor. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, Kennedy was a man of consequence who owned fifty slaves, a second store in Atlanta, and thousands of acres in prime Georgia cotton.

Rhett had bought Kennedy's stored crop and stood to make a fortune.

He should have felt good about that.

He felt like hell.

"Your business reputation is excellent." Kennedy blinked and backtracked.

"I mean ...”

Rhett was expressionless. "Some say I'm a renegade.”

Kennedy ran a hand through his hair. "No offense, sir. I meant no offense.”

He folded Rhett's check and inserted it into his wallet. Having pocketed the wallet, he patted his pocket.

Rhett Butler didn't voice his opinion that renegades might rob you or call you out but they wouldn't fuss you to death.

A thought struck the embarrassed merchant. "Say, Butler." Unconsciously, Kennedy patted his pocket again. "Have you anything on this afternoon? Wouldn't you like a day in the country? John Wilkes's son is getting engaged and John is hosting a barbecue. Everyone's invited. Twelve Oaks' hospitality ... why, I can't praise it too much." His face went blank as he sought an encomium. "Twelve Oaks' hospitality is famous!" He pointed more or less northward. "All the way to Atlanta. Please join me. I'll bring you back in time for your train.”

Since Rhett's train wouldn't leave until ten that evening and, in his dismal state of mind, an afternoon in the Jonesboro Hotel would be an eternity, Rhett Kershaw Butler accepted Frank Kennedy's invitation.

More often than we care to admit, inconsequential decisions change our lives.

Kennedy's buggy rolled past thickets of tender glowing redbuds. Spice bushes perfumed the air. Dogwoods shimmered like ghosts in the woods beside the road.

This display, north Georgia at its most beautiful, plucked at Rhett's heart. He'd wintered in Manhattan, where war talk dominated every dining room and gentleman's club. Rhett had heard Abraham Lincoln speak at Cooper Union and thought the gangling, long-faced westerner would make a formidable enemy. A hundred thousand Yankees were forming into regiments.

He'd traveled to New Haven, where a gun maker told the affable Mr. Butler he couldn't find the machinery he needed. "I have more contracts than I can fill," the man complained. "Butler, can you help me buy barrel lathes?”

One Sunday afternoon, Rhett toured the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where a hundred warships were being fitted. Hammering and forging and coppering hulls and painters on scaffolds and hundreds of women sewing in the sail lofts. On a Sunday.

As the South prepared to fight Goliath with gallantry.

Damn the fools!

Rhett Butler loved the Southland's gentle courtesies and hospitality, the fiery tempers just beneath languid drawls. But if a fact was disagreeable, Southerners disbelieved that fact. For how could fact outfight gallantry? Frank Kennedy misinterpreted Rhett's silence as a stranger's unease crashing a party whose host he'd never met. Frank provided reassurances.

Their host, John Wilkes, was "a Georgia gentleman of the old school" and Wilkes's son, Ashley, although younger, of course, was of the old school, too. Ashley's bride-to-be was "a little slip of a thing," but Melanie Hamilton was, Frank assured Rhett, "a Spark.”

Getting no response from his guest, Frank went on to name the young bloods who'd be there: the Tarletons, the Calverts, the Munroes, and the Fontaines. "When Tony Fontaine shot Brent Tarleton in the leg — both of them were drunk as lords! — they made a joke of it! A joke!" He shook his head: deploring men he half wished to be. Rhett Butler wasn't too sentimental to profit from Southern blunders.

The South grew two-thirds of the world's cotton and Rhett knew Lincoln's navy would blockade the Southern ports. After the ports were closed, cotton prices would skyrocket. Rhett's cotton would be safe in the Bahamas before Federal blockaders came on station.

The money was nothing: ashes in his mouth. Rhett felt like a grown-up watching children playing games. They yelled, they gestured, they pretended to be Indians or Redcoats or Yankee soldiers. They strutted and played at war. It made Rhett Butler want to weep. He was helpless to prevent it. Utterly helpless.

His guest's silence made Frank Kennedy uncomfortable. He babbled, "John Wilkes is no rustic, Mr. Butler. No indeed. The Wilkeses' library has so many books; why, I expect John has hundreds of books! John Wilkes has read everything a gentleman should read and his son, Ashley, takes after John. As they say, 'The apple never falls far from the tree.' You'll meet Gerald O'Hara, too. Fine fellow! Gerald's from Savannah. Not originally, of course, originally, Gerald's from Ireland. Not that I have anything against the Irish. I'm keeping company with his daughter Suellen, so I couldn't have anything against the Irish, ha, ha.”

When he looked for Rhett's reply, Rhett's eyes were remote. "At any rate," Frank filled the silence, "Gerald bought Tara Plantation and that's how Gerald came to Clayton County." Frank gave his horse a stern look.

"Suellen is a peach." Frank slapped his knee. "A Georgia peach.”

They continued in silence.

Rhett was picturing Charleston, where men who'd been Rhett's schoolmates were manning guns hammering Fort Sumter while their elders made speeches each more belligerent than the last.

Might Rhett persuade Rosemary and John to leave? "Just until this shakes out, John. California has opportunities for a man like you. Or London, John. Wouldn't your Meg love to visit London? And Rosemary ...”

Andrew Ravanel and Rosemary had created a scandal at that patriotic ball. John and Rosemary weren't speaking.

"My Suellen can be 'sharpish,' " Frank Kennedy was saying. "But she soon repents. You're a man of the world, Butler. You know what I mean.”

Rhett held his sharpish tongue.

They forded the Flint River and trotted briskly up a rise. The flatroofed, many-chimneyed plantation house was smaller than Broughton but grand enough for all that. Broad Corinthian columns supported a roof that shaded broad verandas on three sides of the house.

"You'll see for yourself," Frank Kennedy insisted. "Twelve Oaks' hospitality — why, it's legendary!”

There was a bustle at the turnaround, where riders dismounted and carriages disgorged their occupants. Negro grooms removed horses and rigs while guests exchanged enthusiastic greetings with neighbors they hadn't seen since last week.

The tang of barbecued pork flavored the hickory smoke.

On the veranda, maidens in their prettiest outfits flirted with beaux in tight gray trousers and ruffled linen shirts. Older folks solemnly considered symptoms and remedies while children darted like barn swallows across the lawn.

Was this the last glorious, graceful Southern afternoon? Or was it the Southland's funeral? Frank and Rhett were greeted by a white-haired patrician with a young woman at his side. "John Wilkes, John's daughter, Miss Honey Wilkes: Mr. Rhett Butler. Mr. Butler and I had business today and I thought we'd flee our cares for a while. John, I hope you don't mind.”

"My home is open to any gentleman," John Wilkes said simply. "Welcome, sir, to Twelve Oaks.”

"You are too kind.”

"Your accent, sir?”

"The Low Country, sir, born and reared.”

Wilkes frowned, "Butler ... Rhett Butler ... Wasn't there ... Don't I recall... ?”

The flicker in the older man's eyes told Rhett that Wilkes had indeed 'recalled'... but Wilkes's smile never faltered. "No matter, I suppose. Tom!

Bring the salver. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Butler have had a dusty journey.”

Honey Wilkes was waving eagerly. "Oh look, Daddy. It's the O'Haras.

Frank Kennedy! Shame on you! Aren't you going to help Suellen down?”

Frank hastened to his duty. With a polite nod to his host, Rhett withdrew to a quiet corner of the veranda. He wished he hadn't come.

Twelve Oaks buzzed like a honeybee swarm on its mating flight.

There'd be marriages made today and doubtless a scandal or two. Swirling through the floral and Parisian perfumes, amid the gaiety, flirting, and jests was romance, as fresh as if no man or maid had experienced romance before.

Rhett's eyes fell on a very young woman in a green dancing frock and his heart surged. "Dear God," he whispered.

She wasn't a great beauty: her chin was pointed and her jaw had too much strength. She was fashionably pale — ladies never exposed their skin to the brutal sun — and unusually animated. As Rhett watched, she touched a young buck's arm both intimately and carelessly.

When the girl felt Rhett's gaze she looked up. For one scorching second, her puzzled green eyes met his black eyes before she tossed her head dismissively and resumed her flirtation.

Forgotten the looming War. Forgotten the devastation he expected.

Hope welled up in Rhett Butler like a healing spring. "My God." Rhett moistened dry lips. "She's just like me!”

His heart slowed. He looked away, smiling at himself. It had been a long time since he'd made a fool of himself over a woman.

Rhett followed his nose around the plantation house to the barbecue where, scattered under shade trees, picnic tables were draped with Belgian linen and laid with English silver and French china. He took a seat at a half-empty table and a servant delivered Rhett's plate and glass of wine.

When his thoughts circled back to that girl he shook his head and drank a second glass of wine.

Although the pork had a deep, smoky flavor and the potato salad was a perfect admixture of tart and sweet, two drunk young bucks at the foot of the table were glowering at the stranger, and before long they'd make a remark that couldn't be overlooked. Rhett refused dessert and decamped to the shade of a venerable black walnut tree to light a cigar. When John Wilkes joined him, Rhett complimented his host. "Hospitality like yours, sir, stops at the Mason-Dixon line. Hospitality cannot survive Yankee winters.

"You are too kind. Mr. Kennedy tells me you've been up north recently.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Will they fight?”

"They will. Abraham Lincoln won't show a white flag.”

"But surely, our brave young men ...”

"Mr. Wilkes, I am a stranger and you welcomed me to your home. I believe that defines the Good Samaritan. I am grateful, sir.”

"Too grateful to tell your host what you think of Confederate prospects?”

"Mr. Kennedy says you have a fine library. Perhaps, later, you can show it to me.”

That girl — the green-eyed girl in the dancing frock — had seated herself among her beaux, and her rosewood ottoman might have been a throne.

She was a princess; no, a young queen among favored cavaliers. The girl was responding too eagerly to compliments and jests, almost as if she were an ingenue overplaying her first big part.

"Fiddle-dee-dee!" she derided an admirer's inept sally.

Despite Suellen O'Hara's obvious dismay, Frank Kennedy was fetching this girl dainties — although any of Wilkes's servants could have performed that humble chore. Rhett half expected the man to kneel.

Wilkes followed Rhett's eyes. "Scarlett O'Hara. Beautiful, isn't she?”

"Scarlett," Rhett savored the name. "Yes, she is.”

"I'm afraid our Scarlett's a heartbreaker.”

"She's never met a man who understood her.”

Wilkes misread Rhett's intensity and frowned, "Aren't beaux and balls what a young lady should concern herself with? Would you rather Scarlett trouble her pretty head with war and armies and politics?”

"I hope to God she'll never need to," Rhett replied. "There are worse things than beauty and innocence.”

"My son, Ashley, has enlisted." Wilkes indicated a slender young man seated cross-legged beside the girl who must be his fiancée. Ashley Wilkes was his father's son: tall, gray-eyed, and blond with an aristocrat's confident grace. His fiancée laughed prettily at some private jest.

Wilkes unburdened himself with this stranger precisely because Rhett was a stranger. "Some of my acquaintances — influential, far-seeing men — are exiling their sons to Europe.”

"Mr. Wilkes, there are no good decisions left to us, only painful ones.”

Wilkes sighed heavily, "I suppose you're right." He became the host again with "Excuse me. I believe the Tarleton twins have lingered too long at the brandy cask.”

Scarlett flirted, demurely accepted each compliment, flattered outrageously and, from time to time, beneath lowered eyelids Miss O'Hara cast glances at ... young Wilkes? Oh yes, she did. And Rhett caught her doing it.

Whispering confidences to an admirer, Scarlett looked past the man's shoulder to Wilkes. When she caught Rhett's eye again Rhett laughed. Because he understood. Oh yes, he did. The heartbreaker was using the besotted males to make Ashley Wilkes jealous. For Wilkes's sake, she'd bewitched every available male — as well as some, like Frank Kennedy, who weren't as available as they might have wished.

Apparently the heartbreaker was heartsick for another woman's prize.

Poor, lovely, unhappy child!

At Rhett's laughter, Scarlett O'Hara flushed to her roots before refuting among her admirers.

It was inevitable. Some fool would mention the unmentionable, what every person here was trying to ignore. The fatal words "Fort Sumter”

were uttered and the romantic languor of a spring afternoon vanished like a dream.

"We'll whip the Yanks in a month," one gallant promised.

"Three weeks," another supposed.

"Hell — excuse me, ladies — they haven't the guts to fight.”

"Any Southerner can whip four Yankees.”

"If they want a fight, by God, we'll give them one.”

One aged dodderer shouted incoherently and brandished his cane.

Faces were red with drink, passion, or both.

Pressed for an opinion, young Wilkes said that he'd fight if he had to, of course he would, but war would be terrible.

That incomparable girl adored her hero with her eyes.

"And you, sir," Wilkes turned to Rhett. "My father says you have spent time among our former countrymen.”

Which is how Rhett Butler came to say everything he had promised himself he must not say; knowing even as he spoke that his words were futile and he was speaking to men deaf to them.

"I answer only to my conscience. I will not fight a war that will destroy what I hold dear.”

"You ain't gonna fight for your country?" one boy brayed disbelief.

Other young men formed a circle around the stranger. The queen's cavaliers rose to their feet, alert for apostasy.

In for a penny, in for a pound ...

Like a schoolmaster instructing dull students, Rhett described Yankeedom and its tremendous mills and humming factories. He evaluated its wealth — the California gold and Nevada silver — the Confederacy did not possess. He explained in detail why England and France would never recognize the Confederacy.

"This isn't General Washington's war, gentlemen. France won't bail us out this time.”

The young bucks pressed nearer. None smiled. The air was still like it gets before a thunderstorm.

"I have seen what you all have not: Tens of thousands of immigrants who'll fight for the Yankees, the factories, the foundries, the shipyards, the iron and coal mines — everything we lack. Why, all we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. The Yankees'll lick us sure.”

With a monogrammed linen handkerchief, Rhett brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve.

Insects buzzed. Somewhere, a servant dropped a plate and was instantly shushed.

Beneath his imperturbable manner, Rhett Butler was laughing at himself.

Despite his intent to remain silent, he'd offended everybody. That girl had loosed his tongue and he'd acted like a too-bright schoolboy. Rhett turned to John Wilkes. "Your library, sir. I'd be obliged if I could see it now.”

Wilkes entreated his guests. "Ladies and gentlemen, you'll excuse us. Earlier, I begged Mr. Butler for his candid opinion of Confederate prospects and he has accommodated me." Wilkes smiled tersely. "Too candidly, perhaps. If anyone has objections, raise them with me..." Their host raised an admonitory finger. "Privately." Turning to Rhett, Wilkes said, "Our library? Sir, I don't believe Clayton County has a finer.”

It was a handsome high-ceilinged room, thirty feet on a side, whose walls were covered with books, even above the windows and door.

Wilkes gestured perfunctorily, "These are biography and history. These are novels on the shelves beside that chair; Dickens, Thackeray, Scott. Most of my guests will be resting soon, repairing for this evening's dancing. Our fiddler is famous here in the countryside. Perhaps you'll stay.”

"My regrets, sir. My train departs at ten.”

"Ah." Wilkes touched the side of his nose and looked at Rhett for a long moment. If he may have wished to say more, he contented himself with, "If there are virtues worse than beauty and innocence, sir, overmuch candor is among them. Now sir, I must return to my guests. I've feathers to unruffle.”

The library walls were thick and high ceilings kept the room cool and Rhett Butler was suddenly very tired. He stretched out on the long high-backed couch and closed his eyes.

Women. All those women. Rhett remembered how Didi always took one forkful from his plate and went through his wallet when she thought he was asleep. He smiled. He hadn't thought of that in years. Scarlett O'Hara...

Rhett dozed. One restless dream became another, then another. And then, through the fog of sleep, he heard voices.

"What is it? A secret to tell me?”

She took courage, "Yes — a secret — I love you.”

He said, "Isn't it enough that you've collected every other man's heart here today? Do you want to make it unanimous? Well, you've always had my heart, you know. You cut your teeth on it.”

Puzzled, Rhett swam upward through the layers of sleep. When his eyes snapped open, his cheek was pressed against a leather bolster and his mouth was dust dry. The voices he'd been dreaming continued remorselessly.

"Ashley — Ashley — tell me — you must — oh, don't tease me now! Have I your heart? Oh, my dear, I lo — “

Ashley? Now who the hell was Ashley? Exactly where was he, anyway? Rhett's mind cast for a mooring. Fort Sumter. Frank Kennedy's cotton. A backwoods plantation with pretensions. The library. Scarlett? Scarlett who? Rhett frowned. His cheek was stuck to the leather bolster.

Somebody — Ashley? — said, "You must not say these things, Scarlett!”

That Scarlett. Rhett came suddenly and entirely awake.

An earnest voice droned on earnestly, "You mustn't. You don't mean them. You'll hate yourself for saying them, and you'll hate me for hearing them.”

Rhett thought, So much for your adoring glances, Miss Scarlett. He'd slept on his right side and his pocket watch was pressing into his hip and his feet were numb. He should have removed his riding boots. A better man than I, Rhett thought, would leap up, apologize, and assure the lovers he'd heard nothing as he hurried from the room. Fortunately, I am not a better man.

She said, "I couldn't ever hate you. I tell you I love you and I know you must care about me because ... Ashley, do you care — you do, don't you?”

"Yes. I care.”

Tepid response, young man, Rhett thought, grimacing as he unstuck his cheek from the leather.

"Scarlett, can't we go away and forget that we have ever said these things?" Young Wilkes dithered for a few minutes more before he reached the crux of the matter, "Love isn't enough to make a successful marriage when two people are as different as we are...”

Rhett thought: Aha, Irish immigrant's daughter and the aristocrat.

She's good enough to toy with but not good enough to marry.

Wilkes went on: "You would want all of a man, Scarlett, his body, his heart, his soul, his thoughts. And if you did not have them, you would be miserable. And I would not want all of your mind and soul and you would be hurt...”

Rhett thought: That's a real gentleman: Nothing ventured and absolutely nothing lost.

They wrangled toward the traditional finale: She slapped his face and he elevated his aristocratic chin and, with honor, if not dignity, intact, marched from the room.

Rhett meant to stay hidden until Scarlett left, too, but his heart was alight with laughter and when Scarlett hurled crockery at the fireplace and fragments landed on his couch, he raised up, ran a hand through his sleeprumpled hair and said, "It is bad enough to have an afternoon nap disturbed by such a passage as I've been forced to hear, but why should my life be endangered?”

She gasped, "Sir, you should have made known your presence.”

"Indeed. But you were the intruder." He smiled at her and, because he wanted to see her eyes flash, he chuckled.

"Eavesdroppers ..." she began a denunciation.

He grinned. "Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things.”

"Sir," she said decisively, "you are no gentleman.”

"An apt observation. And you, Miss, are no lady." He loved how her green eyes flashed. Might she slap him too? He laughed again because life is so surprising. "No one can remain a lady after saying or doing what I have just overheard. However, Ladies have seldom held any charms for me. I know what they are thinking, but they never have the courage or lack of breeding to say what they think. But you, my dear Miss O'Hara, are a girl of rare spirit, very admirable spirit, and I take my hat off to you.”

His laughter chased her out of the room.

CHAPTER TEN The Merry Widow

A full year later, the blockade runner Merry Widow tied up at the Haynes & Son wharf: three days from Nassau and six hours of moonless silence slipping through the Federal blockade. Rhett Butler stepped off the boat into flaring gaslights and stevedores' bustle.

John Haynes shook his partner's hand. "You shaved it close this time, Rhett. It'll be light in fifteen minutes.”

"Tunis can see our cargo into the warehouse. Join me for breakfast?”

"Give me a few minutes with Tunis. The market café?”

In that first light, Rhett walked the East Battery, enjoying a beautiful city.

The briny air was overlaid with the scent of mimosa. Here and there, a gray-clad sentry stood on the parapet, his glass fixed on the Federal fleet.

In the market, fishmongers cried their wares while housemen, cooks, and mammies haggled over produce and freshly baked bread. Many stall holders wore the brass free colored badges the city council had recently issued.

Looking as fresh as if he hadn't been up all night, Rhett Butler threaded through the market, leaning inside a stall to shake a hand or share a joke.

Every free colored knew Rhett had hired Tunis Bonneau as his pilot, even though white men wanted the job.

John Haynes was at a corner table with a cup of coffee.

"Ah, John. It's good to be home. Lord, I'm famished. Yankee warships whet my appetite. Only coffee?”

"An uneventful voyage, Rhett?”

"There are more blockaders and they're getting smarter." Rhett rapped the table. "Knock wood.”

"Rhett, if they ever corner you, for God's sake, don't try to escape. Run the Widow aground or surrender. The Widow's paid for and we've made a decent profit.”

"But John," Rhett said solemnly, "it's an adventure! Heart in the throat, hair bristling on your neck; don't you want to trade places?”

John smiled. "Rhett, I'm a stodgy young businessman who intends to become a stodgy old businessman. I'll leave the adventuring to you.”

When Rhett ordered sausage, eggs, grits, and coffee, the waiter apologized, "Captain Rhett, we got to charge more. Everything's got so high!”

"Damn profiteering blockade runners," Rhett intoned. The waiter laughed.

"So tell me, John. How is my beautiful niece, Meg? Has she been asking for her uncle Rhett?”

John happily reported his daughter's doings. "Rhett, being a father is like being a child again. Meg makes the familiar world new.”

"I envy you your daughter, John.”

"You'll be a father one day.”

"Will I? I'm told a woman is needed for that project.”

John laughed. "Rhett, you're handsome, bold, and rich — you have your pick of women.”

When Rhett last visited 46 Church Street after his previous run, the tension between Rosemary and John was so palpable, their attempts at civility so strained, that Rhett didn't stay an hour. It was that damned Patriotic Ball. Andrew Ravanel had driven a scandal between Rosemary and her husband.

Rhett asked lightly, "What good woman would marry a brigand, John? The brigand's life is apt to be short and his finances irregular. Maritally, he is a dreadful prospect.”

When the waiter brought Rhett's breakfast, he dug in with a will. "I did meet a Georgia girl last spring..." Rhett chuckled. "Alas, she was immune to my charms.”

"Poor, poor Rhett. Tell me honestly, friend. Can we win this war?”

"John, one hundred revolvers leave Colonel Colt's New Haven factory each day. Each takes a standard bullet and the cylinder from one revolver fits any other. Yankees are engineers and Southerners are romantics. In war, engineers whip romantics every time.”

"But don't you think — “

Rhett forestalled this evasion. "John, I wish nothing more than your and Rosemary's happiness. Old friend, can I do anything to reconcile you and my sister? If you wish, I'll speak to her. Sometimes a kinsman ...”

John Haynes picked at a gouge in the wooden tabletop. Despising himself, John Haynes read every newspaper account of Andrew Ravanel's military exploits: "Daring Raid"; "Ravanel's Brigade Strikes Tennessee!"; "Colonel Ravanel Takes a Thousand Prisoners!": "Behind enemy lines, with Federal cavalry in hot pursuit, the audacious Colonel Ravanel paused to telegraph the Federal War Department to complain about their horses he was capturing.”

John's eyes were so pained, Rhett fought an urge to look away.

John said quietly, "My Rosemary ... says she did not marry me of her free will. She married me to escape her father's house." He kneaded his left hand with his right. "I have not upbraided her about the Patriotic Ball, but Rosemary hasn't forgiven me for not being ... Andrew. My dear wife believes as she had been her father's chattel, she is now mine. No better than a slave. Rhett, Rosemary has called me 'Master John.' “

Rhett winced. After a moment, he said, "Why don't I rent a rig and we'll go — you and I, Meg and Rosemary — for a jaunt in the country.”

John shook his head, "I cannot. I must see the Widows, cotton properly stowed." John took a sip of cold coffee and said too brightly, "Tell me about this Georgia girl?”

"Ah yes, Miss Scarlett O'Hara." Rhett was happy to drop the painful subject. "Last spring, while you Charlestonians were busy starting this war, I was in Georgia buying cotton. I was invited to a barbecue at the local mugwump's plantation. Said mugwump's son was to marry an Atlanta cousin. These country aristocrats don't bring new blood into the family if they can help it. I liked John Wilkes, but Ashley, the son, was so genteel, he squeaked. The prettiest girl there was Miss Scarlett O'Hara, and Miss Scarlett had it in her head that Ashley Wilkes ought to marry her instead of his fiancée! John, a love tragedy was on the boil!

"Unfortunately for my dishonorable intentions, since the young lady couldn't marry Wilkes, she married the nearest boy at hand: the fiancée’s brother, Charles Hamilton." Rhett shook his head ruefully. "What a waste.”

"Hamilton? O'Hara? A Georgia family? Near Jonesboro?”

"The same. Lord, I envy Charles Hamilton his nights of love with that incomparable girl before going off for war. So many tender adieus. So many, many tender adieus.”

"Charles Hamilton is dead.”

"What?”

"And the Widow Hamilton is in Charleston, visiting her aunt Eulalie Ward. What do you say to that?”

Rhett Butler grinned like a schoolboy. "Why, John, what excellent news! On my last run, I brought Eulalie Ward's daughters some Paris brocade.

Perhaps I'll call on them this afternoon and see what they made of it.”

Civilians and newly minted Confederate soldiers promenaded past the great black guns emplaced on Charleston's White Point Park.

"What if they shoot they guns, Miss Scarlett?" Prissy stepped back from the second-floor window. "They big guns all 'round and Federal blockaders swimmin' in the sea and I afeared." Her brow furrowed until her thought meandered to its destination: "I afeared for Baby Wade.”

Who was, Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton noted gratefully, nodding off to sleep in Prissy's arms.

"What if Wade 'n me takin' the air when they start shootin'? What if they sail into the harbor shootin' they guns? Little Master Wade be scared out of his skin!”

Charleston, the Cradle of Secession, was acutely sensitive to Federal victories. Some Federals boasted, "Charleston is where the revolt began and the revolt will end where Charleston was." Last December, a fire in the city's heart had destroyed eight blocks of churches, homes, and Secession Hall itself. Some whispered that "the burnt district" portended Charleston's future.

"I wish the Federal fleet would come in," Scarlett said more to herself than to Prissy. "Anything to break this monotony.”

Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton loathed widowhood. She despised her drab mourning clothes, her dutiful sackcloth and ashes.

At least in Charleston, she could wear lavender sleeve piping! At Tara, any outfit that wasn't utterly drear brought her mother Ellen's swift reproach: "Dear Scarlett, people might misconstrue your true feelings.”

Her true feelings ...

Solemnity was crushing her. Who was this morbid creature in black veil and flat widow's cap? Was this caricature really Scarlett O'Hara, the gayest, most fetching young woman in Clayton County? Must Scarlett repel every admirer for her dead husband's sake — whose passing Scarlett regretted less than the loss of a favorite pony? Charles Hamilton had been such a boy; his lovemaking so earnest and tedious!

Life was terribly unfair! Scarlett must pretend to the world that her heart was buried with Charles while she dreamt of Ashley Wilkes, the man she should have married. Ashley Wilkes. Ashley's smile. Ashley's drowsy gray eyes. In her cold widow's bed, Scarlett relived every moment she and Ashley had spent together — strolling through Twelve Oaks' scented rose garden, Ashley's quiet kindnesses, the books he'd mentioned, the great paintings he'd seen on his European tour, their happy rides through the Georgia countryside. Their love had been too precious and tender to need voicing, until that fatal afternoon in the library at Twelve Oaks when Scarlett had spoken her love and Ashley had rejected her to marry another.

Very well, then. If Ashley would marry mousy Melanie Hamilton, Scarlett could bewitch Melanie's naive brother, Charles, and marry him!

Six months afterward, Charles had succumbed to some silly camp disease and Scarlett was pregnant, widowed, and fitted out in black.

Scarlett had tried to grieve for Charles. She had tried.

Concerned about her daughter's health, and hoping a change of scenery might improve Scarlett's spirits, Ellen O'Hara had sent Scarlett to Charleston to visit her aunt, Eulalie Robillard Ward.

IOI Scarlett had had hopes for Charleston; Charleston had a reputation. But it was more tedious than Tara had been.

Every afternoon, Eulalie's friends gathered to reconsider Charleston's petty scandals and compare genealogies.

Scarlett's mother was infrequently mentioned in her sister's home, and when someone did speak of Ellen Robillard O'Hara, they spoke in tones reserved for the gentlewoman who is rather more ill than she admits.

Young Prissy tended Baby Wade as earnestly as a child cares for her favorite doll. "Hear Baby Wade? I believe he snorin'. Now ain't he a wonder!”

"Don't all babies snore?" Scarlett sighed, and went downstairs for another long afternoon pulling lint with Aunt Eulalie Robillard Ward and her friends.

Since the Confederacy had no linen bandages, gentlewomen rummaged their attics for chemises and camisoles that could be reduced to lint for stanching wounds.

Eulalie's fastidious brother-in-law, Frederick Ward, had abandoned his customary wing chair for a settee at farthest remove from the undergarments the ladies were disassembling; Frederick Ward thought novels immoral and had been known to leave the room rather than subject himself to "bohemian" opinions.

He rose at Scarlett's entry. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hamilton.”

In Frederick's considered opinion, lavender sleeve piping was inappropriate for a widow whose husband had not been in his grave twelve months.

Young Mrs. Hamilton seemed unaffected by Frederick's disapproval, and rarely showed the deference one expected from an upcountry Georgia girl among her betters.

The widow Eulalie Ward had worn black for years, but Charlotte Fisher Ravanel had donned her mourning garb last month when Grandmother Fisher died.

Charlotte Ravanel and Rosemary Haynes made up their differences at the funeral, where Charlotte completely forgot the Patriotic Ball. Juliet's cleverest innuendoes were blunted on Charlotte's forgetfulness. "I do wish I knew what you were talking about, dear, but I had a headache and left the ball early.”

Lifting her eyes from the chemise she was pulling apart, Juliet Ravanel said proudly, "This morning's Mercury compared Andrew with Stonewall Jackson.”

Scarlett Hamilton yawned. "General Jackson is the homeliest man alive.”

Aunt Eulalie's lapdog, Empress, barked.

Rosemary Haynes grinned. "Ah-ha! That's why the Federals run from Jackson. They are repelled by his visage! Here's a plan! We'll rout the Federals with likenesses! Our generals can use special batteries to bombard our foes" — Rosemary tugged an imaginary lanyard — "with daguerreotypes of homely Confederates. The Federals will run like rabbits! The South may lack flour, shoes, fabric, sugar, coffee, and tea, but we've plenty of flatfaced, scraggly-bearded, wall-eyed, leering, two-toothed males.”

Her conceit was greeted by chilly silence. Scarlett muffled a coughing fit in her handkerchief.

Eulalie's tiny spaniel barked again and Eulalie said, "Empress does not appreciate your joking, dear. Who would have imagined that my sweet little dog would be patriotic?”

Scarlett couldn't resist: "She has a patriot's brains.”

Another silence. Scarlett shut her eyes. Lord! She was enmired in dullness.

Dullness smothered her so, she could not breathe. Scarlett's great fear was that one morning she'd be unable to remember — as the Wards could no longer remember — what joy was.

Juliet Ravanel broke the silence, "Rosemary, I hear your brother is back in Charleston.”

"Yes, he spoils Meg terribly.”

"Didn't I hear his son is in New Orleans?”

"Dear Juliet" — Rosemary smiled, tight-lipped — "I wouldn't expect you, of all people, to repeat scurrilous gossip.”

Juliet Ravanel smiled right back at her.

Meanwhile, bored Scarlett was populating an imaginary bestiary: Frederick Ward was an overfed yellow tabby cat, the high-colored Juliet Ravanel a cardinal. Eulalie's daughters, Patience and Priscilla, in identical green brocade, had lizards' features and reptilian attitudes. In her mourning habit, poor Aunt Eulalie was a perfect crow.

While Scarlett daydreamed, conversation turned to a Robillard connection killed at Shiloh.

Frederick set his index finger to his chin. "Pauline's daughter's husband, hmm. Wasn't his first wife a Menninger? Hmm. If memory serves, Menninger senior's son, James, had that plantation on the Ashley, below Grafton, hmm. Didn't he marry that girl — dear me, I can't recall her name — that Richmond belle?”

At that instant, had the Devil himself appeared shrouded in smoke, Scarlett would have taken his bargain gladly for one more barbecue, one more night of waltzes and music and fun.

But the moment passed and Scarlett's immortal soul shrank from the brink. "I believe I'll take the air," she said, not troubling to conceal her yawn behind her black silk fan.

Outdoors, Charleston's heat struck Scarlett like a wet woolen glove.

Shading her eyes, she squinted against the glare. How she wished she were at shady Tara.

The garden separated the Ward house from dependencies concealed behind a thick boxwood hedge. Louisiana iris bloomed beneath flame-colored azaleas whose scent was overwhelmed by lavender.

Frederick Ward's son Willy and his friends were gathered beneath an ancient eucalyptus. Willy Ward's friends wore the elaborate uniforms of the Palmetto Brigade, the Moultrie Guards, and the Washington Light Infantry.

Oh dear! Scarlett knew they would prate on about the War, and she must pretend to be fascinated by their gallantry. Scarlett Hamilton was so sick of boys!

Inhaling Charleston's moist, heavily scented air, Scarlett recalled Taras subtly aromatic roses. The memory was so poignant that, hundreds of miles from home, Scarlett closed her eyes and swayed.

"Cousin Scarlett! Cousin! Are you unwell? Let me help you into the shade. You aren't accustomed to our sun." His face solemn with concern, Willy Ward guided her to a chair.

"Why, thank you, Willy." Scarlett's smile was wistful.

Although Willy had been quickest off the mark, other young men rushed to attend the lovely young widow. One suggested a cold cloth; another offered lemonade. Did she wish a parasol? "Oh, thank you all. You are too kind!”

Across the garden, a middle-aged man in civilian clothes was leaning against the gate. His arms were crossed and a smile flickered across his lips.

Scarlett's heart started thumping so fast, she put her hand to her chest.

"Cousin Scarlett, you are so pale!”

"Yes, Willy," Scarlett gasped, "I am pale. Ladies are supposed to be pale.

Don't fuss!”

That Man touched a forefinger to the brim of his gleaming panama hat.

Willy knelt beside Scarlett's chair. "Your face is turning red! This dreadful heat! Let me help you indoors.”

At Twelve Oaks, That Man had overheard her pleading to Ashley, begging Ashley to love her as she loved him, her plea rejected by the finest, noblest ...

Now That Man dared to put a finger to his lips, as if he knew her intimate thoughts but vowed to keep her secret.

"He ... the man in civilian clothes?" Scarlett choked out.

"The notorious Captain Butler," a blond youth in a Zouave uniform replied. "I do not know why Mrs. Ward admits him.”

"Butler's bold enough," Willy Ward conceded. "On his last run, he steamed through the blockade in broad daylight. Butler convinced the blockaders he was a Federal mail boat, and they escorted him into the harbor!”

Butler approached Scarlett as a big cat might: with a deliberate, lazy confidence.

Swarthy, tall, and unusually muscular for a Southern gentleman, his frock coat was black broadcloth, his shirt was ruffled at the cuffs, and his foulard was the delicate blue of a robin's egg. Though he swept his panama from his head, his gesture seemed less chivalrous than it might have.

"My dear Mrs. Hamilton, I was devastated to hear of your husband Charles's death. "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori " He paused, smiling.

"Perhaps you were not cursed with a classical education. "Tis sweet and honorable to die for one's country.' A sentiment that, doubtless, these gallant officers share.”

"And you, sir — you do not serve?" Scarlett inquired innocently.

"Some of us are not heroic, ma'am." Although his hat swept low again, his gesture reeked of mockery. "How proud you must be." He smiled at the young men. "How proud you all must be.”

The young officers bristled, although they weren't exactly sure why.

Willy Ward thought Butler presumptuous to approach the finest girl Willy had ever seen, right here in the family garden. Willy was concocting a rebuke when Scarlett dumbfounded him. "Gentlemen, please do excuse us. Captain Butler and I have something to discuss.”

Reluctantly, the young men withdrew out of earshot, although Willy kept a sharp eye on the couple, as if, piratically, Captain Butler might seize the young widow and escape with his prize.

Rhett Butler appraised Scarlett impertinently. "Black isn't your color, my dear. Paris fabrics are subtler this season. They have a taffeta the color of your eyes.”

Scarlett looked at him straight. "Captain Butler, at Twelve Oaks, matters were not as they may have seemed. I indulged a lighthearted flirtation on the eve of my old friend's wedding. Neither Ashley Wilkes nor I actually meant what we said. I'm sure any gentleman" — Scarlett almost choked on the word — "must understand.”

Rhett placed a hand over his heart. "How well I do! Doubtless the gallant Wilkes took your pretty entreaty as whimsy; of no more consequence than the butterfly's flirtation with the flower." Butler's eyes were laughing at her. Laughing! "For my own part, should I ever have the pleasure of meeting you again, I'll pretend your meaningless flirtation never occurred. Why, we can pretend we've never met." The man beamed in the most aggravating manner.

Scarlett had never met anyone so hateful. She stamped her foot. "Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!" Her dramatic exit was marred by a slight stumble on the doorstep.

As Scarlett burst into her aunt's withdrawing room, Frederick Ward's eyes widened as one of his habitual opinions rolled toward its inevitable, unstoppable conclusion, no longer Frederick's creature, but its own: "Perhaps Philippe Robillard was too breakneck for sister Ellen, hmm? But to marry a coarse, striving Irish immigrant like Gerald O'Hara ...”

Frederick's opinion was trampled under Scarlett's impatient query.

"Aunt Eulalie, why do you admit Captain Butler? He is no gentleman.”

Flustered, Aunt Eulalie wagged her several chins. "Why, he, he ...”

Having dispatched her aunt, Scarlett turned on Frederick. "Did I hear you correctly? Did I hear you say my mother married beneath her? God's nightgown, sir!" Scarlett erupted, in a passable replication of her father Gerald's earthy brogue. "Faith! If it's thin blood my father was wantin' to marry, look no further than the Robillards! Begorrah, they've no blood at all!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN Some Lovers

The Ashley River rolled brown and dirty in spate. The rice fields had been planted and flooded and plantation houses stood above glistening water like islands. Rice birds exploded from the roadside as a bright blue phaeton sped past. Drays and farm wagons pulled to the verge to let the gentlefolk by.

"Oh look, Rhett," Rosemary said. "They're repairing the old Ravanel place.”

Rhett reined in Tecumseh.

Workmen swarmed over the farmhouse roof, pulling up broken cedar shingles and letting them fall into the head-high weeds around the foundations.

On a scaffold, three workmen were extracting a rotted window, casement and all.

Rhett said, "William Bee bought it for his son. Bee has made so much money running the blockade, he can afford whimsey." Tecumseh champed at the bit. "Easy, boy. I wonder how much paint it will take to cover that house's sins?”

"Were you there often?" Rosemary asked.

Rhett shrugged. "When I was young and filled with despair. The last time ...”

"Rhett?”

A warm September rain glistened the cobblestones as young Rhett Butler rode Tecumseh toward Grandmother Fisher's. Rain dimpled the Charleston harbor where distant Fort Sumter floated in and out of the mist.

Rhett was in a black humor. Last night, Henry, Edgar, and Old Jack Ravanel had helped him celebrate a poker win until his winnings were a memory.

Rhett had drunk too much, and at daybreak, when he stepped out of Miss Polly's, he 'd flinched and squinted against the scorching sunlight. He 'd thought, For you, Little Rosemary. L must change my life.

Last night, Henry Kershaw had been coarser than usual, Edgar Puryear's sycophancy more irritating and Rhett had noticed Old Jack Ravanel eyeing him with the affection a bobcat reserves for a plump hare.

Why had he come back to Charleston? To flaunt his West Point disgrace before his father’s political cronies? There were so many places he'd rather be, so many things he'd rather be doing. Rhett Butler was weary of annoying, stupid people, tired of shocked dismay on dull, utterly predictable faces. After a bad night, young Rhett Butler took a deep breath of salt air. He'd go to Rosemary.

Perhaps her child's love could save him.

When Grandmother Fisher answered the door herself, Rhett's hopes crumpled.

"Rhett, I’m sorry. I don't know how your father learned you'd been visiting!

I’ve never seen Langston so furious. If I'd been a man, I believe he would have called me out. " Grandmother set her lips. "Rosemary is Langston's daughter.

There wasn't one thing in the world I could do. “

"Where is she?" Rhett demanded.

"At Broughton. Langston said...”

Rhett jerked his head, as if pulling words out of her.

"Your father told me she'd stay until you were dead or gone from the Low Country. Damn the man! Come inside, Rhett, and we'll talk. I am not without influence and...”

The clatter of Tecumseh's hooves obliterated what more she might have said.

On rain-slick cobblestones. Rhett galloped Tecumseh through the city. Cabbies cursed, riders drew up sharply, and servants leaped from his path. The great horse hammered along, tireless as a steam engine.

After an hour, he slowed Tecumseh to a canter, then an easy walk. When the horse shook his head, hot horse spittle spattered Rhett's cheeks. They were well out of the city on the River Road.

Young Rhett Butler believed the years to come wouldn't be different from the years he'd already lived. He was disgraced; he would be always be disgraced.

He was alone; he would always be alone. Rhett could endure being unloved. He could not live without loving.

It was twilight when Rhett turned into Colonel Jack Ravanel's lane. Jack had been involved in a particularly dubious financial scheme and was eluding the bailiffs.

Jack's lane was unkempt and overgrown. Outside the dooryard, Rhett unsaddled Tecumseh and rubbed him down. The horse's legs trembled with fatigue.

Old Jack didn't stir from the piazza. "You drive that horse too hard boy,”

he said. "I admire that horse. If you're going to kill him, might be you could sell him to me instead. “

"Hay in the shed, Jack?”

"Where it always is. There's a bucket next the well. “

As Rhett watered his exhausted animal, he whispered, "Don't you, by God, founder on me, Tecumseh. I couldn't stand it if you foundered!”

The horse pushed his nose into the bucket.

The Ravanel farmhouse ("plantation house" was too grand a name) had been built by Jack's grandfather and ill maintained for years. Rhett climbed its moss green cypress risers.

The porch smelled dank, as if decades of river mists had congealed in the rotten wood and peeling paint.

Without rising Old Jack waveda languid welcome. "We have Jack's plantation to ourselves, young Butler. All the sports are in town. Hell, I wish I was in town. “

The prospect of another debauched evening made Rhett faintly ill.

"You're not looking pert, son. Woman trouble, I wager. "Jack slid a nearly full whiskey bottle toward the younger man. "This'll cure her. This'll cure love pains, failures, and guilt. It'll help you grieve and help you forget.”

Although the old reprobate rarely bought a round, Rhett was too low to be suspicious. He drank deeply from the bottle.

"She must have been a pretty wench," Jack observed. "Love, my boy — “

"Don't say anything about love, Jack. This is Rhett, remember? I know you, Jack. “

"Ah? Do you?" After a hot glance, Jack reverted to his familiar jokey self.

"Why, of course you do. Who knows Old Jack better than his friends? Carpe diem, eh, Rhett?”

Rhett should have been warier, but despair had blinded him to everything but grim prophecies.

Jack left the bottle and disappeared indoors.

As the moon slunk across the sky, young Rhett Butler drank whiskey and felt like dying. The evening star was low on the horizon when Jack came outside, yawning. "Man is born to troubles, eh, Rhett?”

Rhett had drunk his way through drunkenness into a weary, irritable sobriety.

"Anything you say, Jack. “

"I say that I hate to see a clever boy so downhearted. Why, if Jesus Christ himself stepped onto this piazza with the keys to Paradise, I reckon you'd turn Him down. “

Rhett turned bloodshot eyes on the old scoundrel. "You want something Jack. Spit it out. “

Years afterward, Rhett stared at the old house.

"Rhett? Where did you go?" Rosemary asked.

"Sorry, Sister. I was woolgathering. Edgar Puryear loved to come to Jack's. Edgar enjoys other men's weaknesses. Andrew hated it. Andrew was more fastidious than his father.”

"And you?”

Rhett shrugged. "I thought hell was where I belonged.”

A skid of old shingles slid down the mossy roof and landed with a crash. Tecumseh flattened his ears. "Easy, boy. Easy." Rhett's strong hands spoke through the reins.

Meg and Cleo were in the groom's seat behind. Rhett felt Meg's sweet breath on his neck, "Mommy, how far are we?”

"Not far, dear," Rosemary said. "Look there! That snag in the river. See the eagle?”

Rhett flicked the reins and Tecumseh danced before settling into a brisk trot.

The buggy coming toward them was as solemn black as the smallish mare drawing it. When Tunis Bonneau drew up, he tipped his hat to Rosemary.

Rhett tipped his to Mrs. Bonneau.

Ruthie Prescott Bonneau was a light-skinned, plump young woman, m corseted and stayed within an inch of her life. "Good afternoon, Captain Butler. Isn't this a fine afternoon?”

" 'No spring or summer beauty hath such grace ..

Mrs. Bonneau's smile was reserved. "My father, Reverend Prescott, taught me my letters. I am more familiar with Dr. Donne's sermons than his poetry.”

Rhett stretched, "But it is a day for poetry, isn't it?”

Tunis said, "Hello, Tecumseh. Miss Rosemary, I see you're takin' good care of that horse." Tunis nodded to the groom's seat. "Little Miss Meg.

How you today?”

Meg put her thumb in her mouth.

Ruthie said, "Captain Butler, every Sunday at the First African, we pray you and Tunis have a safe voyage.”

"Well," Rhett grinned. "That's my prayer, too.”

"Got a letter from Daddy Thomas," Tunis said.

Rhett explained to Rosemary, "Tunis's parents immigrated to Canada.”

Ruthie said, "My husband's father has a home in Kingston, Ontario, Mrs. Haynes. Thomas Bonneau says things are better there.”

Tunis said, "Papa says Canada is cold as the dickens.”

Rhett steadied Tecumseh. "Tunis, I swear this horse wasn't skittish when I left him with you.”

"Might be negro horses got more cause be skittish than white men's horses," Tunis deadpanned.

"Maybe they do at that," Rhett said. "Good to see you again, Mrs. Bonneau. Please thank the First African for their prayers.”

Tunis nodded and clucked to his mare.

As the respectable black carriage went around the bend, Cleo muttered, "Them free coloreds think too high of themselfs.”

They trotted past Hopeton and Darien Plantation. Gangs were still planting at Champney.

"We never planted so late at Broughton," Cleo disapproved. "Overseer don't 'low it.”

"You're not at Broughton now, Cleo," Rosemary reminded her maid.

"Don't I thank Jesus for that!”

Rhett said, "I hear Wade Hampton bought the old Puryear place.”

"Cathecarte Puryear lives in London now. Apparently war frightened his muse.”

Rhett shook his head. "Poor Cathecarte. Lord, how he envied men with talent. Edgar's a provost in Atlanta — that's Edgar's kind of work, you know. In his whole life, Edgar has learned one trick: how not to be his father.”

He flicked the reins. "Maybe that's all any man learns.”

Rosemary touched her brother's sleeve. "There's our lane — beyond that big cypress.”

The carriage wound through oaks dripping with Spanish moss into a clearing where Congress Haynes's fishing camp perched on pilings like a wading bird.

Rosemary inhaled deeply. "I love it out here," she said. "We don't come enough. If business doesn't keep John in town, civic duties do. Isn't this a lovely day?" She basked her face in the sun. "Isn't it?”

As Rhett and Rosemary stepped onto the porch, Meg ran toward the river. Skirts lifted, hat clapped to her head, Cleo hurried after, crying, "Now don't you go gettin' in that mud! Watch out for snakes! Don't you fall in that ol' river!”

Congress Haynes had built this simple camp on a breezy mosquitoless point: a railed roofless porch outside one big room with a soot-blackened fireplace, crude benches, and a table with men's initials carved into the wood.

As a boy, Rhett'd sailed by here, mosquito hawks whupping as they swooped and bats twittering while Congress Haynes's friends — too far away for Rhett to make out their faces — sat in the lamplight drinking and laughing. Drifting down the dark river, the invisible boy had wondered if he might ever be one of them.

Now Rhett set a foot on the railing and lit a cigar while Rosemary unpacked their hamper and placed silver stirrup cups on the rail. "When I was a little girl, I'd dream of all the exotic places you were visiting. Tell me, Brother, are the pyramids as grand as they say?”

Rhett uncorked the wine. "Never got to Egypt. Maybe after the War.”

Lost in thought, Rosemary watched the river. "I'm worried about Mother. She never comes to town, her friends don't visit, and Father makes excuses why his dear, devoted wife can't accompany him to Governor Brown's fêtes." Her brother poured wine. "Mother says Isaiah Watling believes the War was prophesied.”

"Watling?”

"He and Mother pray together. They meet in his house and pray. Isaiah's wife died sometime last year." Rosemary raised a hand to forestall objections.

"It's only praying; that's all. Langston knows about it. There's nothing between them." Rosemary's wry grin. "Except, perhaps, the Book of Revelations.”

"Prayers can be a powerful bond. Sit beside me. We'll have our picnic in a little while.”

While Rosemary rested her elbows on the rail. Absent her marital tensions, Rhett's sister seemed years younger.

A dark-haired white child and an angular black girl ambled hand in hand beside the river. The child's babble rose and fell with the breeze.

Sandpipers patrolled the riverside, dabbing the mud with sharp pointed beaks. Clouds as fat as cotton bolls drifted lazily overhead. Pistons harrumphing, a riverboat tugged a string of empty rice flats upstream. When the helmsman waved, little Meg waved back enthusiastically.

Rosemary asked, "Do you think Father ever loved Mother?”

"On at least three occasions, Langston Butler loved his wife. Men can't rise from a woman's bed indifferent to the authoress of their pleasure. Belle Watling's Cyprians joke about the marriage proposals they get.”

"Belle Watling?”

"Belle's left New Orleans for Atlanta." Rhett laughed. "Belle claims she's a Confederate patriot. In fact, she's a businesswoman and New Orleans's Federal conquerors are partial to negro sporting houses.”

Chin in her hand, Rosemary examined her brother. "Rhett, what is Belle Watling to you?”

Rhett's smile stretched into a mocking grin. "Has the Scapegrace Brother taken up with the Soiled Dove? Will Butler bastards be born in a sporting house?”

Rosemary flushed. "Rhett, I didn't mean ...”

"Dear Sister, of course you did. Women can never be kind to a woman who sells her favors. Favors are to be bestowed only after elaborate ceremony and payment in full.”

"Rhett, please ...”

"Some years ago in New Orleans, Belle and I went into business together.

I keep an office in Belle Watling's sporting house; it amuses me when respectable businessmen sneak up her back stairs.”

Meg was collecting mussel shells on the riverbank.

"And who is Scarlett Hamilton to you? After you stirred her up yesterday, she marched into Eulalie's drawing room and reduced Frederick Ward to stuttering. Poor Frederick couldn't exit in a huff — he was in his own home! Rhett, what on earth did you say to that young woman?”

Rhett's face was rueful. "I seem to have a knack for annoying her." He grinned. "But damned if I can resist.”

"Scarlett would be very beautiful, I think, if she weren't so unhappy.”

"You see, Sister, little Miss Scarlett has no idea who she is. Her charming tricks attract men who are unworthy of her." Rhett's voice dropped to a whisper. "Hindoos believe we have had lives before this. Is it true?" He raised a mocking eyebrow. Perhaps Scarlett and I were star-crossed lovers; perhaps we died in each other's arms...”

"Why, Rhett," Rosemary teased, "you, a romantic?”

Rhett spoke so softly, Rosemary had to lean nearer to hear him. "I want that woman more than I've ever wanted a woman in my life.”

Rosemary squeezed his hand. "There's the brother I know!”

On the riverbank, Meg was singing, "Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou ...”

Rosemary stared at the muddy water. "I do not think I can ever love John Haynes. Not like that.”

Rhett let the power drain from her words before replying. "John's a good man.”

"Do you think I don't know that?" she said. "Do you think that makes a whit of difference?”

"Perhaps — in time ...”

"Don't worry, Brother, I won't create a second scandal." Rosemary's voice faded to a whisper. "I see my life ahead as an unbroken stretch of days, each day exactly like the last, each as empty as the last.”

Her smile was so pained, her brother couldn't look at her.

"I am my mother's daughter and I will cut my cloth to reality. But by God, I will not pray. I will not pray!”

Cleo's squeak was an imprisoned scream. She scooped Meg up and ran toward the camp. "Oh, Captain Rhett," she cried, "Captain Rhett. Get you gun.”

"Pass Meg to me, Cleo," Rosemary knelt and reached down. "I'll take her.”

As she lifted the frightened child to her mother, Cleo shook with impatience.

"You gots to shoot him!”

"Who must I shoot, Cleo?”

"That fox. I see'd him!”

"You saw a fox?”

"In the broad daylight!" Impatiently, Cleo recited the country truism: "See a fox in daylight, fox he mad. Fox bite you, you go mad, too." Cleo raised her arms and Rhett plucked her onto the porch.

Below, a young vixen slid over a log on the riverbank.

Rhett squinted into the sunlight. "She's not mad, Cleo. Her fur is glossy and she moves normally. She's no threat." Rhett peered closely.

"She's lost her cubs, or maybe never had cubs. She wouldn't be so sleek with cubs pulling her down.”

"What she doin' out in broad daylight scarin' folks?”

Cleo had her answer when a dog fox crossed the log and marked. The vixen pretended to find something and pounced, her tail flouncing marvelously.

She rolled on a tussock of marsh grass, all languorousness and pleasure. Her tail was so bushy, she seemed more tail than fox.

"Look at her! She's flaunting herself!" Rosemary said.

"Indeed she is," Rhett said.

The old dog fox's muzzle was scarred and he favored a forefoot, as if he'd lost toes in a trap.

Little Meg cried out, "She's so pretty!”

"She is, sweetheart," her uncle said. "That fellow thinks she's pretty, too.”

"Is he her husband, Uncle Rhett?”

"He wants to be," her mother said. "See, Meg, he's courting.”

The child knelt below the rail to see better. "Does she like him, too?”

"She's pretending she doesn't know he's alive," her uncle Rhett said.

A skinny, half-immersed driftwood log next attracted the vixen. One end was ashore and the river plucked at the other. She trotted gaily down its length. The dog fox hesitated. The vixen turned at the end of the log and sat grinning at him.

Reluctantly, the dog fox stepped onto the driftwood and tiptoed toward her.

His added weight was too much for the log's hold on the bank and it launched, turning in the swift current. The purely disgusted expression on the dog fox's face made Meg laugh.

Peals of childish laughter pursued the star-crossed lovers down the river to the sea.

CHAPTER TWELVE A Bastard

Tazewell Watling pressed his forefinger under his nose so he wouldn't sneeze. Swirling yellow-brown smoke drooped over the earth, draining livelier colors from the sunset. The light penetrating this pall was the color of dirty linen and the sun was a pale silver disk on the horizon. Burning coke, sulfur, white-hot iron, ammonia, and less identifiable stinks cluttered the air.

Through Alabama and western Georgia, the train had traveled a single track. Now that track divided and divided again and the train overtook a freight on the left, then a string of flatcars. A self-important yard engine huffed at them, squealing, veering, passing so close, Taz might have reached out his window and touched it.

"First time to Atlanta, boy?" The Confederate corporal beside Taz hawked on the floor.

"I am from New Orleans," Taz said with a boy's flimsy hauteur.

"Over there, that's the rolling mill where they make plate for our ironclads.

I got a brother works there. Lucky bastard's exempted from the army.

Over there's J. W. Dance revolvers and them brick smokestacks — no, those un's over there — that's the naval gun factory. Four railroads roll into this town, son — four altogether different railroads!" He jabbed an elbow into the boy's side. "What you think about that!”

How could Taz find his mother in this smoky cauldron? Factories fronted the tracks; houses faced away from it. A few dwellings were brick, but most were dingy clapboard. Cows, pigs, and chickens grazed in half-acre pastures. The houses huddled closer together as the train rolled into the city. Broad streets seemed to snap open and shut. Taz saw three- and four-story brick and stone businesses and warehouses, and countless carriages and wagons.

Was that woman on the corner Belle Watling? That face in the landau, was she his mother? Tazewell Watling's oldest memory was night in the cavernous dormitory of New Orleans' Asylum for Orphan Boys: children coughing and whimpering for their mothers. Taz lay on a rush pallet with other children pressed against him, and the dampness on his thigh was where one of the younger boys had wet himself.

Taz was hungry and afraid but would not cry. Boys who cried disappeared into the infirmary, where they died, and were buried in the asylum's verdant, lovingly tended cemetery. Most of the orphans were Irish and the nuns were French Sisters of Charity who took their vows of poverty so seriously, they starved themselves. Embracing hunger as a virtue, the Good Sisters were imperfectly sympathetic to hungry children.

Yet, when the Mardi Gras Krewes paraded down Royal Street, these same self-abasing sisters waved gaily from their balcony to catch the strings of bright, worthless beads drunken mummers tossed to them.

The Sisters of Charity said Taz's mother was a fallen woman condemned to the fires of hell. A good Catholic boy like Taz would never see his mother in heaven.

Taz believed them — and he did not believe them. In his child's heart, night fears gave way to mornings when miracles might happen.

Four years ago, Rhett Butler had been such a miracle. Scrubbed until his skin glowed, the boy had been summoned to the Mother Superior's office to meet a big smiling stranger. A cup of the Mother Superior's weak tea stood untouched at the man's elbow. In a place that reeked of carbolic and lye soap, the stranger smelled of good cigars, bourbon, and pomade. "I am your guardian, Tazewell Watling," Rhett Butler told him. "A guardian's not as good as a father, perhaps, but I'll have to do.”

The next day, in his new suit, Tazewell Watling was delivered to the Jesuit School of the Catholic Society for Religious and Literary Education, attached to the enormous Jesuit church. There, Taz was enrolled, shown his bed (which he was forbidden to lie upon in the daytime) and the peg where he was to hang his coat.

His mother, whose visits to the asylum had been sporadic, now visited regularly. Belle wore prettier dresses and seemed happier. Tazewell believed Mr. Butler was his mother's miracle, too.

When Taz started at the Jesuit School, his reading was poor, his spelling impossible, and he had no mathematics. The Jesuits would remedy these deficiencies.

At the Asylum for Orphan Boys, only a few boys knew their fathers, and none of these elusive creatures ever visited. Tazewell Watling loved and needed his mother; he hadn't even imagined a father.

But at the Jesuit school, Tazewell Watling learned fathers were necessities.

As an older boy, Jules Nore, patiently explained, "We boys are educated to become gentlemen. You, Watling, cannot be a gentleman." Jules Nore frowned and corrected his overgenerous appraisal: "You can't be anything without a father. Bastards like you, Tazewell Watling, are meant to serve gentlemen, open our carriage doors, clean the mud from our boots...”

For this appraisal, Taz bloodied Jules's nose. When Jules's friends piled on, Taz gave a good account of himself.

A bastard can't ever be anything!

As they rolled into the Atlanta railyard, another train drew alongside.

Like theirs, it overflowed with Confederate soldiers, some standing between cars, others on the tops of the cars. Cheers volleyed from one train to the other. In Taz's car, one soldier struck up a banjo and another tootled a mouth organ, though they weren't playing the same tune.

Side by side, the trains raced toward the huge open-ended brick Car Shed, which they penetrated with bells clanging and brakes shrieking. The sun vanished and cinders, unable to escape through the Car Shed's roof, clattered like buckshot onto the tops of the cars.

"This is it, boy." The corporal hefted his haversack. "The bustlingest town in the Confederacy. You can find anything you want in Atlanta." He winked. "Might find some things you'd be better off without.”

Across the filthy brick platform, a hospital train was disgorging soldiers wounded at the Fredricksburg fight. Men supported one another or hobbled along on crutches. Negro litter bearers carried the severely wounded.

Behind the cluster of ambulances at the end of the platform, Peachtree Street was stalled carriages, angry teamsters and riders taking to the sidewalks as pedestrians cursed them.

Taz intercepted a well-dressed civilian, "Sir, can you direct me to Belle Watling's establishment?”

The gentleman eyed Taz up and down. "I will not. You look to be a decent young lad who cannot possibly have business at" — he twisted his mouth around the name — "Chapeau Rouge.”

"You're acquainted with Chapeau Rouge, sir?" Taz asked pertly.

"Insolent whelp!”

Atlanta was colder than New Orleans and Taz could see his breath.

The soldier Taz accosted was more helpful. "Boy, just walk on down Decatur Street. When it gets right lively, you's 'bout where you want to be.”

Brick sidewalks gave way to boardwalks, which gave way to dirt paths beside rutted streets. The gaslights quit with the business district. The overcast sky was a glowing ceiling through which neither stars nor moon penetrated.

After twenty minutes or so, Tazewell Watling came to a cluster of saloons and cribs, tinkling pianos, hoots, and braying laughter. "Please, sir.

Which is Chapeau Rouge?”

The soldier was too drunk for words. His finger slewed up and down the street before settling on a two-story frame house with drawn curtains and a demure red lantern in its parlor window. This house had known better days and loomed over its shabby neighbors like a disapproving aunt. Behind a picket fence, the front yard was neat; its rosebushes were pruned for winter. The negro on the porch was smoking a cigar. His dark suit looked scratchy. A pale scar divided the man's face from chin to forehead. "Boy,”

he growled, "you got no business here. Git!”

Taz set his bag down and massaged his cramped hand. He said, "Abraham Lincoln emancipated the negroes. Why don't you git?”

Belle Watling's bully, MacBeth, said, "I'm a 'Lanta nigger. Them 'mancipators don't scare me none.”

Tuesday after the battle of Fredricksburg, Chapeau Rouge was quiet.

Last Saturday, the telegraph had brought news of the great Confederate victory, so Sunday morning, Belle Watling's top Cyprian, Minette, had sought out the soldiers' widows who filled in when Belle expected an overflow crowd. The Chapeau Rouge was usually closed on the Sabbath, but the Federal losses at Fredricksburg had been so huge, their mighty army so thoroughly humbled, that Belle ran out of champagne by six Sunday evening, dispatched MacBeth twice to replenish the brandy, and a score of exuberant patriots were still waiting on her doorstep at eleven that night.

Monday, Belle's Cyprians had moped around the establishment, sore, weary, and hungover, but by Tuesday evening the house had recovered its equilibrium and Minette had almost been glad to welcome the provost officer they'd nicknamed "Captain Busy.”

The Chapeau Rouge was the most expensive sporting house in Atlanta.

Its callers were high-ranking Confederate officers, speculators, and profiteers.

It had been unexceptional in New Orleans's Vieux Carr? but was considered highfalutin in earthier Atlanta.

In its parlor, hand-tinted lithographs of Parisian street scenes hung on flocked red-and-green-striped wallpaper. The ormolu mantel clock was flanked by tall marble Venuses in coy poses. Belle's spittoons were stored in cupboards unless requested. Her "Frenchy" furniture encouraged tough men to sit straight with their hands in their laps. To these men, Belle's Cyprians were as exotic as egrets. At the slightest provocation, the girls would burst into giggles or swift incomprehensible Creole.

Rhett Butler owned a share in the Chapeau Rouge and kept an office upstairs. Would-be troublemakers departed quietly when MacBeth told them, "Sir, I reckon you best be goin' home now. Wouldn't want to fetch Captain Butler.”

Minette was a courtesan, and a shrewd one. To provide for her old age, Minette bought house lots in New Orleans' Garden District and she tithed to the Good Fathers for the future of her soul. When Madame Belle invited Minette to work at the Chapeau Rouge, Minette nearly turned her down because Madame Belle was decidedly not a courtesan.

Although Madame Belle was older than Minette, she was a child as only American women can be children — infuriating children! A courtesan understands the nature of the transaction; the American is likely to confuse it with love — a confusion from which, Minette believed, only her sound Creole advice had kept Belle Watling.

Tonight, Minette smiled her courtesan's smile and told Captain Busy how dapper he looked.

"Ah, Minny. Have you changed your hair? It seems much redder than it was. Did I hear Rhett is back in town?”

What questions this man asked! He'd sit in the parlor on a slow rainy afternoon and ask question after question. Minette once heard Eloise describing her first lover — a neighbor boy — while Captain Busy chuckled as she recounted the poor boy's fumblings. Captain Busy advised Hélène on constipation, suggesting remedies when everyone knew Hélène’s laudanum was the culprit! Once Captain Busy had asked Minette how she avoided pregnancy!

Captain Busy was extremely curious about Captain Butler: where he was, what he was doing, what he thought about this or that. How was Minette to know what Rhett Butler thought — and what business was it of Captain Busy's? When Minette complained about the meddlesome provost, Rhett was amused. "Edgar is still trying to solve the mystery of life, Minette. Let him stew.”

Edgar Puryear was a slender fellow, whom men remembered, after he had left the room, as shorter than he was. He had a bony long face, big ears, and a wide, expressive mouth; his fine eyelashes protected eyes as bright as a curious sparrow's.

Something about Captain Busy made ordinary Confederate soldiers want to knock him down, and when the liquor flowed on payday nights, his sergeant, Jack Johnson, accompanied him.

Tonight, the provost asked Minette for brandy. "Just a tot, dear Minny," putting his fingers two inches apart.

Power fascinated Edgar Allan Puryear. Rhett's father, Langston Butler, was powerful because he was rich and ruthless — rich because he was ruthless. Charlotte Fisher Ravanel was powerful because she was rich, and Andrew Ravanel was powerful because war rewards courage.

Edgar Puryear didn't understand Rhett Butler's power.

When young Rhett first arrived at Cathecarte Puryear's school, Edgar had gone upstairs to assess his father's new pupil. Rhett looked at Edgar, looked through him, and disregarded him in a single instant. Wait a minute, young Edgar wanted to protest. I am not merely what you see. I am more than that! But thereafter, Edgar only earned Rhett's half-amused smile.

When Edgar flattered Rhett, Rhett mocked his flattery. When Edgar bought an expensive foulard for Rhett, Rhett never wore it. One evening, Edgar spotted it around the neck of Miss Polly's negro doorman. The only time Edgar summoned up courage to explain himself, Rhett interrupted before he'd finished three sentences — "Not now, Edgar" — and left the room.

Rhett Butler was never cruel to Edgar — not as Henry Kershaw and Andrew Ravanel could be cruel — but Rhett's indifference was worse than cruelty.

Was that Rhett's secret? Might Rhett's indifference be his power? When Rhett Butler was expelled from West Point (and no Charlestonian would have been surprised had young Butler put a bullet in his head), Only Edgar Puryear had greeted him at the dock. "Damn, it's good to see you, Rhett. Been too long! Come along with me. Polly's got a new girl with the most amazing appetites...”

Rhett had smiled the half smile Edgar hated and said, "Not now, Edgar," and walked into town.

Coal scuttle in hand, the Chapeau Rouge's housemaid hesitated in the parlor doorway.

"Ah, come in, child.”

"Sorry, sir. I didn't know anyone — “

"No matter. No matter. Do your work. Afraid I'll bite you?”

"No, sir.”

"I'd never bite anyone as pretty as you.”

The girl blushed.

"Tell me, child, when is Captain Butler expected?”

"Don't know, sir.”

When she knelt to scoop coals into the stove, her dress stretched across her back and every knob on her long spine was visible. When Minette brought the captain's brandy, she snapped, "Lisa! You are not to come into the parlor in the evening!”

The startled housemaid tipped her scuttle and coal skittered underneath Captain Puryear's wing chair. He opened his knees so she could reach between them.

"Clumsy child," Minette hissed. "Leave them. You can pick up after the captain departs.”

"Minny, do you think Lisa might care for me?”

"Lisa is a child, Captain," Minette said coolly. "She does not entertain callers.”

When MacBeth came in, clutching a strange boy's arm, Lisa took the chance to flee.

MacBeth told Minette, "Boy says he's Miss Belle's sprout.”

Brown hair combed to the side; the boy's narrow face was older than his years. Minette compared him with the daguerreotype enshrined on Madame's dressing table. "But mon petit, you are with the Good Fathers!

You are in New Orleans!”

Taz spread his hands as if he had no idea how he found himself in Atlanta.

He smiled a charming smile.

"Says he's Miz Belle's," MacBeth repeated.

Edgar Puryear's attention fixed on Taz. "Boy, who are you? How are you called?”

"I am Tazewell Watling, sir.”

"Watling, by God! And you were born?”

"In New Orleans, sir.”

"Not where! When? Why should I care where you were born? Let me calculate. Twelve — no, it'd be thirteen years ago!”

"I have thirteen years, yes, sir.”

"Captain, cher. There will be time for questions later, no? The boy has come to see his dear Mama.”

Captain Puryear stood and studied Taz like a buyer inspecting a colt.

"Yes, there is a resemblance, a definite resemblance — those ears, that nose!”

He toasted the boy. "Tazewell Watling! By God, you're Rhett Butler's bastard!”

He drained his brandy and set the glass on the mantel.

"You are mistaken, sir. Captain Butler is my guardian.”

"Why, of course he is. No doubt about that. He's whatever the old tomcat says he is.”

The mantel clock ticked; the fire hissed in the parlor stove.

Taz had traveled far and he was tired. "I will inform Captain Butler of your interest in my parentage, sir.”

Captain Puryear's eyes went flat. "We'll discuss this another time, boy.

Minny, you can bring me another brandy? The French brandy this time, eh, chere?”

Minette hustled Taz down the hall into what had been a family dining room but was now Belle Watling's boudoir, the sanctuary of an uneducated woman with money. Dark silk moiré drapes covered the windows and muffled the street noises. Her lamp globes were painted with plump, garish flowers. Belle's coverlet was rose brocade and numerous large and small fringed pillows were arranged at the head of her bed. Warm, perfumed air enveloped Taz. This overwhelming femininity made him uneasy.

His mother peered over her reading glasses. "Taz," she said, stunned, "But I was just writin' you!”

"Madam, le bonjilsl" Minette nudged the boy toward his mother.

Taz tried to forestall Belle's protest. "Please, Maman, I am so happy to be here. Can I stay with you?”

"But Taz ...”

"I crawled through the Federal lines, right past their sentries. One of 'em near stepped on me! If he had, I don't know what I'd have done! I hadn't brought any food and hadn't had anything to eat and, Maman, I was hungry.

Anyway, then I met up with some drovers taking cattle to Montgomery and they gave me corn cakes to eat. When I got to the railroad, the provosts wouldn't let me on the train. The soldiers snuck me on.”

Her son flew into Belle's arms. "Lord knows, I've missed you, darling boy.”

Minette opened the liquor chest, muttering, " 'Minny'! 'Minny' he calls me! If Minette is good enough for the baptismal record, it is good enough for Captain Busy!”

Belle gently brushed her son's hair off his forehead. "Minette, not now, please.”

"Eloise won't come downstairs when that man's in the house.”

"Yes, Minette. Later, please.”

"Captain, here is your French brandy!" Minette spat in the tumbler before she filled it and left.

Mother and son embraced and talked and embraced again. A little later, Lisa brought a tray with soup and bread. Taz ate at his mother's dressing table, among her pomades and potions. "Lisa is pretty, isn't she, Maman?”

he said between bites.

"The poor child's husband's killed in the War. They had only one day together. Only one day! When she come to our doorstep, I took her in.”

Belle laid comforters on the floor beside her bed, and after the boy fell asleep, Tazewell Watling's mother watched him for some time before she kissed him on the forehead and extinguished the lamp.

The next morning, when Taz returned from the necessary, smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney. Lisa jumped back from the stove she'd been feeding. "You scared me. Ain't used to no early risers.”

"I don't need much sleep," Taz said. "In New Orleans, we don't sleep hardly at all.”

She cocked an eyebrow. "That so?”

"Day or night. Something's always doing in New Orleans." He rubbed his nose. "Atlanta's so smoky. How do you stand it?”

"Ain't bad once you're used to it.”

"Maman says you are a widow.”

"My Billy's kilt.”

"I've never been married," Taz said.

"Course you ain't been married. You're just a baby.”

Taz drew himself up. "In New Orleans, we say, 'L'heure coq conte, li bon pour marie!' " He translated politely, " 'When the cock crows, he's ready to marry!' “

"You talk funny," she said. "Talk some more.”

In French, Taz told Lisa she had pretty eyes. Lisa colored, for the French language cannot disguise sentiment. Taz added, "I suppose you heard I'm a bastard.”

"I don't know I ever met a bastard.”

"Well, now you've met one, what do you think?”

"I think I was cookin' oatmeal and might be you'd want some.”

Later, Taz met the Cyprians: Eloise, who had the longest black hair he'd ever seen, and Hélène, whose eyes were sleepy from laudanum.

Macbeth’s knuckles were broken and flattened from fighting. MacBeth had been reared in Atlanta. "I'm a city nigger," MacBeth said. "I don't wear no kerchief. There's a hat on my head.”

Taz asked MacBeth about Captain Butler.

"Captain Butler comes and goes," MacBeth said.

"Does Butler sleep here? In the house, I mean.”

"You mean do he lie up with your mama?" MacBeth asked with a straight face.

Taz balled his fists, but MacBeth glowered until the boy relaxed. Taz looked off and whistled tunelessly. "Did you ever kill anyone?" Taz asked.

"Only niggers," MacBeth said.

Taz clicked Rhett's door closed behind himself and sniffed. Stale cigar smoke and dust. So this was his father's office. Until the provost captain had spoken, Taz hadn't suspected. When he'd asked Belle about his father, she'd always said, "There'll be time for that when you're grown.”

Well, he was grown now.

His father's office was nothing special: a desk, a ponderous iron safe, a walnut daybed, two sturdy chairs, and an oak chifforobe. The front windows overlooked the walk, where MacBeth was raking cigar butts from the flower beds. The rear windows framed Belle's stable and, behind it, a weedy pasture ending at a vividly green margin of swamp grass beside a murky creek.

Taz spun the dial and tried the brass lever, but Rhett's safe was locked.

He leaned back in his father's chair.

Several times, Belle had told Taz how she and Rhett had been reacquainted: "If I hadn't passed the St. Louis Hotel that day, Taz, honey, I reckon things would have been bad for me. I didn't have nothin', nary a dime. I'd give you up to the orphanage and I was too shamed to even come visit you. Honey, I saw these fancy folks outside the St. Louis and thought they might just spare me somethin'. I didn't have no pride, honey. You got no pride when you're down-and-out. Anyway, I didn't recognize him at first, but he knew me right off. Rhett Butler took care of me. Took care of me and took care of my darling boy, too.”

Rhett's suits and starched shirts hung in the chifforobe above two pairs of riding boots in stretchers. There was nothing in the desk except pens, ink, writing paper, and Charles Dickens's American Notes.

Taz swiveled the chair. Scuffs on the chair rail showed where Rhett Butler had rested his boot heels. Even scooted down as far as he could get, Taz's feet couldn't reach them.

Taz ate breakfast with Lisa and supper with the Cyprians at four o'clock. Before sundown, he went upstairs and sat on Rhett's daybed, reading Mr. Dickens until after midnight. He heard laughter, unsteady footsteps outside the office door, and Cyprians giggling.

After MacBeth had seen their last guest out, Belle locked the front door, snuffed the red lamp and the parlor lamps, and went upstairs to fetch her son.

Belle Watling was not a beautiful woman, but she was lively and appealing.

One year for her birthday, Rhett bought her a gray silk Paris gown.

Belle folded it and laid it in its original paper wrapping deep in her bureau drawer. She wouldn't wear it. "Nobody would know me," she said.

Another time, Rhett suggested Belle wear less face powder. He sat her before a dressing mirror, washed her face with warm water, and cleansed it with cotton. "You don't need rouge, my dear. Your cheeks glow like pippins.”

The Belle in the mirror seemed ten years younger, innocent and shy.

The country girl looking at her made Belle cry.

On Saturday night, army payday, three days before Christmas, a wreath hung on Chapeau Rouge's front door. Sergeant Johnson grinned at his boss. "Merry Christmas, Captain.”

After Edgar Allan Puryear went inside, Sergeant Johnson put his boot on the porch railing and lit his pipe.

From the green velvet love seat in the parlor, a one-armed major asked Edgar, "Aren't there enlisted men's brothels where you might better spend your time, Provost Captain? Or are they a little ... rough for you?”

When Edgar Puryear pursed his lips, the major rose, drawing Hélène after him. "Let us continue upstairs, my dear." Hélène covered her mouth and giggled.

A trio of artillery lieutenants came in laughing but made faces at the provost's back and took their custom elsewhere.

Paydays were Chapeau Rouge's busiest nights, and Minette smiled through her teeth. "Captain Puryear, I am so glad you are here tonight.”

"Because?”

Minette went on. "You are so curious to learn about our young Tazewell.

Captain Butler is expected this night. Miss Belle and MacBeth are at the Car Shed awaiting his train. You will satisfy all your questions from — how you say? — the horse's mouth.”

To Minette's satisfaction, Edgar flinched. "Will you take a brandy while you wait, Captain?”

Edgar Puryear went to the mantel clock and stared unseeing at its elaborate gilt hands. He took a sharp breath and turned. "Fetch the boy.”

"Captain?”

"Fetch the boy, Minny, or I'll have my sergeant fetch him.”

When Minette brought Taz downstairs, she warned him about Captain Busy. "He is like the alligator," Minette said. "He is most dangerous when he smiles.”

The provost captain indicated a chair, but Taz remained standing.

"Sir? "When your father and I were your age, boy, we were great friends." Edgar smiled. "Some of the things we got up to." Edgar chuckled reminiscently.

Sir? "You know, boy. As close as we were in those days, Rhett never told me he was courting Belle Watling. Rhett was a gentleman, you see, and Belle — -" Frowning, Edgar turned at the interruption. "Ah, Lisa. Come in, my dear. I was hoping I'd see you again.”

The girl stood in the doorway with a telegram in her hand. "Please, sir ...

"Come in. Do come in. What have you there?”

She approached with downcast eyes.

"Bring it to me, Lisa.”

"Sir, this ain't for you. It's from Captain Rhett for Miss Belle.”

His snapping fingers were a magnet. Edgar read the flimsy, crumpled and dropped it on the floor. "No great matter, child. My friend Rhett's train is delayed." The Captain stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.

"No, Lisa, you mustn't go. It's rude to leave your guests before the party ends." He cocked his head. "I'll bet you didn't know that Tazewell is Captain Butler's son? No? Friend Rhett plays his cards so close to the vest.”

Minette said, "You may go now, child. You have duties in the kitchen.”

"I haven't said she could go." Captain Puryear smiled, as if Minette had made a forgivable blunder.

Minette shrugged. She was a courtesan after all, not the girl's mother.

Taz stepped between Lisa and the Captain's wing chair.

"Fond of her, are you, boy? Do you like money, girl?”

Lisa tucked her hands under her apron. "Everybody likes money," she announced scornfully.

Edgar whispered, "Pretty little trifle, isn't she, boy?" With the air of a man with all the time in the world, he opened his purse and extracted a twenty-dollar gold piece, which he turned in the light before he laid the coin on the mantelpiece. "Ever seen one of these before, girl?”

Lisa was drawn to it. "That's right smart of money.”

The silver dollar Captain Puryear set beside the gold piece seemed its poor relation. "The act doesn't last thirty minutes and it's not as if you haven't done it before." He stroked the girl's arm like a man pets a strange cat and murmured, "That bedroom at the top of the stairs, Minny, is it available?”

"Captain!" Minette protested. "Lisa is a child. I am the courtesan!”

"Minny," Puryear said, "if I'd wanted your favors, I'd have had them.”

To Lisa: "Go ahead, girl. Touch the money.”

To Taz's shame, his voice broke when he said, "Leave her be!”

"Do you fancy her, boy? Look at her, Tazewell Butler. Lisa's so greedy.

Such pretty trash and so, so greedy." Edgar dipped into his wallet for a second silver dollar. He slid the coin atop its mate so slowly, it hissed.

Mesmerized, Lisa took a step toward the money.

"The hell you say! The hell!" Tazewell Watling swept Puryear's coins onto the floor.

Lisa dropped to her knees chasing the gold piece, which had rolled underneath the love seat. Grinning from ear to ear, Edgar rocked back on his heels, laughing.

Taz hurled the mantel clock, but the provost ducked. The missile exploded into springs, cogwheels, and broken glass.

"Dear me! Dear, dear me!" Edgar Puryear chuckled.

His eyes changed when Taz picked up a Venus statuette.

"Boy, you wait one minute! You wait! Strike a Confederate officer, and by God ..." Edgar blocked Taz's blow with his right arm. He yelped, "Goddamn you, boy! You hurt me! That's enough!”

Taz's lips were drawn over his teeth. "You bastard!" Taz feinted, and when the provost tried to grab the statue, Taz backhanded him across the nose. Edgar's eyes teared.

"Jesus Christ, Busy!" Sergeant Johnson spoke from behind Taz. "He's just a goddamned kid!”

Despite which, the sergeant knocked the kid unconscious with his shotloaded sap.

hen Taz woke, his left foot was warm because someone was vomiting on it. Taz retracted his foot. His head pulsed so bad he w opened his mouth to let the pain escape. In a corner, a soldier rested his forehead against the wall he was pissing on. Taz touched the knot on his head. He'd lost a shoe and his pockets were turned inside out. When he shut his eyes, he saw blue-and-orange pinwheels. Moonlight trickled through a high barred window. The Judas hole in the cell door was a perfect circle of unblinking yellow light.

Hours went by before an aged negro called softly through that hole, "Lookin' for Watling. Tazewell Watling? Watling with us tonight?”

Taz followed the negro down the corridor into a guardroom with a bench along one wall and a table behind which a Confederate colonel sat, thumbing through papers. He didn't look up at Taz.

At six in the morning, Rhett Butler's shirt was fresh and he was cleanshaven.

Taz could smell his pomade. "Taz, you broke poor Edgar's nose. He can't show his face in public.”

Pain jolted behind Tazewell's eyes. "Captain Puryear is a blackguard.”

"Edgar hasn't the guts to be a blackguard, Taz. Edgar just dirties what he touches." Rhett's big gentle fingers explored the boy's skull and he peered into his eyes. "Your noggin's fine, boy. In his line of work, Sergeant Johnson is a virtuoso.”

"Sir, Captain Puryear was taking liberties.”

"Edgar has unusual tastes. I'll take you back to the Jesuits. You can't learn to be a gentleman in jail.”

Taz was tired. He hurt and he smelled bad. Had his father ever been tired or sick or hurt or afraid? Were his clothes always immaculate? Did he always smell of pomade? Taz summoned up his boy's dignity. "Sir, in the orphan asylum we boys said that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west for the finest gentleman and for that gentleman's bastard alike.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN A Legendary Rebel Commander

From childhood, Melanie Hamilton had known that she would marry Ashley Wilkes because "The Wilkeses always marry cousins.”

Every summer, Melanie and her brother, Charles, rode the train from Atlanta to Jonesboro, where John Wilkes's body servant, Mose, met them at the depot. Mose always had molasses candy in his pocket and always pretended that this time he'd forgotten it.

The Twelve Oaks Wilkeses were the Hamiltons' grandest relations and Charles and Melanie arrived in their stiffest, starchiest clothing. They'd been scrubbed to a fare-thee-well. Aunt Pittypat's injunctions ("If you let your napkin fall, don't pick it up.”

“Don't ask to ride Cousin India's pony.

Wait until India offers.") were unnecessary: the Hamilton orphans were overawed.

Charles enjoyed these visits; Melanie didn't. Atlanta was a city, and despite the Wilkeses' fine library and finer manners, Twelve Oaks was the country. All those impersonal trees amid which a child might so easily become lost, that dark muddy river in which that child might drown. And so many dreadful bugs! Honeybees and newsbees and bumblebees and yellow jackets and mud daubers and sweat bees and paper wasps and the nasty bugs that tangled themselves in Melanie's hair, and the whining bloodsuckers trapped inside her bed netting that kept her awake half the night.

Charles said that if you let them drink their fill, the spot wouldn't itch afterward.

It was horrible to watch Charles let some mosquito fill its pendulous bright red abdomen on his thin outstretched arm.

Charles started calling Twelve Oaks "the Kingdom of Bugs," swooping and buzzing at Melanie until she didn't know whether to giggle or cry.

Since Melanie would one day marry Ashley Wilkes, she wanted to love Twelve Oaks as Ashley loved it, but the prospect of becoming the next Mrs. Wilkes, managing that enormous house, servants, and household economy, daunted her. When Ashley's mother died, Ashley's sisters, India and Honey, worked awfully hard. One day, Ashley's wife would be expected to manage everything by herself.

Melanie and Ashley would take their place at Twelve Oaks as Ashley's parents had, and Twelve Oaks would sustain them until they made their final journey to the graveyard atop the hill behind the house.

The courting couple climbed the stone steps to that graveyard to sit beneath its canopy of aged chestnuts and elms. There they exchanged those solemn sentiments young people utter in such a place.

Melanie did love Twelve Oaks' gardens: the magnolias, azaleas, rhododendrons, and Bourbon roses. Her happiest memories were of sitting beside Ashley beneath the wisteria, whose thick vines were as old as the manor house itself.

The couple talked about books and beauty. They discussed Mr. Scott's Ivanhoe and Mr. Dickens's The Old Curiosity Shop.

Ashley and Melanie's courtship was so muted, others could be excused for not noticing it. They were spared those painful doubts, hesitations, half commitments, bold advances, and wounded retreats of those unfortunate lovers who do not marry cousins. One spring afternoon, Ashley asked Melanie to marry him and Melanie said yes. Ashley wore, Melanie later recalled, a rose in his buttonhole. Melanie was surprised by how thoroughly she enjoyed Ashley's kiss.

After a year of service with his Georgia regiment, Ashley had volunteered for Ravanel's brigade because, as Ashley wrote Melanie, "I thought it my duty.”

Melanie could not criticize her husband's decision, but his transfer to Ravanel's dangerous brigade gave her sleepless nights.

Not long after he joined Ravanel, Ashley regretted that decision.

"Charleston gentlemen aren't Georgia gentlemen. That the Low Country is the known universe and that Charleston is the center of the universe, they have no doubts. When I describe Twelve Oaks' gardens, the rare roses great-grandmother brought from Virginia's Tidewater — those same roses her great-grandmother brought from Surrey! — they tell me the roses beside the Jockey Club are the 'prettiest in the South,' though they can't name the variety!”

In a postscript, Ashley added, "Colonel Ravanel is an inspiring commander, but I'd never leave him alone with my sisters!”

In the hectic, thrilling days as the South went to war, Miss Melanie Hamilton had married Mr. Ashley Wilkes, and Miss Scarlett O'Hara had married Mr. Charles Hamilton. Neither couple had time to take a breath. At first when tradesmen called Melanie "Mrs. Wilkes," she didn't know whom they were talking to.

Six months later, Melanie was devastated when her brother, Charles, died. Melanie had been a toddler when she and Charles were put in Aunt Pittypat's care. Christened Sarah Jane Hamilton, the plump, childlike woman had been "Pittypat" as long as anyone could remember. Her household had been so happily disordered that "Pittypat's" was where all the neighborhood children came to play. Melanie couldn't remember her dead father and mother. She loved her brother, Charles, as only an orphan can love.

Melanie had been such a sickly child, she knew Atlanta's doctors by their unique tread on the stairs. Melanie had expected to die young, but Charles was supposed to live forever!

When Charles died, the Hamiltons' shared childhood died with him: Mose's molasses candy, the closet under Pittypat's stairs, which had been their secret hiding place, the silly childhood jokes, which could still fetch an adult's reminiscent smile. "The Kingdom of Bugs" died with Charles Hamilton.

In the first year of the war, with Ashley in the army and Charles in his grave, Melanie Wilkes was desperately alone.

Getting through each long, long day, smiling at those who needed her smile, commiserating with the kind souls who'd come to commiserate with her: Melanie's duty was her refuge.

Melanie diluted her own grief worrying about her brother's widow, Scarlett. Melanie entirely approved when Scarlett's mother sent the young widow to visit kinfolk in Charleston. At the station, Melanie told her sister-in- law what Melanie didn't believe herself: that grief for Charles would one day end.

When Scarlett's Charleston visit didn't improve the young widow's spirits, Melanie suggested Pittypat invite Scarlett and Baby Wade to live with them in Atlanta. Pittypat hemmed and hawed. Finally, she said, "I'm afraid Scarlett is not a quiet person, dear.”

Melanie said they had responsibilities to the woman Charles had chosen and to Charles's infant son, Wade Hampton Hamilton. Pittypat, as she always did, gave way.

Melanie's sister-in-law was as vibrant as Melanie was demure. Scarlett feared nothing; Melanie's courage had never been tested. Scarlett had had a dozen eager suitors, Melanie had only been courted, and very quietly, by her cousin. Perhaps Melanie hoped some of Scarlett's vitality would rub off on her. She very much wanted her sister-in-law to be her friend.

Not long after Scarlett arrived at her home, Pittypat's fears were realized.

Scarlett rubbed Pittypat's dearest friends, Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing, crossways. Melanie made excuses for Scarlett and kept the peace.

And Melanie loved Baby Wade. Baby Wade had Charles's sweet, trusting eyes.

When Captain Butler started calling on the Widow Hamilton, Pittypat's friends, who could be so kind to sick children and elderly servants, were horrified — and made their disapproval felt.

Melanie'd heard awful things about Captain Butler, and, as luck would have it, neither Pittypat nor Scarlett was home the third time Captain Butler paid a call.

Melanie thought Rhett Butler was handsome in the way a big cat is handsome. He was more muscular than most gentleman, though his tailors had done their best to disguise that.

Captain Butler was devastated Mrs. Hamilton wasn't at home. He was leaving Atlanta tomorrow and his visit had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse.

"Captain Butler," Melanie said, "you are said to be a scoundrel.”

"Why, yes." He smiled. "I suppose I am.”

"Yet you are well-spoken and have a gentleman's bearing.”

"Appearances, Mrs. Wilkes, are famously deceiving.”

"Today, you bring Paris shoes for Pittypat and an English toy for Baby Wade.”

"Mrs. Wilkes, any housebreaker worth his salt disarms the guard dogs before he rifles the family silver.”

"Men say you are a sharp trader, but honest.”

He brushed off her mild praise as if brushing crumbs off his lapel.

"Businessmen flatter a thief rather than confess he outwitted them.”

"Mr. Butler?”

"Yes, Mrs. Wilkes?" His broad smile was heedless of consequence.

"I am told, Captain Butler, you believe this war is a fool's enterprise.”

His amusement vanished. "Dear lady, this war is already terrible. I fear it will become more terrible. It will destroy the South.”

She offered her small hand. "It is a pleasure to welcome you, Captain Butler. Do come in. Might I brew you a cup of tea?”

From that moment, no one but Scarlett could speak ill of Rhett Butler in Melanie's presence.

Melanie was glad when Rhett's sparkling gig pulled up outside Pittypat's picket fence. In their topsy-turvy world, Rhett Butler was normalcy.

His brushed-felt hat refuted the fact that fine hats were not to be had at any price; Rhett's polished shoes denied that good shoes were unobtainable; the delicacies he brought were evidence that somewhere the world was not at war.

Sitting comfortably in their parlor, Rhett indulged Pittypat's curiosity about the latest Paris fashions and what was worn at the Court of St. James.

Melanie had always yearned to travel and delighted to hear Rhett's tales of New Orleans' raucous funeral bands and the wild California gold camps. (Mugfuzzle indeed!) Rhett and Scarlett clashed like flint and steel. It was none of Melly's affair, but there was something so magnificent about Scarlett and Rhett separately, Melanie couldn't help hoping they would combine. Melanie couldn't understand why Scarlett was cold to Rhett — unless her heart was still pledged to Charles. Rhett would mock Scarlett's coldness and leave angrily, and Scarlett would march through Pittypat's house, opening and slamming every door.

This particular morning, Captain Butler was out of town and the three ladies of Pittypat's household were driving to the National Hotel for the reception Dolly Merriwether had organized for Andrew Ravanel. The ladies hoped that Colonel Ravanel's adjutant, Ashley Wilkes, might accompany him.

It was a glorious, clear, cold winter day. The ambulances creaking through the city were so commonplace, people no longer noticed them.

"Melanie! You mustn't return those soldiers' waves," Aunt Pittypat said. "They may not be gentlemen.”

"They are our dear boys," Melanie Wilkes replied, and then cried out, "Boys, we are so proud of you!”

At her impropriety, Pittypat's aged houseman, Uncle Peter, grumbled and popped the reins. The mare picked up her pace for a moment before resuming her habitual amble.

Carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians were converging downtown. Blue bunting draped the gaslights, and Confederate flags fluttered from every window.

Pittypat said, "They say Colonel Ravanel's banjo player accompanies him everywhere. I'm told Colonel Ravanel's officers are jolly.”

When their carriage could get no nearer the hotel, the ladies descended and Pittypat instructed Uncle Peter to collect them no later than five o'clock.

"Yes, Miss Pitty. I be doin' my best.”

The crowd at the Car Shed was so thick, the ladies couldn't get through. At Scarlett's suggestion, they crossed behind the freight depot and, ignoring Pitty's complaints, picked their way across the tracks into the small park facing the National Hotel. From this vantage point, they couldn't see Colonel Ravanel's train puff into town, but they heard the welcoming shouts. A rolling barrage of huzzahs attended the hero's progress down Pryor Street and, pulled by citizens, his carriage hove into sight while boys ran ahead shouting importantly, "Make way for Colonel Ravanel! Make way!

"Oh dear," Aunt Pittypat said. "I feel faint.”

Scarlett was hopping with impatience. "Do you see him? Melanie, do you see Ashley?”

"You mustn't faint, Aunty. Scarlett, I can't make out who is in the carriage.

Please, Scarlett, you are taller than I!”

On tiptoe, Scarlett couldn't see through the forest of men's stovepipe hats.

"We won't get into the reception," Aunt Pittypat wailed. "We won't see Ashley, and Uncle Peter will forget to fetch us and we shall have to walk home. The shoes Captain Butler brought are pinching my feet!”

"If you'd given Captain Butler your correct size, your shoes might fit,”

Scarlett snapped.

"My dear! Everybody knows I have the smallest feet in the family!”

Scarlett bit her tongue and said, "Melly, aren't there stairs around back? Can we get in that way?”

"But dear," Pittypat protested, "those are servants' stairs.”

Melanie said, "Take my arm, Aunt Pitty. Please, gentlemen, let three ladies pass! Thank you, sir. Sir, thank you. You are so kind.”

They hadn't invitations, but Dolly Merriwether couldn't welcome her friends Pittypat and Melanie while turning Scarlett away. "Why, Scarlett,”

Mrs. Merriwether said with a tight smile. "I am so glad you've come to honor our Colonel.”

Scarlett curtsied. "Dear Mrs. Merriwether, you know how I adore our brave soldier boys.”

Mrs. Merriwether blinked like an owl.

"We hoped Ashley would be with Colonel Ravanel. Have you seen him, Dolly?" Melanie asked.

"Dear, I haven't been able to get near the Colonel. Half Atlanta has pushed itself into our fête. What good are invitations when no one respects them?”

Scarlett pushed through the crowd. A rail-thin, whitish blond Confederate officer had his ear bent to Dr. Meade, a bearded physician who shared his community's good opinion of himself. Andrew Ravanel turned to Scarlett with a bow. "Had I known Atlanta possessed such beautiful belles, I should have visited before.”

Searching for Ashley, Scarlett's eyes roved beyond the guest of honor.

Offhandedly, she said, "It is just as well you don't come often, Colonel Ravanel.

You've turned our city into Bedlam.”

"Isn't it terrible?" His grin was innocent, a boy's grin. "Dr. Meade, won't you introduce us?”

Scarlett couldn't see Ashley anywhere.

"Colonel Ravanel, Mrs. Charles Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton's husband gave his life for the Cause.”

Melanie came to Scarlett's side.

"So very many sacrifices ..." The Colonel bent to kiss Scarlett's hand.

"And this other lovely lady is ...”

"Mrs. Ashley Wilkes, Colonel. My husband, Major Wilkes, is on your staff.”

The Colonel's smile froze in place. "Major Wilkes has returned to his regiment.”

Melanie frowned. "But he just joined you.”

"Wilkes asked to return to his Georgia regiment and I honored his request.”

" But ... I knew nothing... Colonel, the mail is so unreliable! Please, tell me: How is my husband? Is Ashley in good health? Good spirits? Has he warm clothing?”

"Wilkes was healthy enough when I last saw him.”

Melanie's brow furrowed. "But Colonel Ravanel...”

Dr. Meade rescued the Colonel from further awkward questions.

"While our soldiers suffer dreadful hardships, speculators make fortunes. I have composed a strong letter to the Gate City Guardian denouncing those who convert public shortages to private gain." Dr. Meade paused for effect.

"Colonel Ravanel, aren't you Charlestonian by birth? You must know Rhett Butler.”

"Why, yes. His father, Langston, is in the Carolina legislature. Rhett's the black sheep, I'm afraid.”

Melanie Wilkes said, "Captain Butler is my friend.”

Dr. Meade bowed stiffly. "Mrs. Wilkes, I do not dispute Butler's charm.

Tell me, Colonel, do you know what army 'Captain' Butler is a 'captain' in?”

Scarlett barely heard these trivialities. She was so disappointed she could scream! She'd so hoped to see Ashley. Just a moment, one precious moment! What nonsense was Dr. Meade speaking now? Was he condescending to Rhett Butler? "Doubtless, Dr. Meade, you'll be glad when Captain Butler returns, so you can state your patriotic views to his face.”

Scarlett's smile was deliberately insincere. "Come, Melanie, we must share the Colonel with his admirers.”

Colonel Ravanel said, "My dear Mrs. Hamilton. You mustn't." He placed a hand on his breast and declaimed, "If you go, the light will leave the room.”

"Colonel, it's winter and gets dark early. If you need light, purchase a lantern.”

Melanie's worried eyes hadn't left the Colonel, "When I write my husband, Colonel Ravanel, might I convey your regards?”

"You needn't trouble yourself, madam. Captain Wilkes is well aware of my regard.”

On their ride home, Aunt Pittypat prattled about how handsome the Colonel was. "What did he say to you? Melly? Scarlett? Every word! Oh dear, Melly, are those tears I see?”

That evening, Melanie was so worried about Ashley, she took a sleeping draft. Pittypat was in the kitchen soaking her blistered feet while Scarlett took sassafras tea in the parlor. Daguerreotypes elbowed one another across Aunt Pitty's crowded mantel, prints from Godey's Lady's Book hung beside painted miniatures, silhouettes, and indifferent watercolors.

Every precious object held a memory. "That china press belonged to Melly's mother — it would feel so unwanted in the attic.”

Scarlett shifted seashells (collected on a Savannah beach twenty years ago) to make room for her cup. Scarlett didn't care for sassafras tea, but she cherished her moments alone.

She closed her eyes to thank God that Ashley had left Colonel Ravanel's brigade! The newspapers' "legendary Confederate" was reckless with his men's precious lives. What if she lost Ashley? Ashley killed! How could she have thought it! Quickly, she prayed, asking God to forgive her. She hadn't meant it!

A terrific jangling erupted on Aunt Pitty's front porch and a tenor voice sang,

"If you want to have a good time

if you want to have a good time,

jine the cavalry!”

When the bewildered Uncle Peter opened the door, Colonel Ravanel swept his plumed hat almost to the floor. "Good evening, Mrs. Hamilton.

I have come to offer innocent diversion to Atlanta's loveliest lady!" The negro with the Colonel tapped his banjo significantly. His face was solemn as, one slow note at a time, he plunked the familiar "Lorena.”

The Colonel recited the lyrics.

"'The years creep slowly by, Lorena.

The snow is on the grass again... '“

"Sir ..." Uncle Peter protested.

"Go to bed, Uncle. Old boy like you needs his rest.”

"You may leave, Uncle Peter." Scarlett rose from her chair. "Sir, I do not recall inviting you here.”

"'The sun's low down the sky, Lorena.

The frost gleams where the flowers have been... '“

"Your memory has failed you, Colonel. I am not called Lorena.”

He sighed profoundly. "Such a melancholy tune. We lonely soldiers sing it 'round our watch fires while dreaming of home and loving hearts we have left behind." His sad eyes invited her tenderest understanding. "Duty, dear Mrs. Hamilton — may I call you Scarlett? — duty is a harsh taskmaster.”

"Sir, are you drunk?”

Aunt Pittypat hobbled into the parlor, "Why, Colonel Ravanel...”

"You may return to the kitchen, Aunt Pitty. Colonel Ravanel is just leaving.”

"But Scarlett ...”

"Please!”

Shaking her head, Pitty withdrew.

The banjo player was so brilliant, he nearly blunted Scarlett's wrath.

With soft notes, the banjo player mimed his master's disappointment. His chords were silent sobs. He sought memories of happier times, changed keys, and struck up the lively "Ye Cavaliers of Dixie.”

Colonel Ravanel confided proudly, "Cassius's repertoire is endless.”

"Doubtless your repertoire is equally extensive, as I'm sure Mrs. Ravanel can attest. I thought your wife, Charlotte, a pleasant woman. Certainly she is more tolerant of fools than I. Good night, Colonel Ravanel.

Take your orchestra with you.”

His amused eyes froze. "I am not accustomed to mockery.”

"I am not accustomed to impromptu musicales in my parlor.”

"Cassius!”

When the negro's flying fingers stilled, his final notes hung in the air like dust motes. For the second time that evening, Andrew Ravanel swept his plumed hat so low, its feather ticked the floor. "Madam, I so admire a patriotic gentlewoman.”

"'Patriotic? Dear, dear me!" Scarlett covered her mouth in mock astonishment.

"I didn't know that was 'patriotism.' I believe what you intended has ruder names, though no well-bred Georgia lady would admit to knowing them.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Wedded

Rosemary Haynes strove to overrule her own heart. If she pretended with enough determination, her lie might become true and she would love her husband. She swallowed her yawns at John's nightly reading and even suggested a book or two. Some evenings, when her husband turned to her at the top of the stairs, Rosemary found a smile.

"Am I hurting you?”

Her fists clenched at her sides. "John, dear. Please, take your own satisfaction.”

Though conversations as husband and wife lurched like a wagon with a bent wheel, as Meg's father and mother they had no end of things to say to each other.

Rosemary was endlessly bemused by this wonderfully different edition of herself. Meg never dissembled. Sunny one moment, weeping the next: Meg had no natural reserve.

One evening when the parents came downstairs after hearing the child's prayers, John asked, "Why was she praying for horses? Meg was commending every horse in creation.”

"When Cleo and Meg went to White Point today, apparently they came upon a cabbie beating his horse. Cleo told me the horse was old — too old to pull anymore. Some adults were remonstrating ineffectually but Meg ran at the cabbie and pummeled his legs." Rosemary smiled fondly. "I suppose Meg's assault must have shamed the spectators, because an officer bought the poor beast on the spot.”

"Our dear daughter despises cruelty. The horse — “

"Yes," Rosemary said, "I imagine our Good Samaritan shot the beast soon afterward, but Meg imagines him whole and well in green pastures. I had a pony when I was a child. Jack, my Jack. Perhaps Meg — “

"Meg is too young for a pony.”

John Haynes was invited to the legislature to discuss strategies for defeating the Yankee blockade.

Waiting for the Columbia train to depart, Rosemary's husband ventured, "I hate to leave Meg," adding quickly, "I'll miss you, my dear, of course." John Haynes longed for better words, magic words that could make things different between them. His voice faded. "Oh yes, I will miss you.”

Despite a headache coming on, Rosemary advised, "John, please remember to dress warmly. You know how easily you take cold. Do remember to eat breakfast.”

"Yes," he said. "Well..." They embraced stiffly. She patted his hand.

He said, "Good-bye, my dearest.”

Rosemary smiled and waved as John's train left the depot. But once his car was out of sight, Rosemary slumped on the nearest bench. Her temples throbbed. She shut her eyes and made herself breathe deeply.

She heard a train: its bell, the hiss of escaping steam, the rumble of porters' wagons and passengers' greetings. Brisk footfalls paused before her, and when Rosemary opened her eyes, Andrew Ravanel was smiling down.

Her headache was gone in an instant. Rosemary felt lighter — so much lighter that, like thistledown, she might just float away.

"Well, hello there, Rosemary. Funny place to nap.”

"Good heavens, Andrew! I hadn't known you were due. Where's your welcoming committee?”

The Colonel laughed. "General Bragg says it does Southerners good to see me now and again." Andrew pressed a hand to his breast melodramatically.

"Dear Rosemary, I am a cheap utensil, like a bullet mold or mess kit, to be used until worn out and discarded.”

Rosemary smiled brilliantly. "Then all this 'gallantry' is a sham?”

"Why, of course it is! But can you keep a secret? War is grand fun!”

The negro carrying Ravanel's carpetbag had a banjo over his shoulder.

"Cassius, find us a cab. I'll slip into Charleston like a thief in the night.

Come, Rosemary, I will take you home.”

As their cab was trotting down Meeting Street, Andrew described his Atlanta reception. "As I climbed into the carriage, men were unhitching the horses. Had I fallen among horse thieves? But no! These citizens had it in their heads they must pull my carriage. They took up the shafts, trotting along so vigorously I wondered why such robust specimens weren't in the army.

"Next, I was bundled from my carriage, hoisted onto their shoulders, and deafened by cheers. I was rushed up the hotel stairs, worried my brains might be dashed out against the ceiling. At last I was set down, grateful to be on my own pegs. There, I met two of the grandest curmudgeons who ever curmudged. The good Dr. Meade delivered a denunciation of your brother, Rhett, that blistered my eyelashes, until I told Meade if Rhett were present, he wouldn't dare speak so boldly." Andrew took Rosemary's hand.

"The other curmudgeon, Mrs. Merriwether, is so formidable, we should clad her in iron plate and sail her down Charleston harbor. Spouting commonplaces to port and starboard, she would wreak havoc in the Federal fleet. And those other Atlanta ladies ... “

"Swooning at your feet?”

"A sad lot. One poor soul was the wife of the worst officer I've ever commanded. I lied shamelessly. By the time I finished singing Major Wilkes's praises, he was more vital to the Cause than Lee himself.”

Andrew caressed the soft skin on the back of Rosemary's hand: an exquisite touch on the boundary between pleasure and pain. "But Rosemary, here I am describing tiresome people with the loveliest woman in Charleston at my side.”

Rosemary recaptured her hand and sat up straight. "You forget I am a wife and mother, Andrew.”

"Why, so you are. That is as it should be. Happy mother, satisfied wife.”

As they rolled past the burnt district's ruined homes and churches, Andrew recaptured her hand. "Remember how it feels when you take a good horse over the jump, that instant when you trust the horse, give it its head, and it sails up and up, as if you are sailing into the blue, and you know in the next second, you are immortal. Do you remember, Rosemary, how it feels to be immortal?”

Rosemary spoke ever so softly. "No ...”

"We soldiers scurry and wait and suffer saddle sores and weather and awful food, and some days if it weren't for Cassius's banjo, I swear we'd all desert to the enemy. But one morning, we meet our foe in all his awful glory, and in that moment time stands still. Rosemary, isn't this your house? May I come in?”

"Yes," Rosemary said.

Servants know everything. Servants change rumpled bedclothes, and scrub undergarments; they hear ecstatic cries behind closed doors.

Next morning, Cleo told Cook, "That Colonel fellow, he get to the withdrawing room, but he never got past it, and when it looked like he was a-goin' to, Miss Rosemary, she ask me bring Miss Meg down so the colonel could admire her. Little Meg don't take to him. No she don't. The child starts a-carryin' on and a-kickin' her feet, so Miss Rosemary takes her off, and though the Colonel, he waits in the withdrawing room for near an hour, Miss Rosemary never come back.”

Disappointed, Cook said, "They didn't do nothin'?”

"Oh that Colonel, he surely wanted to do somethin'. He was like a stallion prancin' 'round a mare, snufnin' and showin' his teeth, and might be Miss Rosemary wanted to, too, but God tell her, 'Don't you dare! Keep yourself for your husband!' Good thing that Colonel din't look at me the way he look at Miss Rosemary, 'cause I swear I never seen no handsomer man.”

Cook shook her head, "Nothin'?" She brightened, "I'd wager the white folks will think they did.”

Andrew strode rapidly down the Battery, taking no notice of those who recognized him. Cassius trotted beside him.

Although Andrew banged the door knocker of the Fisher mansion, it was some time before his wife, Charlotte, came to the door. "Andrew!" she gasped. "You're home. I've prayed — “

Andrew brushed by her, waved Cassius inside, and slammed the door on all the world. "Where's the damned houseman? I was knocking forever!

Charlotte's smile flickered. "I had no idea you were coming... Oh God ... so very glad ... " Charlotte hurled herself into his arms and kissed him full and hungrily on the lips. Charlotte pushed him to arm's length, the better to drink him in. "Are you home, then, dear husband? Are you truly home?”

The hall was dim, the tables and chairs shrouded. Overhead, the unlit chandelier glittered like icicles. Andrew shivered.

"Juliet and I don't heat the front of the house anymore," Charlotte explained.

"We're living in the family room.”

"But, the servants ... surely ...”

"Dear me, Andrew. They're gone. Jolly and Ben and Martha ran away.

When our negroes reach Yankee lines, the Yankees emancipate them." She glared at Cassius. "You won't run away, will you?”

"Oh no, Missus. I'ze a good nigger.”

Andrew sent him away.

Charlotte said, "Juliet will be so glad to see you. She's gone to the market.

There is still food to be had, but it is frightfully dear.”

The family room's windows looked out on the winter garden. Formerly, this had been where children did their lessons and Fisher women could undo their stays and drink a cup of tea. Grandmother Fisher had always taken breakfast here.

Now, Charlotte's and Juliet's pallets flanked a four-plate cookstove, and the long table had been pushed against the window wall to serve as pantry, bearing enameled canisters, graduated from largest to smallest, and a fivegallon cask beside the Portland clock from Grandmother Fisher's office.

Charlotte stuffed wood into the stove. "We'll have a nice cup of tea, Andrew. Unless ... if you'd rather — we've so much brandy and wine.

Juliet and I haven't made a dent in Grandmother's wine cellar.”

"Tea will be fine.”

As if Andrew were a luxury she couldn't get enough of, Charlotte didn't take her eyes off her husband. She filled her kettle from the cask, chattering all the while. "We draw water from the cistern every morning, so we have water all day. Juliet and I take turns carrying it in. Oh Andrew, I am so glad you're home!”

Wisps of smoke squirted from the stove grates.

"Charlotte, dear Charlotte ... I have something to tell you...”

"Yes dear?" Charlotte splashed water on the stove. Smoke poured from the grates as water beaded and popped. "Oh dear, what have I done?”

Andrew opened the damper. "I'm afraid you smothered your fire.”

Coughing, Charlotte opened windows to let the smoke escape. "Oh Andrew, I'm sorry I'm useless. I'm the worst domestic on earth. We ladies were never expected to know how to start a fire or cook our supper or make our own beds. I'm sorry to be so helpless!”

Andrew took the kettle from her and set it on the quieted stove.

"Sit down, Charlotte. Please, just for a minute. You don't need to do anything now. Tomorrow, I'll buy new servants.”

"But Andrew ... Just as I start to get to know them, they'll run away.”

He straddled a bench. "Please, Charlotte. Do sit down. We'll talk about servants later. I have a confession.”

Charlotte's happiness became alarm. She sat slowly.

"When Juliet comes home today, she will have news of ... of ... a new scandal.”

"Scandal? Dear Andrew; you just got here. You haven't had time for a scandal!”

"Rosemary and I ...”

Charlotte's lips firmed. "No, Andrew. Not Rosemary. Rosemary's marriage — well, it isn't everything she wanted, but Rosemary wouldn't hurt me! Not... not... Not again!”

Andrew touched his heart. "I was rash, Charlotte. I was alone with Rosemary in her home. I was careless of her — of your reputation. But I swear before God that nothing happened.”

Charlotte sagged. She moistened her lips. "Rosemary was always prettier than I. Everybody loved Rosemary even when we were little girls. Andrew, I know you have not always been faithful to me. Don't lie to me now.

Please...”

Andrew's eyes tried to reassure her.

"I would particularly hate it if you betrayed me with Rosemary. I don't know if I could live on if you betrayed me with Rosemary.”

He took his wife's unresisting hand. "Charlotte, dearest. On my honor, I did not.”

Charlotte considered her husband while a minute ticked by before she rose and slid the kettle to the back of the stove. "Then that's settled.”

"Rosemary...”

She tapped his lips "Hush," she said, "I believe you, Andrew. I have always believed you. Please go down to the cellar and fetch a bottle of champagne.

It's been so long since we had occasion to celebrate.”

As Andrew had predicted, Juliet Ravanel learned Rosemary Haynes and her brother had spent two hours alone together. Her informant's eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure. Inadvertently, Juliet fanned the very fires she intended to damp when she snapped, "Dear, what could Andrew and Rosemary have possibly done in that short time?”

You may imagine what Charleston's wits made of that.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A Child's Refuge

Fruiting wood glistened pink and bluebirds fluttered in Pittypat's garden.

After the springtime roads were firm, the mighty Federal juggernaut would head south to crush the Confederate nation, and Major Ashley Wilkes was with the ragtag army that would confront it.

Without mentioning their prayers to one another, Pittypat, Melanie, and Scarlett prayed separately for Ashley first thing on waking and last thing before sleep.

On April 29, 77,000 Federal infantry and 3,000 cavalry crossed Virginia's Rappahannock River on the five pontoon bridges General Joseph ("Fighting Joe") Hooker had constructed.

General Lee's forty thousand met them in a scrub forest near Chancellorsville.

Fighting Joe boasted, "I've got Lee just where I want him.”

Six bloody days later, an ashen-faced Abraham Lincoln learned of Hooker's army's destruction. "My God, my God," the President whispered, "what will the country say? What will the country say?”

In mid-May, Melanie was in the kitchen placing crab-apple cuttings in a vase when Uncle Peter answered the front door.

Scarlett was at the breakfast table, stirring oatmeal she claimed "wasn't fit for horses.”

Uncle Peter popped in to announce, "Mr. Tarleton in the parlor, Misses.”

Scarlett gasped, "Tarleton? Which Tarleton?”

The grinning soldier wore a Federal officer's coat, dyed butternut and reenlisted in Confederate service.

"Why, Brent Tarleton." Scarlett smiled at the young man who had been one of her most ardent suitors. "Lordy, it's good to see you.”

"Miss Scarlett!" Spontaneously, the young man dropped to one knee.

"Marry me!”

Scarlett picked up her cue and fluttered girlishly. "But sir," she cried dramatically, "aren't you plighted to my own dear sister Careen?”

"Hang Careen!" Brent's gesture consigned Scarlett's sister to the rubbish heap. His bright eyes were wide and happy. "You cannot refuse me this time, Miss Scarlett!" The young soldier's too-serious mien faltered. His mouth twitched and he burst into laughter, which the delighted Scarlett joined in.

Brent brushed his trouser knee. "Dear Scarlett! Were we ever so young as all that?”

She shook her head. "I'm not sure I remember." Scarlett took the soldier's hands fondly. "Brent, you are a dear boy and it's wonderful seeing you again. Tell me, how are your brothers?”

"Well, Boyd's a captain now and my feckless twin, Stuart, was a sergeant until he punched our lieutenant. Somebody had to punch him, and Stuart won the toss." Brent patted his breast pocket, "I have here a letter from Private Stuart Tarleton to Miss India Wilkes. It is a rare curiosity — the first letter Stuart ever wrote to anyone! Brother Boyd's in the infirmary with soldier's disease and brother Tom is lazing about on General Ewell's staff; we tease him unmercifully.”

"Ashley?" Melanie put in eagerly.

"Your husband's fit as a fiddle, ma'am." Brent dove into his pocket for a thick packet. "Major Wilkes is more accustomed to letter writing than brother Stuart.”

When Melanie took Ashley's precious letters, she shivered as at her husband's touch.

Brent Tarleton had been furloughed for the spring planting.

Melanie breathed, "Might Ashley be coming home, too?”

"Reckon not, ma'am. I reckon the army don't need Brent Tarleton bad as it needs Major Wilkes.”

"Then I must be so grateful for his letters." Melanie swallowed her disappointment.

"Won't you take breakfast with us? It's only oatmeal, but we have maple syrup yet.”

"If you don't eat, Pitty's horse gets it," Scarlett said.

"Ma'am, I'm obliged to you, but I got to get on home. I've been thinking on Miss Careen." He fingered his officer's coat. "Do you think Careen'd want a Yankee's sword for a souvenir? I could've brought one, but I thought maybe she wouldn't care for it.”

At the front gate, Brent said he'd carry Melanie's letters on his return to the army. "Everybody says we'll be going north. We got the Federals on the run now and figure to hit 'em in their own country." He paused. "Everybody says we can whip 'em.”

"If you can't?" Melanie asked quietly.

Brent Tarleton took off his hat and scratched his head. His smile was the flashing smile of the boy he'd been: the ardent suitor, the rakehell rider, the lad who feared nothing. "If we can't whip 'em, I expect they'll know we tried.”

As Brent Tarleton predicted, in June, General Lee crossed the Potomac into Pennsylvania. One Atlanta paper trumpeted, "The fox is among the chickens!”

In the National Hotel casino, Rhett Butler observed publicly, "General Lee can't fight Chancellorsville twice." These days, no decent Atlanta home except Pittypat's was open to Captain Butler, and Pittypat's friends berated her for admitting "that unpatriotic profiteer"!

When Pittypat's resolution faltered, Melanie reminded, "Aunt Pitty, hasn't Captain Butler always been good to us?”

"Why yes, he has, but ...”

"Then it is our Christian duty to return his kindnesses. Dear Aunt, if people had listened to Captain Butler, this war would never have started and our dear Charles would be alive.”

Melanie had lost track of her brother's sword. Charles's commanding officer had sent back her brother's sword and diary, with his letter of condolence.

Charles's diary contained only two entries: "Arrived at Camp Foster. Introduced to Wade Hampton. He's a giant!" and, dated two months later, "Feeling a little under the weather. So to the infirmary. I hope I'm not sick long." Melanie had bundled these treasures with a daguerreotype of Charles taken the day he left for war. Melanie believed she'd given them to Scarlett, but Scarlett said no, Melly was mistaken. When Melly wrote Twelve Oaks, John Wilkes answered Charles's things were at Pittypat's, when were Melanie, Scarlett, and little Wade coming out for a visit. Scarlett said John Wilkes must be mistaken. She distinctly remembered seeing Charles's sword at Twelve Oaks.

In the best-ordered life, there is at least one instance when a distracted foolishness combines with a second foolishness to swell into calamity.

When the unhappy person realizes the course to which he or she is by now fully committed, the only hope is to look neither to left nor right, but press straight ahead.

Which is how sensible Melanie Wilkes found herself in a closet, overhearing words she desperately regretted hearing.

Alone in the house one warm afternoon, on sudden inspiration, Melanie opened the closet under the stairs where she and Charles had played as children, guessing (correctly, as it turned out) that's where Charles's things had gotten to.

The closet was narrow, with a sharply slanted ceiling, and as deep as the stairway was wide. Originally used to store table leaves, lamp chimneys, winter drapes, and linens, Pittypat hadn't objected when Melanie and Charles turned the odd-shaped closet into a playroom. Door louvers shed faint illumination inside, and it became a favorite refuge in games of hide-and-seek.

By the neighborhood children's common consent, any child in that hideyhole was invisible.

With a wisdom one mightn't have expected of her, Pittypat accepted that magic principle, and many a child-size tragedy — an unearned reproach, a best friend's snub, an excruciating embarrassment — was solaced in that small room. Many a child's tear had been shed there, many a child's direst vengeance contemplated; its mellow walls had absorbed so many frustrated sobs.

Invariably, Pittypat and Uncle Peter were astounded when a child burst out with tearstained cheeks but laughing, all good nature restored.

Like other childish things, the closet was gradually abandoned, but it had been so sacrosanct that it stayed empty for years, until someone — Pittypat, Uncle Peter, Cook — unthinkingly stored Charles's things in the place where the boy Charles had been invisible, and where one afternoon his grown sister opened the refuge and stepped inside, stooping for a parcel which had the unmistakable silhouette of a scabbarded sword.

The door swung shut and Melanie sat on the floor. Charles's presence was so strong in this place, she could almost hear him, outside the louvered door, hide-and-seeking through Pittypat's parlor. "Is dear Melly behind the love seat? No. Under the table? No. Behind Aunt Pittypat's drapes? Not here, either. Oh, where has sister Melanie gone?”

But it was Charles who was gone, and Mrs. Ashley Wilkes held her brother's things on her lap and stroked them, thinking how little, how very little, remains of us when we're gone. She wept herself into an unhappy slumber.

Melanie was startled into wakefulness when she heard Scarlett calling for her in the parlor.

Good Lord! How must it seem — asleep on a closet floor with her brother's sword in her lap? "Melly! Pittypat is taking supper with Mrs. Meade tonight! Are you home, Melly?”

Mrs. Ashley Wilkes's mind spun. She'd wait until Scarlett left the room! Then she'd emerge and compose herself!

"Ah, Scarlett, I find you at home.”

That familiar deep voice. Oh dear, Captain Butler was here, too!

Melanie knew she was acting the fool. Enough! She'd struggle to her feet with all those clunks and clatters — for the closet was very narrow — come out with her brother's sword, and say... Oh dear, what could she say? Melanie Wilkes could not submit herself to that ludicrous humiliation.

They'd be leaving in a moment. On pleasant afternoons, Rhett and Scarlett always visited on the front porch.

Outside the door, Melanie heard thumping sounds and the scrape of heavy furniture being shifted.

"What the devil are you doing?" Captain Butler inquired.

"Nothing.”

"On hands and knees behind the love seat? You're doing nothing?”

"You might help me, Rhett Butler, instead of standing there like a bump on a log! If you must know, I'm looking for Charles's sword. I put it somewhere, and now Melanie wants the darn thing and I told her I didn't have it.”

"So. If you find it, the sword will just 'turn up'? Scarlett, have I ever accused you of being an honest woman?”

"Rhett, help me! It's just a stupid sword.”

"Scarlett, why don't you put away those widow's weeds and we'll run away to New Orleans. You never cared for Charles anyway.”

"Don't be ridiculous.”

"Honey, I'm the only man in the world who understands you — and admires you despite.”

"You forget, New Orleans is in Federal hands.”

"Scarlett, Scarlett. Money can go anywhere.”

In her closet refuge, Melanie pressed her hand to her mouth. Didn't care for Charles? How could she not? Why, Charles was the most lovable boy in creation. When Charles laughed every bit of him laughed. Charles sang — off-key perhaps — but with all his heart. Charles ran to the river faster than Melly's little girl's legs could follow. "Wait for me, Charles! Wait for me!”

"New Orleans is the most cosmopolitan city in America. It'll suit you fine.”

"Captain Butler, you flatter me. I am no cosmopolitan.”

He laughed. "You're as green as grass, my dear, but you'd give your eyeteeth to be cosmopolitan. If Charles's sword was undistinguished, why not just buy another one?”

"Of course it wasn't distinguished. Nothing about Charles was distinguished.

But it was his grandfather's sword!”

A tear trickled down Melanie's cheek. She heard cloth rustle as Rhett embraced Scarlett, murmuring, "I hope one day you won't speak so harshly of me.”

"Why should I say anything about you? Aren't you a war profiteer? Shall I name the Atlanta homes that welcome you, the respectable families 'at home' when you call?”

He chuckled. "Should I give a damn about those biddies?”

"Why, of course you shouldn't, Captain Butler. You are beyond such mundane concerns. But we mere mortals have friends, and most of us are well regarded by decent society. I believe most of us are even welcome in our parents' homes!”

Cloth rustled again. "Ah, thank you for releasing me," Scarlett said. "I was beginning to fear for my chastity.”

"Mrs. Hamilton, you flatter yourself.”

Rhett's angry departing footfalls were accompanied by Scarlett's triumphant humming. When Scarlett finally left the parlor, Melanie Wilkes was able to release her anguished, lonely sobs.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Burnt District

The first time the Federal fleet attacked Fort Sumter, Charleston citizens had enjoyed a picturesque victory. The hearty roar of patriotic cannon produced waterspouts, which drowned the Federal ironclads as if they were water beetles. When the Keokuk sank off Morris Island, Dahlgren guns were salvaged from the wreck and Charlestonians rejoiced that the enemy's own weapons would be turned against him. The Mercury concluded that the city's defenses were impregnable: "Battery Wagner commands the western shore, Fort Moultrie the eastern; and in the harbor mouth, Fort Sumter defies everything the Federal Invaders hurl against her!”

Charleston's military commander, General Pierre Beauregard, was less sanguine and urged civilians to evacuate the city. Some wealthy citizens closed their homes and moved their households inland. Although the Langston Butlers made no new arrangements, the Wards decamped to Macon, Georgia, where Frederick's cousin had a plantation.

Haynes's kin in Hanging Rock, North Carolina, invited the Charleston Hayneses to bide with them "until this unpleasantness is finished.”

"I will stay here," Rosemary told John.

Thus far, every Federal attack had been repulsed. Sleek blockade runners — the Bat, the Condor, the Venus, the Advance, the Let 'er Rip, the Annie, the Banshee — lined Charleston's waterfront from Adger's Wharf to Government Wharf.

Then everything changed. In the third July of the War, proud Southern heads began to bow.

On a hot, rainy afternoon, anguished Charleston citizens collected outside the King Street telegraph office for the casualty lists from a Pennsylvania town no one had previously heard of. The news from Gettysburg could not have been worse: 17 Confederate generals and 28,000 soldiers killed or wounded.

That wasn't the end of it. The very next day, Charleston learned that Vicksburg's besieged garrison had surrendered. The Mississippi was in Federal hands and the Confederacy cut in two. That afternoon, people prayed in the streets outside Charleston's overflowing churches.

On July 10, a Federal division landed on Morris Island, and by nightfall, they'd driven the Confederate defenders to Battery Wagner's outer defenses.

Guns thumping, Federal ironclads prowled the island's shoreline. At 46 Church Street, little Meg stayed in her room with her hands clamped over her ears.

When her father came in that evening, Meg saw his face and burst into tears. John told Rosemary, "William Stock Bee's son was killed today.

When William came to my office, the good old soul could scarcely speak.”

"His only son. The poor, poor man.”

"Frederick Ward's son was killed, too. I understand Willy Ward died gallantly. 'Gallantly' !" John choked on the word. "Excepting Battery Wagner, Morris Island is in Federal hands and attacks on Wagner are sure to come. I've train tickets to Hanging Rock for you and Meg.”

"I will not go.”

"Wife!”

"This is the first time since January you have called me by that honorable name.”

"My God, Rosemary!”

Husband and wife looked at each other helplessly. Neither reached out and the moment passed.

When John Haynes was told that his Rosemary had spent hours with the seducer Andrew Ravanel, in John's own home, John had been heartsick.

John had never accused Rosemary. He didn't need to.

For her part, Rosemary knew she hadn't compromised her husband's honor. But Rosemary had been tempted, and the temptation lay almost as heavily as an actual betrayal.

Innocent but ashamed, Rosemary Haynes answered her husband's silent accusations with silence. Since January, they'd not had one easy, trusting moment.

A week after the landing, Federal gunfire swelled. Overlapping concussions made a breeze that ruffled window curtains as far inland as 46 Church Street, Very late that afternoon, despite a throbbing headache, Rosemary walked to the White Point promenade.

Exploded sand drifted in silver-gray plumes over Morris Island. Fort Sumter was obscured by smoke.

Dusk turned to dark. Guns flared like fireflies. Confederate gunboats shuttled wounded men and replacements across the harbor.

Citizens on White Point prayed or chattered or drank. After midnight, the guns stopped winking and Sumter became a black silent hulk. A half-moon poked through the yellow overcast.

A Confederate gunboat steamed past and a sailor yelled, "We busted 'em. Our boys busted 'em. The Federals ... some of them Federals was niggers.”

The attack on Battery Wagner had failed. In the morning, when Federal prisoners were brought into the city, that sailor's report was confirmed.

The soldiers who'd assaulted Battery Wagner had been negroes from the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts U.S. Colored Troops.

Rosemary half-expected Cleo or Joshua to mention what they surely knew: that negro soldiers had attacked Southern white soldiers and nearly defeated them. Cleo acted as if nothing untoward had happened. Joshua said he was glad the Federals had been repulsed. "I don't want no Yankees comin' in Charleston.”

"Really, Joshua?”

"You know I doesn't. I been Master Haynes's body servant since he was a boy.”

The negro prisoners were kept in the city jail while politicians debated their fate. Some legislators, Langston Butler among them, wanted the negroes "returned to that servitude for which they are best suited." General Beauregard wanted them treated as ordinary prisoners of war.

Federal ironclads and shore batteries continued pounding Confederate defenses.

At Church Street, neither husband nor wife said one word more than necessary. Meg pretended nothing was wrong and chattered while her parents moved silently through the house. One especially grim evening, Meg screwed up her courage to suggest all three play a game. When that idea died a-borning, Meg said, "If we can't play a game, we can sing together!”

and she marched around the room singing "The Bonny Blue Flag,”

accompanying her performance with nervous giggles. When Rosemary picked her daughter up, the child burst into tears.

That night, Cleo put Meg to bed. "It's all right, honey. It's all right. It's the darn ol' war, that's all.”

Downstairs, Rosemary said, "John, I'm not sure how much more of this I can stand.”

At 5 A.M on August 17, the Federals opened fire on Fort Sumter. Their gunners worked in shifts, four hours off, eight on. Each volley flung one and a half tons of iron at Sumter's brick walls. Federal ironclads paraded before the fort, adding their guns to the tumult. One by one, the fort's guns were blown off their trunnions and silenced, and by noon Sumter was a heap of broken bricks.

Charleston citizens who ventured from their homes moved hurriedly, furtively.

Most Federal batteries quit at dark, but a single gun fired every five minutes throughout the night.

When Rosemary came downstairs in the morning, her eyes were redrimmed.

"John ...”

"Do not say it, I beg you.”

"John, I must leave you. Just for a while.”

"Rosemary, please ...”

"Meg and I are moving into the Mills Hotel for a few days.”

John covered his face with his hands.

Rosemary Haynes took a deep breath. "I did not betray you with Andrew Ravanel.”

Her husband didn't seem to hear. "Andrew is in the newspaper again.

The worse things get, the harder Andrew fights.”

"I did nothing...”

"Rosemary, I understand how a woman would be attracted to Andrew.

...”

Rosemary quit trying. "I hate those damn guns," she said.

That afternoon, Cleo packed their things and they drove uptown through the burnt district to the Mills Hotel.

The speculators in the hotel dining room that evening flaunted new riches. Every watch fob and chain was large and bright shiny gold.

"Ma'am." One man removed the stovepipe hat he'd worn during his meal. "Henry Harris. Glad to make your acquaintance. Your brother, ma'am. I can't say too much about your brother! Hard to pull the wool over Captain Butler's eyes!" The speculator set a finger beside his nose and winked. "Him and that nigger Bonneau — they're deep ones! Ma'am, I got to be frank. Frankness is my weak point. I got to have ten cases of Frenchie champagne, and Cap'n Butler always brings in the best. Ma'am, if you see your brother afore I do, tell him Harris will meet any offer and better it by ten percent. Tell him that.”

"Mama, is he talking about Uncle Rhett?”

"I'm afraid he is, dear.”

"Uncle Rhett is my friend!" the child declared.

"Yes, dear, he is," her mother said. "Sir, you must excuse us.”

In their second-floor suite, Rosemary pulled the drapes closed. The Federal guns were not firing tonight and peace blessed the city. Cleo took Meg into the smaller bedroom to undress her, while Rosemary wondered what she was doing here. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she love a good man? At her bedside, Meg prayed for her uncle Rhett and Joshua and Cleo and her grandfather and grandmother Butler and all the soldiers in the War. She prayed the shelling wouldn't start again, because it scared Tecumseh.

Meg prayed, "Please, dear God, let Mama and Papa and me be happy again. Amen.”

Sometime later, a porter's knock was attended by a note slid under the door.

In John Haynes's hand it said, "On any terms, Rosemary. I need you.”

Might it be? Might John's love alone be enough to sustain them? Surely not! Surely no woman's heart could be transformed by a husband's devotion!

Rosemary clamped her eyes so tight, she saw shooting stars. "Oh, please, God ..." she prayed.

Briskly, she said, "Cleo, I must go home.”

"Yes, Miss. I have Tecumseh brought 'round.”

"No. I can't wait. Keep Meg, Cleo..." Rosemary took her servant's brown face between her pale hands, "I may not return tonight.”

"Yes, Miss." The servant looked her mistress in the eye. "I hopes you oesn t.

On Meeting Street, a startled gentleman gave up his cab. "Forty-six Church Street! Please!" Rosemary urged the driver, "Please hurry!”

When her husband answered the door, Rosemary searched his face, as if his familiar lines and furrows might tell a new and different story.

When John said, "Dearest..." Rosemary touched her finger to his lips, led him up the stairs into her bedroom, and that was the last word they spoke to each other.

Meg cried so piteously after her mother left that Cleo took her into her pallet at the foot of Rosemary's empty bed. "S'all right, honeychild.

You Mama with you Daddy. They come get us tomorrow.”

"Cleo, I'm afraid.”

"Nothin' be 'fraid of. Time we go to sleep.”

Little Meg was restless, and each time Cleo almost drifted off, the child would murmur or rutch around. Finally, the child put an arm around Cleo's neck and her sweet breath tickled Cleo's cheek and they slept.

A terrific flash and bang brought Cleo bolt upright. "S'all right, honey,”

she said reflexively.

The room's windows glowed as if white-hot and Cleo shielded her eyes.

Meg wailed. "Hush, now. T'ain't nothin', nothin' t'all." Cleo disentangled from the bedclothes and, with Meg clinging to her, padded barefoot to the window.

A stream of fire like molten lava cascaded down the building across the street. Cleo put a hand to her mouth.

Footsteps thudded past her door. "Fire! Fire!”

Men ran down the hallway. "The damn Yanks are shelling the city!”

Meg cried, "Cleo, I don't like it here.”

"Don't neither," Cleo said. "We goin' home now. I gonna need your help, honey. Turn loose my neck and get on your own two feet and we get you dressed.”

Thunderous footfalls outside their door, like cattle stampeding. Cleo dropped Meg's dress over the child's upstretched arms and groped for her shoes — one beside the bed, another under the bureau. A fresh explosion was not so near.

"Please ..." Meg whispered.

Cleo draped a blanket over her shift and set the child on her hip. "Put your arms 'round me and hang on, baby!”

Cleo hurried down the stairs. In the hotel lobby, half-dressed men were in a panic. Some ran into the dining room, others into the lobby. When a near miss shook the building, speculators dove onto a floor awash in cigar butts and overturned spittoons.

Meg wailed, "Mama.”

Cleo said, "Honey, I gettin' you to your Mama.”

They sped through the hotel kitchen.

The hotel's stable boys had run off and terrified horses reared, whinnied, and kicked in their stalls. Tecumseh's eyes were white and rolling.

Cleo threw a bridle on him, set the bit, and led the quivering animal into the alley. She boosted Meg onto his neck and scrambled up behind. "Grab Tecumseh's mane, child.”

"Cleo, I'm scared!”

"Darlin', don't you be scared! I needs you not be scared!”

Above the burnt district, a slice of moon scudded between clouds. The shells of burned buildings were almost homes or almost churches: eerie mockeries of human hopes. The ruins thrust shadow fingers across the street, snatching at the woman and child.

A shell burst directly overhead and bright fire streamered to earth. Meg screamed and Tecumseh clamped the bit between his teeth and bolted.

"Tecumseh, whoa! You whoa now!" Cleo hauled at the reins with all her strength. The wailing child lost her grip on the mane and slid down the horse's neck. "Tecumseh!" Cleo shrieked.

As Cleo loosed the reins to snatch at the child, Tecumseh swerved and servant and child thudded onto the cobblestones.

With her breath knocked out of her, Cleo frantically patted Meg's small body. Cleo struggled to one knee. She'd bitten her tongue through and swallowed hot thick blood. "You a'right, honey? Is you hurt?”

Meg whimpered, "Cleo, can't we please go home?”

"We go home soon as they stop shootin'. Directly, we go home.”

Cleo sought the familiar among the ruined spires and walls. "Look, child. There's the ol' churchyard. There's that Round Church. Look, that's its churchyard. We hidin' in the churchyard until we go home.”

John and Rosemary found them among the shattered tombstones. Meg's body lay half underneath Cleo, who, with her last breath, had tried to shield the child from the bombardment.

"Oh my God," Rosemary Haynes sobbed. "I should never have left her.”

John Haynes took his only child in his arms.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Love Tokens

The sleek gray blockade runner eased through the shallows north of Rattlesnake Shoal. In this second dark night of the moon, starlight reflecting off the ocean provided enough light for sharp eyes to see twenty yards. Behind its surf fringe, the Carolina beach was paler than the ocean.

A barefoot leadsman ran to the Merry Widows wheel and flicked his fingers twice: "two fathoms." Tunis Bonneau touched the lead to his tongue and murmured, "This oyster beds. We comin' up on Drunken Dick.”

Rhett squeezed Tunis's shoulder for reply.

The Widows oversized engines burbled through underwater exhausts.

Her hinged stacks lay flat, offering no silhouette against the pale beach. A hundred feet away, the runner might have been mist above the swell.

Bringing a runner through the Charleston blockade was more dangerous after the Federals took Battery Wagner. With Federal guns commanding the deepwater ship channel, no runner dared sail west of Fort Sumter.

The eastern passage, Maffitt's Channel, was narrow and crooked. Before the War, buoys had marked Rattlesnake and Drunken Dick shoals, but the blockaders had removed them. At low tide, stretches of Maffitt's Channel were four feet, four inches deep. Loaded, the Widow drew four feet.

Just beyond Drunken Dick, the runner must veer to starboard and run for Charleston harbor's remaining entrance.

To keep Federal ironclads out of the harbor, Confederate defenders had floated a log boom studded with contact torpedoes across the channel from Sumter to Fort Moultrie on the eastern shore. The hundred-yard gap in that boom, directly under Moultrie's guns, was the passage into the harbor.

The Federals knew runners must come in during the dark moon. They knew the channel the runners must take. They knew the tiny entrance they must pass through. Sharp-eyed young Federal lookouts rubbed their eyes, straining to penetrate the night. They listened past the wheeze of their own breathing, the thudding of their hearts.

After Battery Wagner fell, most blockade runners had quit Charleston for Wilmington, North Carolina, where runners had two coastlines to sneak along and two inlets to slip through — both protected by Fort Fisher, a colossal sand fort astride the narrow peninsula between the Cape Fear River and the Atlantic.

Approaching Charleston, Tunis Bonneau kept his 180-foot sidewheeler inshore in that shifting watery hollow where ocean swell became surf. Though Federal warships kept well offshore, picket boats patrolled the shallows. Twenty-foot dories couldn't sink or board the Merry Widow, but their flares could direct the warships' guns onto the unarmed, unarmored runner.

Five knots. Tunis Bonneau stood on tiptoes, squinting. Breakers boomed and surf whumped onto the beach, hissing as it ebbed.

The Widows bow lookout raised his left arm, meaning, "picket boat on the port bow." Tunis bent to the speaking tube and asked the engine room for more steam.

The coxswain of the Federal picket boat saw something — a shape that might or might not be a ship, might or might not be a runner. He fumbled a signal flare from its tin chest and shouted, "Ahoy! What is the countersign? Engines quivering its deck planking, the Widow was making nine knots. "The Union Forever!" Rhett Butler sang out.

Tonight's countersign was "Gettysburg," but last night's had been "Preserve the Union." The coxswain had flare and match in hand but hesitated.

Might this be a Federal vessel whose captain was on the wrong page of the signal book? There'd been no runners in weeks, and the overzealous coxswain who called fire onto a Federal gunboat faced certain court-martial. "Countersign!”

the coxswain demanded again.

"Dishonest Abe!" Rhett shouted.

The coxswain had lit the flare when the Widow sliced into the dory, dragging eight Federal sailors into her slashing paddle wheels.

"Brave fellows," Tunis Bonneau said.

"But indecisive," Rhett replied.

"Slow ahead," Tunis murmured into the speaking tube.

Tunis steered by dimly seen land shapes and familiar currents tugging at the wheel. He trusted the memories in his hands.

The Merry Widow proceeded without further difficulty until she'd weathered Drunken Dick. Fort Sumter was off her port bow when the first Federal flare streaked into the sky.

Tunis called for full steam, the deck crew hove her hinged stacks upright, and the Widow lunged forward like a racehorse at the starter's gun.

Picket boats and warships sent up red, green, and blue signals, "Who are you? Are you ours?”

Rhett fired the Widows own red and green flares: nonsense signals.

Tunis Bonneau panted, as if faster breathing could make the Widows side wheels turn faster. The deck shuddered beneath his feet.

The first Federal shells fell short by twenty feet. Spume drenched the Widow's deck crew.

"Their marksmanship has improved," Rhett said. He climbed a paddle wheel housing and put his glass to his eye, as if the bellowing Federal guns were harmless fireworks on a pleasant summer evening.

The bow lookout strained to spot that narrow gap in the torpedo boom.

Since the Federal guns couldn't track a racing runner, they had zeroed on the boom opening, and the Widow wallowed and bucked through near misses, as thoroughly drenched as if beneath Niagara Falls.

In full daylight, the lethal boom lay low in the water; by the dark of the moon, it was invisible. Tunis steered for the thickest concentration of waterspouts, praying the Federal guns were well pointed. The Widow shuddered: hit. Hit again, she shook like a wet dog. Tunis almost lost his grip when the wheel kicked in his hands. Another near miss slapped him into its spokes.

They were through. The boom's pale cypress logs and greening, barnacled iron torpedoes passed six inches to port.

Fragments from a final burst rattled onto the deck.

After the Federal guns quit, Tunis bent sideways to shake water out of his ears.

Rhett stepped down from the housing, folded his telescope, and lit a cigar. His match's flare was so bright, it hurt Tunis's eyes. In a hoarse voice, Tunis ordered Mr. MacLeod, the Widows engineer, to check for damage.

"We come through again," Tunis told Rhett.

"That was the easy part," Rhett said. "Lord, I dread our arrival. Poor, poor Rosemary.”

News of Meg's death had reached Rhett in Nassau.

"I hate this war," Tunis said.

"Some say it will set your people free.”

"Yes, sir. That's what some people say.”

The city was dark. Charleston's church steeples — mariners' beacons for generations — had been painted black so Federal gunners couldn't aim by them.

Marked by the streak of its fuse, a shell arced from Federal guns into the city. A brief flash was followed seconds later by a dull rumble.

Tunis felt river currents in his wheel. The land breeze stank of brick dust and fires. "Slow ahead.”

Rhett tried a joke. "Now I've sold you the Widow, Tunis, you must be more careful with her.”

"Ha-ha.”

Charleston's waterfront was wrecked. The Widow thrummed upriver past burned wharves, clipper ships moldering at their moorings, and steamers, decks awash, settled on the river bottom.

Engineer MacLeod reported shell damage was minor but that the Widows oversized steam engines had torqued their steel mounts and twisted the ship's starboard knees.

Most of Charleston's speculators had left for Wilmington, but, alerted by the Federal welcome, men at the Haynes & Son wharf were eager to do business.

Tunis reversed his engines as the Widow eased into her mooring and crewmen fended her off the bumpers.

Flickering lanterns illuminated the wharf. Someone cried, "Rhett, I got to have me some silk and perfumes.”

"Buttons and epaulets," another voice called.

"I'll take twenty of champagne!”

The Widow was snubbed fore and aft, and with loud whooshes, the boilers vented steam. In the silence, Rhett could hear the river lapping at her hull. "Can't help you tonight, gentlemen. I've got no luxury goods. I've got thirty cases of cotton-carding combs, fourteen cases of Wentworth rifles, army shoes, uniform cloth, and mini? balls. Perhaps you'll join me in a cheer for the Bonny Blue Flag That Bears a Single Star?”

"Christ!" someone said. "You pick a hell of a time to get patriotic.”

A heavy hammer was banging in the engine room: Mr. MacLeod repairing engine mounts. Disappointed speculators abandoned the wharf to a blue sulky and a black buggy.

"I reckon that's Ruthie and Rosemary," Tunis said.

"Tunis, why do we give our hearts to be broken?”

"Reckon we'd be better off if we didn't?”

Rhett's sister waited beside the sulky. She seemed smaller than Rhett remembered her.

"Dear Rosemary." He enfolded her in his arms.

For a moment, she resisted; then she gave a racking sob and convulsed.

"Why, Rhett? Why do they murder our children? Have they no children of their own?”

In punctuation, a shell exploded in the city. Rhett held her until she stopped quaking and some tension leaked out of her. "Thank you," she said very softly. He released her and she wiped her eyes and tried to smile. She blew her nose.

In a calm, flat voice, she said, "Meg was so tiny. Almost as if she were an infant again. When John picked her up, one of her shoes fell off. You know, we never did find her other shoe. My baby's face was filthy, so I took my handkerchief to wipe her face, but John jerked her away. Rhett...

Margaret Haynes was my own baby, but I had to beg before my husband let me clean her dear forehead. Her lip was cut — here — but it was not bleeding. She was cold as clay. With these fingers, Rhett, I closed my baby's eyes.

Rhett held her again. Absent the tension that had animated her, Rosemary was a rag doll. Rhett asked, "John?...”

"He walks the streets every night, utterly indifferent to the bombardment.

Why, Rhett" — she offered a ghastly smile — "our free colored firemen see more of my husband than I do. Isn't that peculiar?”

"I will go to him...”

Rosemary clutched Rhett's arm. "You cannot! He will not see you! John begs that as his friend you will not go to him.”

"If an old friend can't — “

"Rhett, please believe me. John Haynes will not admit you to our house.”

At the other buggy, Ruthie Bonneau was whispering fiercely, "Go on, now, Tunis Bonneau. You go on!”

Tunis crumpled his hat in his hands, "Miss Rosemary, me and Ruthie, we're right sorry 'bout your trouble. We always thought high of you Hayneses.”

Rosemary looked past him. Absently, she stroked her horse's muzzle. "I wonder if Tecumseh remembers Meg," she said softly. "I look into his large mild eyes and ..." She put her hand over her face to muffle a sob.

"Every night, me 'n' Ruthie, we prays for you, Miss Rosemary," Tunis said desperately. He helped his pregnant wife into their buggy and drove off.

Rosemary searched her brother's face. "Rhett, I have been so blind, so terribly blind! I wanted what I ought not and lost all the precious hours I might have had with my child and my husband..." She paused and took a breath. "Brother, you must not make my mistake. Promise me ... promise you'll do something for me?”

"Anything.”

"You love Scarlett O'Hara." She stopped Rhett's lips with a soft fingertip.

"Rhett, please, for a change, don't say something cynical or amusing.

You love the woman and we both know you do. Brother Rhett, you cannot be superior to love. Go to Scarlett now. Be as straightforward with her as you've always been with me." Turning to her sulky, Rosemary retrieved a parcel wrapped in butcher's paper and unfolded one corner to reveal bright yellow silk. It was the scarf Rhett had given her so many years ago. "This was Meg's favorite thing. She'd wrap it around herself and pretend she was a bird or a butterfly. It'd float behind her when she ran, like ... angel...

wings.”

"Rosemary, I can't take this.”

"Yes, you can, Brother. We Butlers have never been good at loving.

We've loved too late, or wrongly, or not loved at all. Give Scarlett this scarf.

Years ago, it proved your love to me. Now my poor Meg has added her child's love, too. Please, Rhett, give it to the woman you love.”

"Rosemary, you and John ...”

"You can do nothing for us now.”

"I would — “

"I know you would, dear. Hush. Go. There's a five A.M. train.”

The brother kissed his sister and walked uptown.

Twenty minutes later, at the depot, the provost wouldn't let Rhett board the Georgia train until Rhett showed him Rufus Bullock's pass.

"Sir, there's room in the officers' car.”

Since Rhett had studied artillery at the Point, he appreciated the artillery major's account of the Chickamauga victory, and when Rhett brought a bottle of rum from his carpetbag, the major decided this civilian wasn't a bad fellow after all. As their train raced the sun into the west, Rhett, the major, and two junior officers settled into a game of stud poker.

By nightfall, Rhett had cleaned them out, but it was only Confederate money, and there were no hard feelings.

The next day, as the train crossed into Georgia, a nineteen-year-old lieutenant — "Biloxi, Mississippi, born and reared, Mr. Butler" — said, "We're hittin' Billy Yank hard; whippin' him most every scrap. Federals surely can't take more losses bad as Chickamauga. One or two more whippin's, of Lincoln will sue for peace.”

Looking into the lieutenant's hopeful face, Rhett felt a thousand years old.

Their train was sidetracked in Augusta.

Inured to delays, the officers headed for the nearest saloon, but Rhett found Rufus Bullock at the Southern Express office.

Bullock had come south before the War to superintend the Adams Railway Express Company. An affable, even-tempered man; when Rufus Bullock strolled down Main Street, respectable Georgians felt he was just the sort of man they liked to see strolling down Main Street, even if Bullock was a Yankee. When the War began, the Southern Express seceded from its northern parent and Rufus Bullock became the new company's president.

Soon, Bullock was coordinating Confederate telegraphy and shipping army payrolls. As his responsibilities increased, Bullock became acting chief of the Confederate railroads and was commissioned as a lieutenant colonel.

Bullock never wore a uniform; for Rufus Bullock, war was business as usual.

With the confidence of old familiarity, Rhett plunked down a bottle on Bullock's desk.

"My Lord, Rhett, where did you find this?”

"Bahamian rum. Twenty years old, aged in wood. Without your pass, Rufus, I'd never have gotten out of Charleston.”

The bottle vanished into a drawer. "Rufus Bullock understands you brought military stores this run, Rhett. Rufus asked himself, How can Rhett Butler profit from military stores?" Bullock chuckled comfortably.

He was a comfortable man.

"I am reformed, Rufus. No more blockade running. When John Haynes is able to think about business again, I hope John will quit the business, too.”

"I heard his daughter was killed. Tragic.”

"Yes. Rufus, put me on an Atlanta train.”

"Even Rufus Bullock can't help you there. Every car we have is packed to overflowing with supplies.”

"Rufus, I know you. There is nothing you can't do.”

Rhett rode in the locomotive with Mr. Bates, the dour engineer, and a huge, silent negro fireman.

The sun was setting as they rolled out of Augusta. Rhett took refuge atop the tender. Sprawled across cordwood in the wood car, hands laced behind his head, Rhett tried to recall exactly what Tunis Bonneau had told him about love — what was it, six years ago? They'd met on the Freeport docks and the friends who hadn't seen each other since Rhett left the Low Country had repaired to the nearest skibberdeen and proceeded to drink it dry.

Tunis caught Rhett up on Charleston doings. "Your sister, she growed into a mighty handsome young woman.”

"If I give you a Cuban shawl, will you take it to her?”

"Surely will." Tunis wasn't as drunk as Rhett. "Something troubling you?”

"A woman. Nothing at all.”

"You ain't actin' like she's nothin'. You love her?”

He'd snorted, "Love?" Rhett drank straight from the bottle. "I have been in love too many times. Then I climb out of bed and put my trousers on. There is something about the humble act of donning trousers that trivializes love.”

"Now you joshin' me.”

"Am I?”

Tunis had told Rhett shyly that he was courting Ruthie Prescott, Reverend Prescott's oldest daughter. "Ruthie's high-headed and it's a chore, sometimes, gettin' next to her, but she's the one for me. Rhett, you ever been in love?”

"Friend, why these questions?”

"Was you ever with a gal that you felt like you would never be right or full or good if you wasn't with her no more?”

"I've felt flattered and sometimes thrilled. But, no, that's not how love was.”

"Then you never been in love," Tunis Bonneau said firmly. "Not really.

'Cause that's what love be.”

Now, every stroke of the pistons, every turn of the driving wheels brought Scarlett closer. The engine's rumble echoed in Rhett's heartbeat.

Faster! Faster!

Every other woman, every previous passion was lifeless by comparison; yet Rhett had never told Scarlett what she meant to him. He'd jibed. He'd hidden behind a false indifference.

"Damn coward," he whispered.

Armed with Rosemary's precious gift, Rhett could tell her how he felt.

By God, he would!

A euphoric Rhett Butler stepped down into the cab and gave cigars to Mr. Bates and his fireman.

The open firebox roared. Sparks and cinders burned tiny holes in Rhett's black broadcloth suit.

Enlivened by the excellent cigar, Mr. Bates volunteered, "This drivin' at night is nervy business and I don't care for it. I can't see nothin', and if the Federals were to jerk up the rails, I wouldn't know it until this here engine was flyin' through the air! Mister, it is troublesome gettin' out of her once she commences tumblin'. There's the steam, you see. Steam'll pluck the flesh off a man to bare bones." Mr. Bates puffed his cigar with entire satisfaction.

They paused every two hours while Mr. Bates filled the boiler. Rhett and the fireman heaved four cords of wood into the tender.

Come daybreak, the train was transversing the Georgia piedmont.

"Cap'n Butler," Mr. Bates said, "Yonder's Stone Mountain. We'll be in Atlanta within the hour.”

"Unless the Federals have torn up the tracks.”

"No sir," Bates snorted. "Federals'll never come within a hundred miles of Atlanta.”

As the train was pulling into the Car Shed and the wheel brakes were still squealing, Rhett shook Mr. Bates's free hand, slipped the fireman two bits, and swung down. One hand holding his hat, he dashed down the platform to the cab rank.

Rhett climbed up beside the driver and gave Pittypat's address.

The driver eyed his grubby passenger disapprovingly. "You sure you can pay?”

"I'm sure if you don't set off immediately, I'll strangle you," Rhett replied. The cabbie lashed his horse into a trot.

The fastest wasn't fast enough.

At Pittypat's, Rhett hammered on the door.

"Wait a minute! Just a blamed minute! I'm a-comin'!" After Uncle Peter opened the door, he drew back. "Cap'n Butler?" Uncle Peter was aghast.

"My goodness, what you been gettin' up to?”

In the parlor, Pittypat put down her mending. "Oh dear, Captain Butler!

Have you been in a fire? Your clothes ... And you always wear such beautiful clothes. Is that your hat? Bless your heart! Wouldn't you like to wash your hands? Peter, fetch a basin and pitcher!”

"Miss Pittypat, you are too kind." Rhett set his carpetbag down and opened it. "Please, you'll have to take it out. Yes, the small parcel. That's it.

My hands ...”

As Pittypat unwrapped a rectangle of exquisite Belgian lace, Rhett said, "The instant I saw it, I said, 'Won't this make Miss Pittypat a lovely collar.' “

"Oh, Captain Butler. How can I ever thank you?”

"I deserve no thanks, Miss Pitty, for adorning a lady who needs no adornment at all.”

"You're talking blarney." Scarlett sniffed as she came into the room.

"Captain Butler, have you quit bathing?”

Pittypat fled with her gift.

Rhett had cinders in his hair and his face was streaked with soot. His clothes had been drenched with seawater, dried into shapelessness, and scorched with hot cinders. His shirt cuffs were ripped, his fingernails broken, and the hat in his hands was a felt rag. Scarlett stalked around him like an offended cat.

"I was so eager to see you, my dear," Rhett said, "I didn't tarry...”

"Eager to see me? Why on earth would you be eager to see me? Dear me, I certainly hope I haven't encouraged you. Captain Butler, mightn't you have washed before calling on a lady?”

Uncle Peter brought in pitcher, basin, lye soap, and a threadbare towel.

As Rhett bent to wash his face, Scarlett continued mercilessly: "How long have you neglected us? Did we see you in May? July?" Her laugh was light and careless. "No matter, I suppose. How time flies.”

Rhett toweled his face. "I was trying to resist your fatal charms.”

"Lord love us," Scarlett snorted. "What a creature is the smooth-talkin' man. Do go on, Captain Butler. That nonsense about my 'fatal charms,' I rather liked that.”

When Rhett handed Uncle Peter the soot-blackened towel, Peter took it out at arm's length.

Rhett had sought a new beginning. He'd wanted to tell Scarlett about little Meg, about Will, the trunk master, about the yellow scarf. He'd wanted to tell Scarlett he loved her.

He couldn't talk. In Pittypat's parlor, unable to sit down lest he soil the furniture, unable to touch lest he smudge something, silently Rhett Butler gave Scarlett O'Hara his lover's gift — a dirty parcel wrapped in filthy butcher's paper.

"What's this?" Scarlett unwrapped it. She gave the yellow silk scarf a cursory glance before draping it carelessly over a chair. "Thank you so much, Captain Butler. You are too kind.”

Suddenly, Rhett Butler was choking with rage. He swallowed the knot in his throat and said coldly, "Oh, it's nothing — a gewgaw, the smallest token of my admiration for a lady who is as beautiful as she is kind.”

After Rhett left Pittypat's, he walked the streets until his temper cooled and he found himself outside Belmont's, Atlanta's finest jeweler.

In this third year of the war, Mr. Belmont had repurchased so much jewelry and sold so little, he'd considered closing his doors. When Rhett Butler asked to see Mr. Belmont's finest cameo brooch, Mr. Belmont practically skipped to his vault.

As always, Belle's Cyprians made over Rhett. "But you are so filthy, cher." Minette giggled. "Let me scrub your back, no?”

Hélène laid a horse blanket over the settee so Rhett could sit while Minette poured his champagne. Minette told Eloise to fetch hot water upstairs for Rhett's bath.

"Why can't Hélène do it?”

"Because you have strong, fat arms.”

When Rhett inquired about Lisa, Minette dismissed the girl with a shrug. "Lisa took Captain Busy's advice and left our Chapeau Rouge for a ... a sporting house. Lisa is no courtesan!" Minette leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Captain Busy is gone from Atlanta. Captain Busy was distressed at his transfer. He blames you." She winked.

Rhett had a second glass before he went upstairs to bathe and shave.

That evening, Rhett took Belle Watling to dine at the Atlanta Hotel and over brandy afterward, he gave her the cameo.

"Oh Rhett! It's too fine! It's ... You've always been good to me! You know I — “

He silenced Belle with a "Hush" and a smile.

"Rhett, why are you givin' me this? It's too grand for a woman like me.”

He reached across the table to tilt her chin. "Because, dear Belle, I cannot give you a yellow silk scarf.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Fox on the Run

In the first year of the War, the Light Horse became Ravanel's Brigade in General Bragg's Army of Tennessee. The brigade raided behind Federal lines in Kentucky and Tennessee, ambushing Federal contingents, smashing supply trains, burning railroad bridges, and blowing railroad tunnels.

Loyalties in Border States were divided, and if some ladies spat at the Rebels when they rode by, others were eager to prove their devotion to the Cause in person, to the dashing young Colonel who embodied that cause.

Andrew Ravanel loved these ladies but never could remember their names.

While their Colonel was being entertained, Andrew's scout and his banjo picker would sleep in the stable, on the front porch, once in a brokendown carriage, and once, shivering, in a corncrib with lattice walls.

"She do squall," Cassius had remarked.

"Like a cat in heat," Jamie Fisher replied. "I wish I had another blanket.”

"Don't believe I'll ever be warm again," Cassius said. "Damn! What the Colonel doin' to that gal?”

"I hate to imagine." Jamie lay curled, warming his hands between his thighs.

"How come you never get yourself a gal, Master Jamie? I mean, I seen some of them ladies lookin' at you." Cassius raised his head from his pallet.

"Might be you could find yourself a gal wasn't so noisy.”

"Listen! Do you hear horses approaching?" Jamie took his revolver and strode into the moonlight.

In the glory days, their Federal foes were conscripts on their first horses and many of those horses had recently pulled plows. Federal commanders quarreled and postured like fighting cocks and the Confederate's awful rebel yells terrified many an incompetent federal commander to surrender without firing a shot.

Jamie Fisher was a tireless horseman with a keen eye for topography; he knew instinctively where the brigade should bivouac, which roads could be impassable in wet weather, when and where pickets should be stationed, when a ford was good and when, despite unriffled water and what seemed a hard gravel bottom, a crossing should not be attempted.

One night, as the scout and banjo picker lay in the loft of another patriotic lady's horse barn, Cassius confided that he'd once jumped the broomstick with a girl, Desdemona, just a slip of a thing. Cassius told Jamie, "When Master Huger sold my wife away, I bawl just like a baby.”

At the Cynthiania skirmish, Federal cavalry killed Captain Henry Kershaw and very nearly captured Colonel Ravanel. Major Wilkes, the brigade's Georgia adjutant, criticized Colonel Ravanel for his failure to post pickets and for ill treatment of Federal prisoners captured after the brigade retook the town.

Ravanel's men took Major Wilkes's criticisms badly and the brigade's officers sneered that Wilkes was an "overly sentimental rustic aristocrat.”

When Wilkes left the brigade, Jamie Fisher accompanied him to the depot.

Although Jamie hadn't spoken out as Wilkes had, Andrew's actions had distressed him, too. "The war has cost the Colonel too many friends," Jamie told Wilkes.

Ashley Wilkes shook his head no. Inadequate justification.

"Andrew is a good man," Jamie said. "Everybody loves him.”

"Sometimes those who are easiest to love," Wilkes replied, "are hardest to respect.”

Reputation often lags behind deeds, and Andrew Ravanel's fame grew even as his veterans wore out horses trying to replicate early, easier triumphs.

They took risks they wouldn't have a year before.

The Army of Tennessee's commander, Major General Braxton Bragg, was a crook-backed, bearded martinet whose dark eyebrows collided over his nose. Bragg had a bad stomach, bad nerves, and such painful boils, he could not sit his saddle. General Bragg was evidence for the theory that bad luck finds those who deserve it.

Bragg decided to send Colonel Ravanel to Atlanta and Charleston, where patriotic citizens were eager to applaud the Confederate hero. Bragg cautioned Andrew, "Sir, you must never forget you are my personal emissary; you are representing Braxton Bragg!”

As they left headquarters, Jamie said, "Dear God, Andrew. Bragg's personal emissary — ain't you proud?" When Jamie broke up laughing, Andrew swatted him.

Jamie helped Andrew pack and gave him a new hat to replace the one the Federals had ruined at Cynthiania. "You'll want a feather," Jamie said.

"For the ladies.”

Andrew clasped his brother-in-law's shoulders. "I need no feather, Jamie. You are the feather in my cap.”

"Give my love to dear Sister Charlotte," Jamie said happily.

Colonel Ravanel's men followed their leader's progress with great interest.

An Atlanta corporal's sister wrote, "Colonel Ravanel and his nigger banjo player came courting Charles Hamilton's widow, but she run him off. Everybody's laughing about it." His troopers were pleased their Colonel was up to his old tricks but were glad he'd been rebuffed. Some hadn't seen their wives or sweethearts since the previous spring.

The Colonel's assignation with Mrs. Haynes prompted rough jokes.

The color sergeant guffawed. "Two hours together not enough? Don't take me ten minutes.”

To his troopers' surprise, Andrew came back from Charleston much subdued. Officers who joked about their Colonel's liaisons — as had been their custom — were brought up short and Andrew shunned his favorite drinking companions. Cassius took to playing slow, sentimental ballads.

When Jamie asked about the Atlanta widow, Colonel Andrew Ravanel had a rueful smile: "I'd rather face a Yankee division than Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton. 'Colonel Ravanel. Get out of here and take your orchestra with you.

Which is how Cassius was renamed "Andrew's Orchestra.”

Andrew asked Charlotte's brother about his wife: what had Charlotte been like as a child? Was Charlotte present when he kissed Rosemary Butler at the Washington Racecourse? "I was so angry at Langston Butler, so humiliated, I would have done anything — so long as it was rash!”

Jamie thought Andrew as faithful husband would take some getting used to, but was amused when ladies hoping to entertain "the celebrated Colonel Ravanel" were turned away with a smile and, "Madam, were I not a married man, your virtue would be imperiled.”

Then came the Gettysburg, Vicksburg summer and newspapers that once lauded Colonel Ravanel changed their tune. The Charleston Mercury recalled the Cynthiania fight and how a Federal officer had strutted down a public street wearing Colonel Ravanel's hat.

General Bragg, who would soon lose his command to General Johnston, forbade raids and used Ravanel's Brigade as regular cavalry. That fall, Andrew took a second furlough in Charleston.

Mr. and Mrs. Ravanel were never at home to callers and they ignored all invitations. Juliet Ravanel was uncharacteristically reticent when friends asked about the couple.

On this occasion there was no scandal, and soon after Andrew returned to the army, Jamie got a letter from Charlotte. "Please don't let Andrew do anything rash. I fear my beloved husband does not think himself worthy of me. I fear Andrew will do something foolhardy to burnish a reputation which is already bright as the noonday sun! Please, Jamie, keep Andrew safe for my sake and for our son!”

Five weeks later, on a drizzly December afternoon, on a ridge overlooking Pommery, Ohio, Jamie Fisher was musing about church bells.

"How could I ever have thought church bells were lovely? Didn't church bells mean families promenading Meeting Street on Sunday morning?”

Through his glass, Colonel Andrew Ravanel studied the village, whose church bells clamored like terrified geese: "The rebels are coming! Alarm!

Alarm!”

The interludes between Pommery's bells were filled with fainter bells from the countryside.

"They are God's bells, Jamie. Shame on you." Andrew snapped his glass shut. "Shall we ride through or around? Should we give the citizens of Pommery something to tell their grandchildren?”

"No, Andrew. There's bound to be some graybeard hugging his musket and dreaming of potting a Confederate.”

Andrew Ravanel shifted in the saddle. "How close are the Federals?”

"Three battalions two hours behind.”

"They won't get away this time.”

"Ha-ha," Jamie said.

Andrew asked Jamie about their route home.

"Cobb's Ford was passable two weeks ago, but it's rained enough to float the Ark.”

Absently, Andrew stroked his horse's neck. "Cassius can't swim.”

Jamie leaned to him. "If we ride hard, we'll strike the Ohio River tomorrow night.”

Andrew Ravanel stood in his stirrups to wave his men around this Yankee town. They were going home.

Two weeks earlier, Andrew Ravanel had crossed the Ohio into Yankeedom with two thousand fresh, well-armed Confederate cavalrymen intending to wreck railroads, torch army storehouses, steal horses, and enlist sympathetic recruits to the Cause.

The raid had gone badly. Alerted by telegram, Federal brigades pursued relentlessly. Only hard riding and Jamie Fisher's cleverness avoided the fixed battle they could not hope to win.

They'd run and ducked and fought through when they couldn't avoid it. Their dead had been left unburied, their wounded abandoned at crossroads.

Exhausted men simply sat down and waited for the Yankees to take them. Of their four field guns, they had one left.

The three hundred survivors of Ravanel's Brigade were bearded, dirty, and festooned with guns; they looked more like bandits than soldiers.

The horses they'd bought from Ohio farmers (paying with Confederate currency) hadn't the speed or endurance of the mounts they'd started with.

That evening it rained, a cold rain that plucked dead leaves off the trees and mashed them on the road. To spare their horses, the troopers walked, clinging to stirrups. As the blood slowed in Andrew Ravanel's veins, an all too familiar despair burdened Andrew's heart and he shouted to Cassius, "Pick us a tune, boy!”

Cross-legged on the gun's limber box, a tattered umbrella protecting his banjo, Cassius tried to please, but his tunes were off-key or tunes Andrew had tired of long ago.

Icy rain trickled off Andrew's hat brim and down his neck.

Cassius wrapped his precious instrument in his jacket and hunched over it, miserable and still.

There was just enough moonlight for a man to see the man in front of him. Sometimes the color sergeant had trouble keeping to the road. Men gnawed biscuits while they walked. They stepped out of the column to relieve themselves and then ran to catch up. The rain worked through their collars and shoulder seams and boot soles. Their slouch hats collapsed. Their souls retracted. Sometimes when a trooper remounted, his horse protested.

Sometimes an exhausted horse crumpled and sent its rider sprawling before weary men dragged the horse back onto its feet.

When Andrew had left Charlotte at the Charleston depot, Charlotte had told him, "Dearest, I know you better than anyone on earth and do not doubt you have done things of which you are ashamed. Your shame proves you are a very good man.”

Andrew had loved many women. Only Charlotte had kept him safe.

On the fifteenth morning after they'd invaded Federal territory, the rain let up and a chill wind brushed the clouds away. As the sun rose, the earth sparkled. After scouting their back trail, Jamie Fisher reported they'd slipped their pursuers. "But they must have guessed where we're bound.”

"Yes, Jamie.”

"They'll block the fords.”

"Jamie, you worry too damned much.”

They crossed a broken plateau. From time to time, the road dipped into a ravine, where they forded tumbling, muddy streams with water up to their horses' bellies. White-tailed deer went crashing away through the underbrush. They rode by deserted hardscrabble farms. As the day warmed, the plateau opened into flat pastureland and at midday they turned up a lane toward a two-story clapboard farmhouse. They heard the back door slam, then rapid, fading hoofbeats. The kitchen stove was still hot and side meat sizzled in a skillet. Jamie Fisher ate a piece, licked his fingers, and poured Andrew a cup of coffee. "We can reach Cobb's Ford by dark,”

Jamie said.

Andrew sat at the kitchen table with the cup between his hands. The chipped cup was everyday crockery; Grandmother's china would be in the china press in the parlor.

Outside the house, the color sergeant was shouting, "Unsaddle your horses and rub them down! If you're tired, they're tireder. Murphy, wake up, man. Damn it, you ain't dead yet!" Boots stamped through the bedrooms overhead and Andrew could hear drawers being pulled out. Had his men always been thieves? He remembered a Federal running down Cynthiania's main street with a tall clock in his arms. Poor fool wouldn't need to know the time where Andrew's saber had sent him.

There'd been so many poor fools.

Jamie was going on and on about Cobb's Ford.

Andrew was so tired, so terribly tired. He lifted his coffee cup with two hands, brought it to his lips, and swallowed.

Jamie said, "Andrew, they must not beat us to the river.”

Where on earth did Jamie find his strength? "Jamie," Andrew said. "For God's sake, Jamie.”

Andrew managed to put the cup down without dropping it. His hands lay open and unresisting on the table.

"Andrew, it's five hours to Cobb's Ford. Only five hours. Rest the horses for an hour if we must. We can cross before dark.”

Andrew wished Charlotte were here. Charlotte always knew what to do.

He'd resented that when they were first married. How badly he'd treated her then.

When Jamie rapped the table Andrew raised his head. Jamie said, "Andrew, you cannot funk now.”

Andrew said thickly, "I'll be damned if I let some nancy boy tell me what to do!”

Andrew Ravanel put his head down on his arms and closed his eyes.

The men unsaddled and rubbed their horses down. They stripped and laid their clothing in the sun to dry. They crawled into stalls and haymows and slept.

Two turkey buzzards circled overhead, studying the garment blossoms below them.

Toward sundown that evening, the men woke and put on dry clothing and reprimed their pistols. In a hog scalder in the farmyard, they boiled a half dozen of the farmer's hams and three bushels of potatoes. They fished their dinners out of the kettle with pitchforks.

Men belched and lit pipes. The color sergeant said, "I never thought we was ever gonna get here.”

"Might be we'll stay and take up farmin'," someone replied.

Andrew never came out of the house. Jamie Fisher was off scouting or something.

The sky was clear and washed with stars and once a meteor flashed into the earth.

Cassius played "The Arkansas Traveler" and "Soldier's Joy" and the young men danced hornpipes and jigs or whirled one another across the barnyard under brilliant watchful stars.

At dawn, they mounted up, and a few hours later, the plateau ended at the edge of a fog sea. Across that a rumpled fog coverlet, just two miles ahead, the plateau resumed in the Confederate States of America.

"If we could walk across fog," Andrew Ravanel said.

Jamie muttered, "Since you can walk across water, why not fog?”

"Jamie, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did.”

"You are such a bastard, Andrew.”

"Old Jack left his mark on me. But you can't doubt that I need you, Jamie. Just a little while longer. A few more hours and we'll be home.”

Jamie Fisher didn't reply.

The road angled down the face of the plateau onto cropland alongside the Ohio River. The husks of unpicked field corn were wreathed in fog.

The Ohio was a mile across at Cobb's Ford: a broad reach of shallow water to Macklin's Island and a deeper channel beyond. The low island was two hundred yards of jumbled driftwood and brush. At low water, wagons could cross to the far shore, the Confederate shore, without wetting the wagon box. At high water, the Ohio River was navigable from Pittsburgh to New Orleans and shallow-draft stern-wheelers pushed barges through the deep channel.

This morning, the island was invisible in fog.

Jamie Fisher reined up at a mire of horse and wheel tracks. He heard the whuff and clink of shovels on Macklin's Island.

"They beat us here," Andrew said. "A regiment?”

"A full brigade." Jamie pointed at some deeper ruts. "Those'll be gun carriages.”

Andrew Ravanel got off his horse and walked to the river's edge, where the roots of a toppled sycamore fingered over the water like an unanswered prayer.

Behind the island, on the Confederate shore, treetops emerged serenely from the fog.

The remnants of Ravanel's Brigade arrived behind Andrew and his scout. "I could sleep for a month," Andrew said.

Jamie said. "There's a ferry at Parkersburg, but that's thirty miles upriver.”

Some men led their horses to water; others crossed a leg over their saddles and took a dip of snuff. They could read tracks, too.

A trooper galloped in from the rear guard. "Colonel, there's a Yankee brigade comin' off the plateau behind us.”

Jamie said, "They won't get away this time.”

Andrew said, "Jamie, I ... I don't know...”

Jamie Fisher said, "Andrew, you must lead. There's no one else.”

Andrew hesitated before he straightened into Colonel Ravanel, the legendary rebel commander. "Thank you, Jamie," he said.

The Federals on Macklin's Island had ridden all night and had been digging since arriving at the island. They were tired and cross, and the soldier who carelessly threw a clot of dirt on another's boots was cursed.

They hadn't had breakfast.

That shriek, that ululating rebel yell, made Federal gunners jump for their guns. Cavalrymen dropped their shovels to snatch up carbines.

They laid cool stocks against their sweaty cheeks and drew back the iron hammers.

A squall of swirling Confederate horsemen appeared out of the fog, galloping, wheeling through the shallows, screeching their hair-raising screech, firing revolvers in the air. One hundred, two hundred, a thousand — God, how many were there? As suddenly as they'd appeared, before one Federal fired, the terrible host retired into the fog as two Confederate officers galloped toward the island under a flag of truce.

A middle-aged Yankee major met them on the shore. As the horsemen reined up, the major adjusted his hat so it sat squarely on his head. Above the freshly turned dirt of new trenches, carbine muzzles tracked the Confederates.

Ravanel eased into his saddle. "Major, do you remember when real soldiers didn't burrow in the ground like moles?”

The major sat his horse nearly as well as Andrew did. The major's gear — like the man himself — was worn but well kept. "I had friends who wouldn't burrow like moles. I remember them in my prayers.”

Andrew Ravanel had known and despised men like this major all his life.

These respectable, boring, sturdy, everyday men had disapproved of Jack Ravanel and they disapproved of Jack's son, too. As the Ravanel fortunes leaked away, men like this had prospered because they lacked imagination to do anything daring or brilliant or amusing or something just for the hell of it.

Looking into the major's stolid face, Andrew knew before he spoke that his bluff would fail. "You know who I am. You know I've two thousand men and six field guns, and if I have to roust you off this island, I'll roust you. Surrender, and I'll parole you and your men. We'll pass over and go our own way and you'll be no worse off than you were yesterday. Resist, and your lives are forfeit.”

The major nodded as if he'd expected Andrew's threat and judged Andrew's performance acceptable. "Colonel Ravanel, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Me and my boys have been hopin' to learn if you are as all-fired terrible as the newspapers make you out. Sometimes, sir, newspapers don't get things exactly right.”

"Surrender, sir, and let us pass.”

"Oh," the Federal major said easily, "I reckon I won't." He smiled. "But you're welcome to give us a try.”

Andrew could see the channel on the far side of the island. Reach that channel and they could swim to the Confederate shore. "Glad to make your acquaintance, Major," Andrew managed, and threw off a brisk salute before he and Jamie wheeled and splashed back into the fog.

His men looked to Andrew expectantly.

"They'll slaughter us," Jamie said. "I counted eight guns. Andrew?”

Andrew turned toward the island. The fog had settled and he couldn't see anything but spindly treetops. The far shore was more visible: the steep riverbank, then a belt of fog, then trees.

Jamie was saying something.

The fog was lovely, swirling, and blown to wisps. He fancied he saw Charlotte's face and Charlotte's loving eyes.

"Andrew!" Jamie hissed. "For God's sake, Andrew!”

He would never see Charlotte again. He would never see his son.

There'd be a generation of Southern sons who'd never know their fathers.

Andrew supposed that wouldn't be all bad.

Jamie was suggesting some other place they might cross, someplace he'd discovered when he scouted Cobb's Ford. A few miles up the river.

They'd have to swim.

Why had he left Charlotte? He could no longer remember.

Comforting darkness descended on him.

"Andrew!" Jamie whispered urgently. "You mustn't, Andrew!”

Andrew Ravanel was accounted a brave man in a nation of brave men, but perhaps the bravest thing he ever did was throwing off that darkness, and shouting in a brigade colonel's voice, "Follow me upriver, boys! It's Rock Island Prison or home!”

Filling the road shoulder-to-shoulder, Ravanel's Brigade cantered up the river road through tendrils of fog. When an exhausted horse collapsed, the nearest man snatched its rider and swung him behind. More horses fell.

In the cornfields beside the road, fog rose like smoke from ghost campfires.

"Here!" Jamie shouted, and the Confederates quit the road for the riverbank. They reined blown horses beside a floating dock where a halfsunk rowboat was tied.

The river was narrower here, half a mile maybe. Across roiled, muddy water, the Confederate shore was featureless.

Jamie sang out, "If you want to have a good time, if you want to have a good time, if you want to have a good time, jine the cavalry!”

A messenger from the rear guard: "They's a-comin'. Federal brigade's a-comin'.”

Colonel Ravanel mounted the bank, where everybody could see him.

"Boys, we've had our fun and it's time to pay the piper. Across the river is freedom. This side is a Yankee prison camp. Men who can't swim or won't can stay here with me. We'll hold 'em off while the rest of you get across.”

Troopers lashed their boots to their saddles and kneed their horses into the turbulent brown river. Some clung to their horses' necks, some swam, hanging to the stirrups. They angled downstream in the current.

The gun crew unlimbered their solitary gun, unstoppered its muzzle, and pointed it down the foggy road where the Federals must come. Others dragged the rowboat out of the water to shield the gun crew.

"Andrew, your horse can swim it," Jamie said. "I'll command the rear guard.”

Although it was hard getting the words through his constricted throat, Andrew said, "What, Jamie — and let you have all the fun?" Colonel Ravanel smiled like his old self and tucked his hands under his coat, where nobody could see them shaking.

A whistle screamed, and with its bow chasers blazing, a Federal gunboat charged out of the fog into the swimming Confederates.

Waterspouts lifted from the river, wide and white at the top, darker at the base.

It was a turkey shoot.

The bow chasers fired as fast as they were reloaded. Horses screamed.

Men and horses died. Debris floated down the river: That rolling lump had been a horse; the speck beside it may have been its rider's hat.

Despite the industrious gunboat, a handful of Andrew's men gained the far shore, scrabbled up the bank, and disappeared into the fog. Cassius had lost his banjo.

"There goes your orchestra," Jamie whispered.

When the gunboat turned downstream, it was killing men and horses that were already dead. Blood sparkled over its stern wheel and formed a slick in its wake.

The Federals' swallowtail pennants snapped smartly as they came up and their officers were grinning until they saw the carnage in the river. The gunboat paraded up and down, whistling proudly, like the clever device it was.

Andrew Ravanel saluted his captors. "Good morning, gentlemen. I believe you've been looking for us.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN The Yellow Silk Sash

Christmas furlough ended and thousands of Georgia soldiers were returning to their regiments. They were townsmen and farm boys, lawyers, blacksmiths, doctors, schoolmasters, farriers, wheelwrights, and planters departing their families for Virginia, where the Federals would attack again as soon as the roads were firm enough to support their mighty guns, endless supply trains, and their rank upon rank of well-fed, wellarmed blue-clad soldiers. For three years, these ordinary Southerners had met and blunted Goliath's attacks — and paid a bitter price.

At the Atlanta depot, Major Wilkes's new uniform coat and bright yellow sash stood out. Not every soldier had an entire uniform — most wore homespun or captured Federal uniforms dyed with butternut hulls. The officers' horses' ribs poked through drum-taut skins like ladder rungs.

Wives hid their tears and their soldier husbands smiled. Older children knew how to keep silent, but children too young to accept Poppa's brave lies were inconsolable. The soldiers' leave-taking was accompanied by the wails of heartbroken children.

Ashley Wilkes could distinguish a Rubens from a Velasquez and knew if a Mozart concerto was early or late. He'd visited the Tower of London and the confluence of the Rhine. He had toured European gardens, from Blenheim to Versailles, and understood which fine roses grew best in Georgia clay. Despite his doubts about the war, he was a good officer.

Although Ashley wasn't a man his fellows clapped on the back, he was liked and trusted. Major Wilkes was a thoughtful, erudite man.

Nothing in his thirty-three years had prepared him for being in love with two women.

He loved his wife, Melanie, and he loved ... "Her," although he could not bear to name Her. She'd been the neighbor girl, an amusing companion, the youngster for whom he had high hopes, the delightful friend, the virginal daughter of an Irish immigrant planter; she'd been Ashley's Galatea until the day he returned from his European tour and, in his absence, the girl had become: "Her.”

Ashley Wilkes had read about women. Medea, Lady Macbeth, Juliet, Isolde, Desdemona, even the scandalous Madame Bovary — Ashley understood them all. But he did not understand Scarlett, nor did he understand his longing for her. He'd spent his life denying ungentlemanly appetites.

Ashley Wilkes was shocked how much he wanted her.

And Ashley did love his wife; she was everything he'd hoped for. He'd spent every hour of his leave with Melanie and in her arms. They'd closed their bedroom door on the world's sorrows and fears.

Somewhere, somehow, Melanie had found the fabric to sew a uniform coat for her beloved husband. The warmth cosseting Ashley's slender body was Melanie's warmth.

But moments before he'd left for the depot, Scarlett caught Ashley alone and gifted him with a beautiful silk sash she'd sewn herself. And, alas, Scarlett had confessed her love.

Ashley hadn't answered. What could his answer be? Without any reply, promise, or excuse, he'd left Scarlett on the doorstep. What else might a gentleman have done? At the depot, in his fine new uniform and fine new sash, Major Ashley Wilkes was a man tormented.

Mornin', Major." Cade Calvert coughed into his handkerchief. It would have been bad manners to notice that Cade's white handkerchief was spotted red. Cade's brother Raiford lay with the Confederate dead at Gettysburg.

"Train ain't goin' nowhere." Tony Fontaine lifted his bottle in greeting.

His brother Alex was passed out, head on his haversack, unmindful of men stepping over him.

"There's no locomotive." Among these ragged men, the exquisitely tailored civilian stood out like an exclamation point.

"Prolly some damn speculator needed it!" Tony said pointedly. Tony's brother Joe had been killed at Gettysburg, too.

Ashley turned. "Ah, Captain Butler ...”

"My compliments, Major Wilkes. Your sash is exceptionally fine.”

This rich man with the hot black eyes had been courting Scarlett. Everybody knew he had. "My sash is a gift from someone dear," Ashley replied.

"I haven't seen such silk since Havana. Tied in a lover's knot? Mrs. Wilkes is an excellent seamstress.”

"Melanie?" Ashley blushed. "Why, yes. Yes, she is. Apparently, our departure is delayed; our train — “

Tony Fontaine stumbled closer to wash Ashley with whiskey breath.

"Major, did I ever say how much I admire you? I mean, you're a ... you're a real gentleman. By God, if you ain't!”

"They're bringing a locomotive from Jonesboro." Rhett shrugged. "An hour, perhaps two. Major, might I buy you a drink while you wait?”

Ashley Wilkes felt rubbed raw. The prospect of Tony Fontaine's drunken encomiums while Cade Calvert spat blood into his handkerchief was more than he could bear. At least Butler was a gentleman. "I could use a drink, sir.”

As they passed down Decatur Street, Butler made conversation, "So many hotels have been converted into hospitals, there aren't many decent saloons left." He rubbed his hands. "War or peace, vice must be served.

Here we are, Major.”

The lobby and saloon of the National Hotel was wall-to-wall officers drinking the dregs of their Christmas furlough. The door to the hotel casino was guarded by bouncers, who uncrossed thick arms to let Captain Butler and his companion pass.

In this spacious room, one negro was polishing the roulette wheel while another washed glasses behind the bar. At a green baize table, a croupier played solitaire. In the silence, Ashley heard him turn each card. The mulatto who greeted them wore formal trousers and a fresh ruffled shirt but no jacket. "Afternoon, Captain Butler. Major. I'm afraid play won't begin until seven ...”

"We're not here to play, Jack. You don't mind if we take a quiet table? Perhaps some champagne?”

"We've no Sillery, Captain. Haven't had any Sillery since the last cases you brought.”

"I've quit the blockade-running, Jack. We'll drink the best you have.”

When the bottle came, Butler filled Ashley's glass, which Ashley promptly drained. Rhett refilled it. "That is an unusually fine sash," he persisted.

"I swear that's Havana silk.”

"Were you in Cuba long?”

"I'm wondering where your wife found that silk.”

"Melanie is resourceful. I'm told Cuba is lovely.”

"It is an island blessed with expansive beaches and ineffectual firing squads. I admire your wife, sir. If I may say so, Mrs. Wilkes is the finest lady in Atlanta.”

"I shall miss her terribly.”

Rhett Butler's eyes bored into Ashley's. "How lucky you are to have a wife as able" — he indicated the sash — "as she is virtuous.”

The croupier spun his wheel. The ivory ball whirred and clicked.

Ashley hadn't been in a room like this, a room managed solely for men's pleasure, since the War began. It recalled the graces for which he'd been born. Ashley leaned forward, smiling, "Butler, you were at Twelve Oaks' last barbecue. Remember the French lilacs and dogwoods? Did you tour our rose garden? "Every planter in Clayton County envied us Mamaluke, our fiddler.”

Ashley chuckled. "That negro never did a lick of honest work. I believe our servants had more fun at our parties than we did." Ashley shook his head wonderingly. "They were like happy children.”

The tension in Captain Butler's body warned Ashley he was on dangerous ground. "As a Charleston gentleman, doubtless you have similar recollections.

Barbecues, balls, race meets ...”

Rhett overfilled Ashley's glass and swept the spill off the table with the edge of his hand. "My father's horses were so splendid, they made my heart ache. We Butlers ate with English silver off French porcelain. In the spring, Broughton Plantation's azaleas could dazzle a man's senses." Rhett raised his glass in a toast. "Wilkes, did you ever whip a servant? I mean personally.

Did you ever whip a man yourself?”

Ashley felt ambushed. "Whip a servant? Why, we never needed to.

Why would we? I don't recall my father whipping any negro. I recall naught but kindness.”

"What did you do with ... 'impertinent' negroes? Sell them?”

A suppressed childhood memory returned: a weeping negress clutching Ashley's father's knees as the slave speculator's cart took her husband away.

For a moment, Ashley was speechless. Bottles clinked as the bartender restocked the bar.

Ashley coughed and dabbed his lips. "They say Grant will lead the Federals against us this spring. My company is reduced to ten men, my regiment to sixty." Why did some men hate beauty? What had gentle beauty done to earn Rhett Butler's contempt? "I fear for our Confederacy," Ashley concluded.

Rhett eyed his guest as if prey. "Tell me, Major Wilkes. You're a man of cultivated sensibilities. Have you ever had a divided heart? Have you ever tossed and turned, wondering, Does she love me? Do I love her? I sometimes wonder, sir, how the grown man's yearnings differ from the schoolboy's sweaty torments.”

"I have not had a wide experience with women.”

"I have. In my experience, they are as different from one another as a rose from a petunia, a Morgan from a Standardbred. Each woman is totally unique.”

"Is each worthy of love?”

"I do not believe we have choice in that matter. We do not choose whom we love; love chooses us.”

Ashley frowned. "Surely, sir — so many fortunate marriages have been arranged. Don't you think we can learn to love?”

Rhett bit the tip of his cigar, spat, and lit his match. "No, Major Wilkes, I do not. I think most men and women live their whole lives without knowing love. They accept a simulacrum for the real thing. They confuse cold gray embers for a raging fire.”

Ashley Wilkes opened his watch. "Our locomotive will be here soon.”

"Tarry awhile, Major Wilkes. You've time and it is quieter here. I understand you quarreled with Andrew Ravanel.”

Ashley asked, "Isn't it awful what the Federals are doing with Colonel Ravanel?”

Rhett snorted. "Proud Colonel Ravanel jailed as an ordinary horse thief? I tell you, sir. Andrew's lucky to be a convict in the penitentiary. The Federals treat criminals better than their rebel prisoners. I'm told you complained to General Bragg about Andrew.”

"Bragg is a punctilious fool.”

Rhett drawled, "Why, of course he is. Your complaint was ..." Ashley touched his glass for a refill. "I volunteered for his brigade.”

"Bugles blowing, gallant deeds, that sort of thing?”

"Look here, Butler. I find your manner very nearly offensive.”

"My apologies. You were Andrew's adjutant...”

"You knew Andrew Ravanel in Charleston?”

"We were school chums. There was a time I would have done anything for Andrew. Your complaint?”

Ashley said, "Colonel Ravanel is no gentleman.”

"Andrew had his own doubts about that.”

Ashley looked down at his hands. "Very well, then. If you must know.

We'd been raiding and it hadn't gone well. Our brigade crossed the Licking River into Cynthiania, Kentucky, which was safely Confederate. Children ran beside us, shouting, 'Ravanel! It's Colonel Ravanel.' Women waved, but even Andrew was too tired to respond. He was in one of his moods, so Henry Kershaw took charge. Captain Kershaw billeted us officers in town.

The color sergeant bivouacked the brigade west of town.

"Henry didn't set out pickets and we were abed when Federal cavalry struck at dawn. Andrew and I fled in our nightshirts. Did you know Henry Kershaw? That loudmouthed, drunken bully?”

"You are too kind to Henry.”

"Henry didn't run. Henry Kershaw snatched up Ravanel's plumed hat and strode onto the street, pistol in hand, buck naked except for the hat, screaming that he was, by God, Colonel Ravanel and damned if he'd run from damn Yankees! Henry got off a shot before they killed him. A company of green Federal cavalry, just a foraging party who'd stumbled on us by chance.”

Ashley Wilkes continued: "The brigade heard the shooting and were already mounted when we reached them. Colonel Ravanel was livid.

"The Federals never dreamed we'd counterattack. They were looting the town. One unlucky corporal was dragging a hall clock taller than he was. They didn't put up much fight.

"Their captain was wearing Andrew's hat. He hadn't had the wit to discard it. When he tried to give it back to Andrew, Andrew refused. 'Why sir, the hat's yours. A trophy of your gallant action.' "We dressed Henry Kershaw and laid him in a mule cart. Andrew commanded our prisoners to follow and he adjusted the traces so the Federal captain could pull the cart. 'Henry would have wanted it. Surely you wouldn't deny the man you murdered this final courtesy "When the Federal faltered, Colonel Ravanel lashed him as he might have lashed a mule, and when we reached the graveyard, the man crumpled to his knees. Again, Andrew refused to accept his hat. 'No, sir. You killed a man for that hat and it's yours. It'll be something your grandchildren can boast about. Now, you wouldn't leave Henry unburied, would your Ashley continued, "After he dug the grave, the man collapsed beside it while Andrew Ravanel read the burial service. Then Andrew turned to the captain, 'You dug the grave big enough for two.' “

Ashley said, "Before our men and his, the officer got down on his knees, clutching at Andrew's legs and begging for his life.”

Rhett Butler pursed his lips. "Andrew never did know what he was doing until it was mostly done.”

Ashley's eyes were haunted. "Andrew laughed at the man. 'Give me back my hat,' he said, 'It doesn't look right on a coward.' "We left that officer with the soldiers he had commanded." Ashley paused. "In the past, I have admired wit as an ornament. I had not dreamed it could be so ugly.”

"Truth beauty, beauty truth, eh, Major?" Rhett Butler said. He rose to go. "I do admire your yellow silk sash. I can sense the love in it. My best compliments to your wife.”

CHAPTER TWENTY A River of Blood

Nominated for a second term, Abraham Lincoln said, "I do not allow myself to suppose that the delegates have decided that I am either the greatest or best man in America, but rather that it is not best to swap horses while crossing the river...”

It was a river of blood. On May 8, in the fourth year of the War, Ulysses S. Grant began his spring offensive. By June, Grant had lost sixty thousand men. At Cold Harbor, he lost seven thousand in eight minutes.

In the west, General Sherman was moving on Atlanta. General Johnston's outnumbered Confederates beat off Sherman's attacks at Dalton, Resaca, and Pickett's Mill, but after each victory, the Confederates were outflanked and forced to abandon their positions because the Federals threatened their supply lines. Reacting to jibes that he wasn't a fighting general, Sherman fought a stand-up battle at Kennesaw Mountain. Three thousand dead Federals later, Sherman knew War is Hell.

When she learned that Ashley was missing in action, the very pregnant Melanie Wilkes fainted dead away. She begged Rhett to learn what he could. Some who'd been West Point cadets with Rhett Butler were now Federal generals, and from one of these, Rhett learned that Major Wilkes was alive, a prisoner in the Rock Island Prison Camp.

On July 12, 1864, surrounded by his cheering officers, William T. Sherman stood on a hilltop six miles north of Atlanta.

After months of Federal bombardment, Charleston was no longer a beautiful city. Streets perpendicular to the Federal guns had been hit hardest when shells penetrated roofs and exploded inside, collapsing house walls into the street. Fennel grew waist-high in abandoned gardens and loose cows grazed on Meeting Street. Broken glass glistened between cobblestones, dusted fence railings, and sheeted the walkways like frozen rain.

Although the next house was a ruin, thus far 46 Church Street had been spared. John Haynes refused to leave. He told Rosemary, "Go if you must. You will be safer in the north of town." Talking to John was like trying to drag a ghost back into the world of the living.

By July, the Federal blockade of Charleston harbor was complete and the last die-hard blockade runner was forced aground on Rattlesnake Shoal. The speculators vanished. Haynes & Sons ships rotted at the wharf and spiders spun webs in the windows of its empty warehouse.

Through the long daylight hours, John Haynes sat on his daughter's bed, staring at nothing. At night, he walked the city amid the incendiaries, the toppling walls, and Charleston's beleaguered fire companies.

Rosemary spent her days at the newly established Free Market, distributing food to Charleston's soldiers' families. Monday: yams. Tuesday: cornmeal. Okra on Wednesday. Shy children clung to their mothers' skirts.

From time to time, some child would do or say or stand or smile as Meg might have, and Rosemary's heart broke afresh.

On Sunday, the Free Market was closed. Although John no longer attended services, Rosemary went faithfully, praying God would tell her why He had taken her child. After the service, she walked uptown — the Fishers' East Bay mansion had been shelled and Charlotte and Juliet were renting a small house north of the Shell District.

Their forced intimacy and Charlotte's difficult confinement had challenged Juliet's domestic skills and Charlotte's natural cheerfulness.

Charlotte wrote daily to her imprisoned husband. She entrusted some letters to the mail, some to private couriers. Charlotte Fisher Ravanel had important connections, and some letters had been hand-carried by prisoner exchange commissioners. She wrote Andrew about their move, describing their cottage as "snug as a doll's house" and "surpassingly comfortable." She reported her unshakable certainty that Andrew Ravanel was to have a son.

Charlotte never mentioned the doctor's unease, nor the agonizing pains that shot through her abdomen. Charlotte signed her letters "Your dear little wife, your loving spouse, I miss you so much! Praying for your return, I am ...”

Charlotte had yet to receive a reply.

Juliet said, "Andrew? A letter writer? Lord no. I don't recall Andrew ever writing a letter.”

"But dear Sister, he must know how precious his words would be?”

"Perhaps Andrew's letters are confiscated," Juliet suggested.

"Jamie's letters get through.”

Jamie Fisher wrote detailed accounts of their bored jailers and the prisoners' pranks. When he warned of Andrew's deepening melancholy, Charlotte wrote, "Dearest husband, Your forced inactivity invites despondency.

Please take regular exercise! Men of passionate dispositions (like yourself, dear) must exercise every day. When you are outdoors, turn your face to the sun. Sunlight strengthens the pineal gland!”

Although her letters to her husband were uniformly cheerful, Charlotte let herself complain to Juliet. "We were happier than we'd ever been. Why did Andrew raid into Ohio?" Charlotte pressed her hands into her back.

"Sometimes I think I am carrying a pachyderm instead of a son. Juliet, why are men so cruel to those who love them?”

"I am sure I don't know," Juliet said with her old asperity. "Were we spinsters better at gauging men's hearts, we would not be spinsters.”

On a steaming hot August morning, after Charlotte Ravanel had been in unsuccessful labor for forty-eight hours, Rosemary Haynes laid her ear against her friend's distended abdomen. Straightening, she gave Juliet the tiniest nod: no, no heartbeat.

Juliet said, "The doctor is dozing in the kitchen. I'll fetch him.”

"Oh dear friend, please don't bother the poor man," Charlotte whispered.

"Tarry awhile. Haven't we had such pleasant times? Who has ever had better friends than you?" Charlotte Fisher Ravanel's smile was reminiscent.

"How lucky I was to marry Andrew! All the girls had their caps set for Andrew.”

She closed her eyes. "I am sleepy now. I believe I will rest beside my baby. Tell me, Rosemary. Doesn't Andrew's son have his father's eyes?”

A bleary sun hung over the deserted harbor as Rosemary made her way home. The Federals were attacking the few harbor forts still in Confederate hands. So far away, their musketry sounded like a baby's rattle.

Outside 46 Church Street, Joshua was saddling Tecumseh.

"Joshua, what are you doing?”

John's servant adjusted the stirrups. "Master Haynes goin' for a soldier, Missus.”

Saddlebags in hand, John came out, moving more briskly than he had in months. "Ah, Rosemary. How are Charlotte and the baby?”

"Dead. Charlotte and the baby, too. Oh, John, she so wanted that child. She ...”

As if his wife were too fragile to embrace, John gently touched Rosemary's hair. Tears trickled down his good open face. "My dear, I am so sorry. Charlotte was too fine for this sinful world.”

Rosemary indicated Tecumseh. "John, what is this?”

"I left a note on your bedside table. You couldn't have missed it.”

"John!”

"General Johnston has asked for volunteers. Haynes and Son is ruined; our ships might as well be moored on dry land. Rosemary, can you forgive me? I cannot grieve any longer." Her husband's tiny smile was the first Rosemary had seen in months. "Who knows, perhaps they'll give me a commission. Lieutenant Haynes — wouldn't that be grand? You mustn't worry, dear. John Haynes will be the carefulest old soldier in the army.”

He passed the saddlebags to Joshua. "You needn't fear for yourself — Rhett invested our profits in British bonds. There'll be money to sustain you, whatever may happen.”

"John, wait! You cannot go! You cannot! Why ... Tecumseh is gun-shy!”

He patted the horse's flank. "As I am. I suppose we both must overcome terrors.”

"But why are you doing this? You cannot bring our Darling back!”

He gripped his wife's shoulders so tightly, he hurt her. "Rosemary, my life is ashes. I had thought myself protected by the modesty of my ambitions: I would be nothing more than an honest businessman, loving husband, and father. That is everything I ever wanted.'' He shook his head sadly. "What a very great distance we Southerners have come.”

Although the words Stay with me trembled on Rosemary's lips, she could not utter them.

John Haynes nodded as if to himself. "So I am away. Though it is hard to credit, apparently our country needs its portly, middle-aged businessmen.

President Davis says we can win. If we hold Atlanta, hold Petersburg, and hold Charleston, Abraham Lincoln won't be reelected. If Lincoln loses the election, the Federals will quit this struggle. They have suffered terribly; their losses have been even greater than ours. Surely they are as weary of the ghastly business as we are.”

"John, would you lie to me? Now?”

His eyes soft with affection, he touched his lips to her hand. "Rosemary, Rosemary. Yes, I would lie to you." John Haynes turned her palm upright, as if memorizing each precious line. "I would lie to Jesus Christ Himself to save you hurt.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Atlanta Burns

Rhett Butler was outside the National Hotel when the first Federal shell hit Atlanta. Fire bells jangled. "There, over there!" A sharp-eyed boy pointed at a column of smoke above the rooftops.

Rhett pushed through gawkers into the hotel saloon. Since the bartender was outside, Rhett stepped behind the bar and drew his own beer, which he carried with the bartender's newspaper to his usual table in the back. When another shell loosed dirt and paint flakes from the pressed-tin ceiling, Rhett covered his beer with his hand.

Everyone hoped John Hood, the western army's new commander, would whip Sherman and save the city. If the hotel cellar was turned into a bombproof, there'd be no more cold beer.

One paper praised General Hood, who had previously lost an arm and leg defending the Confederacy. "Indisputable proof," the paper claimed, "of the General's fighting spirit.”

Yesterday morning at Confederate headquarters, Rhett had watched in disbelief while two strong men hoisted the General onto his horse and tied him to it.

That first shell flattened Mr. Warner's house on the corner of Rhoades and Elliot streets, killing Warner and his six-year-old daughter. Subsequent shells killed a woman who was ironing shirts. Another was fatally wounded waiting to board a train. Sol Luckie, a free colored barber, died when a shell glanced off a lamppost and exploded at his feet.

Two of Atlanta's four railroads were already in Federal hands. Frightened businessmen crept up the back stairs of the Chapeau Rouge to offer Rhett businesses for a song.

After Hood's army confiscated Atlanta's civilian horses and rigs, Rhett walked from the Chapeau Rouge to the hotel. When a street was blocked by fire equipment, Rhett detoured.

When the morning sun flared through the front windows of the hotel saloon, Rhett folded his cards and walked back to the Chapeau Rouge. If he lost a thousand one night, he won a thousand the next. It was all the same to him.

What a fool he was. What a goddamned fool! In this city, besieged on three sides by an enormous army that was closing the last bolt-hole, Rhett should have left weeks ago. There was absolutely nothing to keep him in Atlanta.

Except Scarlett O'Hara.

Pittypat and Peter had evacuated, but Scarlett stayed behind with Melanie Wilkes, who had been terribly weakened by the birth of her son.

Rhett should leave for London.

Or New Orleans. He hadn't been there since he returned Tazewell Watling to the Jesuits.

In March, in May, and twice in July, he'd packed his bags.

Then he'd remember her long neck — so proud but so vulnerable. Or he'd recall her scent — her scent beneath her perfume. Once, he'd turned back because of how bravely she tossed her head.

Rhett'd unpacked his bags and got thoroughly drunk.

The last time Rhett Kershaw Butler had felt this helpless, he'd been a field hand in his father's rice fields.

Outside the city, at Peachtree Creek and Ezra Church, General Hood hurled weary, outnumbered Confederates at well-fed, rested Federals who mowed them down like wheat. The Federals quit bombarding Atlanta and shifted to Hood's left flank, where they broke the Atlanta and West Point Railroad and advanced on Jonesboro and the Macon and Western.

Jonesboro was the key to the city. If Jonesboro fell, the last railroad into Atlanta, Hood's sole supply line, would be cut.

Ambulances with side curtains lifted for air streamed down Marietta Street. Small boys ran alongside, fanning flies off the wounded.

Fresh rumors arrived at the saloon on the half hour: "Cleburne's flank attack has failed!”

“My cousin's on Brown's staff. He says Brown can't hold out.

By midafternoon gamblers were offering four to one against Hood.

Rhett Butler sat alone at his table.

Believing Sherman's Jonesboro attack a feint and that the Federals intended to attack Atlanta itself, General Hood withdrew his army into the city. Thirty thousand soldiers stumbled down Decatur Street. Their dust whitened the saloon's front windows.

That night, the saloon was feverishly gay. Normally humorless men told one joke after another; Baptists who had never touched whiskey staggered.

Sometime after midnight, a tall woman in mourning garb sat beside a dusty, opaque window, loosed her long hair, and wept.

Though the tables were full and men stood three-deep at the bar, Rhett Butler sat alone playing solitaire: black jack on red queen, black queen on red king. Rhett poured himself a drink. What the hell was he doing in this town? In time, Rhett Butler walked out into a crystal-clear dawn. Small songbirds sang. The buzzards rested on their roosts. They had a busy day ahead.

Hood's dirty, exhausted soldiers slept in doorways and sprawled, snoring, on the boardwalks. Rhett rubbed his face. He needed a shave.

The Chapeau Rouge's parlor was a jumble of empty glasses and bottles.

A love seat was overturned and both marble Venuses were gone.

"Mornin', MacBeth.”

MacBeth had bags under his red-rimmed eyes and a bruise on his cheek.

"Rough night?" Rhett supposed.

The bouncer touched his bruise. "Everybody crazy! Actin' like they don't give a damn.”

The kitchen stove was still warm and Rhett drew water to shave.

Rhett went upstairs to his office. His desk was bare; his safe was open and empty. He'd already burned what should be burned and buried what should be buried. Rhett Butler was free as a bird.

He sat at his desk and opened the drawer: pens, paper, ink, a blotter.

They might have belonged to anyone.

What was he doing here? Jesus Christ! What had love done to him? At four that afternoon, Federal guns roared at Jonesboro. Hood had been tricked. The Confederate army was in the wrong place.

Accompanied by the distant rumble of guns, Rhett Butler walked back to the saloon, took his customary seat, and cracked a fresh deck.

The Federals outnumbered Jonesboro's defenders five to one. The Macon and Western, Atlanta's last railroad, fell into Sherman's hands.

"Hood's pullin' out! The army's skedaddling!”

"Anybody who don't want to live under Yankee rule, better get the hell out of 'Lanta." Some men scurried into the saloon; others scurried out.

Rhett laid a black nine on a red ten.

Belle Watling came in. She'd been drinking. "Oh Rhett. What should I do? The Federals ...”

"You needn't do a thing." Rhett poured Belle a drink. "The Yankees won't eat you, you know. Just keep your Cyprians indoors for a day or two.

Then double your prices.”

"Rhett, after all you've done for me, I hate to ask, but — can I come with you?”

Rhett's long fingers riffled his cards. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere?”

"Oh, I don't know, Rhett, I don't know!" Belle wept. "For God's sake, take me with you!”

He gave her his handkerchief. Belle Watling blew her nose and said she was sorry to be a burden.

A bartender came to the table, "Captain Butler, there's a nigger wench outside yellin' for you. Says it's important.”

In the street, marching soldiers broke around Scarlett's bawling maid, Prissy. "Cap'n Butler, Cap'n Butler. Miss Scarlett want you. She and Miss Melly, they needs you bad. You got to come.”

"Come in off the street, Prissy, and tell me what you want.”

She shook her head vigorously. "No, sir. I ain't comin' no nearer that saloon. Devil, he got long arms. Miss Scarlett, she evacuatin' and she need your horse n' carriage.”

"My horse and carriage have been confiscated. I doubt there's a rig left in the city.”

"Oh Lord, Cap'n Butler. If you has been confiscated, what we goin' to do? Miss Melly, she so sick. Her 'n' her baby. And there's Miss Scarlett 'n' little Wade. What we gonna do?”

Rhett's soul woke like a cat stretching in the sun. New blood coursed through his body. A grin found his face but he forced it into hiding. Scarlett needed him.

"Please, Cap'n Butler!”

"You go back to Miss Scarlett. Tell her I'm coming, Prissy. Don't dawdle now.”

When Rhett went back inside, Belle Watling was peering into her empty glass. "I s'pose I don't need to ask who's askin' for you. I s'pose I know who you're goin' to.”

"Dear Belle," Rhett said gently. "Go on home now. Your girls need you.”

The rig Rhett stole was a sorry one: a spavined old nag pulling a wagon that looked to fall apart momentarily.

Anyway, it was a rig.

The evacuating Confederates were burning their supplies and the air smelled of burning hams: hams Confederate commissary men had confiscated from poor farmers who'd hoped to feed their families. Those tremendous explosions were munitions Rhett himself might have run through the blockade. Uniforms, saddles, whiskey, bacon, boots, blankets, tons and tons of cornmeal — all burning. The flames made Atlanta's night as bright as day.

Prissy was pacing outside Pittypat's front gate when Rhett turned into the street. She ran into the house, shouting, "Cap'n Butler, he come. Cap'n Butler here, Miss Scarlett!”

As Rhett drew up to the front gate, a tremendous blast rang in his ears.

One hand shading her eyes, Scarlett stepped onto the front walk. The shock wave streamered her black hair and molded her dress to the soft curves of her body.

As fragments pattered the road and flame tongues licked the sky, Rhett Butler tipped his hat to Scarlett O'Hara. "Good evening. Fine weather we're having. I hear you're going to take a trip.”

"Rhett Butler, if you make jokes, I shall never speak to you again.”

Despite fire, blasts, and Yankee invasion Rhett was happy as a schoolboy.

How her green eyes flashed!

He told her the hard truths: If they tried to flee south, Confederate soldiers would confiscate the horse and wagon, and every other road was in Federal hands. "Just where do you think you are going?”

"I'm going home," she said.

"Home? You mean to Tara?”

"Yes, yes! To Tara! Oh Rhett, we must hurry!”

Impossible: A burning city lay between them and the Jonesboro road.

She broke down, wailing and pummeling Rhett's chest. "I will go home! I will! If I have to walk every step of the way." She would, too. Rhett knew she would. She'd do anything. She was capable of anything to get what she wanted.

Gently, he touched her hair. "There, there, darling," he said softly. "Don't cry. You shall go home, my brave little girl. You shall go home. Don't cry.”

Prissy padded the wagon with quilts while Scarlett and Rhett went upstairs.

The aroma of camphor and rubbing alcohol in Melly's room made Rhett's eyes water. The new mother was as colorless as her cotton sheets. Beside her, her baby was asleep. His mouth made tiny suckling motions.

"I'll try not to hurt you, Mrs. Wilkes. See if you can put your arms around my neck.”

"Baby Beau!" Melanie whispered.

"We'll let Prissy bring your baby. He'll be fine." Rhett slipped one arm under Melanie's shoulders and the other beneath her knees and lifted her.

She didn't weigh eighty pounds.

"Please ... Charles's things. We mustn't leave them." Melanie gestured weakly toward Charles's sword and the daguerreotype.

A hint of a smile found Rhett's lips. "I can't think Mrs. Hamilton would let me forget Charles's things.”

Scarlett stowed Charles's mementos in the wagon. Gently, Rhett placed Melanie on the quilts beside her baby.

Thank you for helping us, Captain Butler." Melanie's voice was like paper rustling.

Although every nerve in his body was tingling, a deep calm had settled into Rhett's core. This was why he'd stayed in Atlanta. This was what he'd always meant to be. She needed him. Only him.

When little Wade hesitated, Rhett said, "Get in the wagon, son.

Wouldn't you like an adventure?”

"No!" the boy said, and hiccuped. Rhett laughed as he scooped Wade aboard. Prissy scrambled into the back as Rhett lifted Scarlett onto the seat beside him.

"Wade, honey," Melanie murmured to her frightened nephew, "please slip that pillow behind me.”

When she leaned forward so the boy could place the pillow, Melanie Hamilton Wilkes bit her lip so she wouldn't cry out. She mustn't faint. She mustn't!

Little Wade's hot breath was in her ear. "Aunty Melly, I'm scared.”

"Sweet boy, there's much to be scared about," Melanie whispered. "But you are a brave young soldier, Wade, aren't you?”

"I suppose, Aunt Melly.”

As they creaked off, Scarlett wailed. "I forgot to lock the front door!”

Rhett's roar of laughter cured Wade Hamilton's hiccups.

The rickety old horse and wagon headed toward Atlanta's burning heart.

Inside dark, seemingly abandoned houses, householders were hiding the family silver or burying Grandfather's Mexican War pistol.

Near the city center, the night was loud with creaks, cries, and hoofbeats — the tumult of a great army in retreat. Rhett turned into a side street. A tremendous explosion sucked the air from their lungs and Wade began hiccuping again. "That will be Hood's ammunition cars." Rhett reached behind him to give Wade's knee a reassuring squeeze.

Rhett had hoped they could slip around the fire, but this night every road led to hell. He lashed the old horse into a shambling run and curled his fingers around his revolver. His woman was pressed against his side and heaven help the fool who tried to stop them!

On both sides of Marietta Street, warehouses were ablaze. Looters scurried off with their prizes. Drunks reeled around a shattered whiskey barrel.

Suddenly, Rhett pulled the wagon over the boardwalk and stopped, concealed under an outdoor stairwell.

"Hurry," Scarlett said. "Why are you stopping?”

"Soldiers.”

They might have been a thousand-man regiment once, but they weren't a hundred tonight. A lifetime ago, wives and sweethearts had sewn fine uniforms and embroidered their flag and they'd had a name — they'd been the Grays or the Zouaves or the Troop or the Legion. They'd come from no place special, a town or a county where everybody knew everybody, and they'd enlisted with their brothers, cousins, and neighbors and elected the Master of the biggest plantation as their Colonel because they sure as hell wouldn't take orders from just anybody.

Their friends had died at their sides, and their cousins and their brothers and their Colonel — oh, he was long dead — and the Colonel who'd replaced him — what was his name? — dead, too. How many Colonels had there been anyway? They walked as if their springs were broken, as if they had walked so many miles, one mile was no different from the next, one battle no different from the last. They held their rifles like old friends. Their sweetheart sewn uniforms were long gone. They wore homespun and scraps of Federal uniforms, and some had short jackets and some long ones, and a few walked bare-chested through the flickering glare.

They scarcely lifted their feet, but their sliding strides would carry them onward until at last they fell. For some, that would come as a blessing.

A boy soldier trailed behind. Perhaps he'd been a drummer boy when they'd had drums, but rifles were easier to come by than drums. The boy dragged his rifle in the dust.

He stopped in his tracks, wobbled, and fell on his face. Wordlessly, two men fell out. One, whose black beard was the only substantial thing about him, gave his and the boy's rifle to the second man, slung the boy across his shoulders and walked on.

Rhett Butler removed his hat.

After the last soldier turned the corner, Rhett lashed the horse forward.

The burning city sucked air into its great lungs. Windows popped and blackened the street with burned glass.

Scarlett cried, "Name of God, Rhett! Are you crazy? Hurry! Hurry!”

Prissy screamed.

Flames shot from eaves; oily smoke rolled from roof caps. Heat scorched their faces and they squinted against the glare. Rhett urged the horse into a shuffling trot, terror motivating the beast more than the lash. Fire to the left and right; only a narrow tunnel between. Wade shrieked again and again as heat waves crashed over them and bricks and timbers thudded into the street.

The railroad tracks they bumped across were clear proof that this conflagration had once been a city where ordinary men went to work every morning and newspapers were published. Preachers preached, bankers banked, and grocers had produce to sell.

When they finally emerged on a side street, it was immediately cooler.

The fire was behind them. Little Wade's wails diminished to muffled sobs and hiccups.

Nobody else on the road. On the outskirts of the city, houses were farther apart and the road was bordered by elm trees. The fire wind rustled leaves. The city glowed at their back.

Rhett drew rein.

"Hurry, Rhett. Don't stop.”

"Let the poor brute catch his breath.”

Their sweat dried in the cool air.

Rhett Butler was immensely weary. He had done what he had promised her. She wouldn't need him now. She'd never wanted him. Never. He asked if she knew where they were.

"Oh yes. I know a wagon trace that winds off from the main Jonesboro road and wanders around for miles. Pa and I used to ride it. It comes out right near the Macintosh place, and that's only a mile from Tara.”

He glanced at her face. She was yearning for Tara. Scarlett O'Hara was pure yearning. She and he were two of a kind, but she didn't know it, and she never would.

Some men could love without being loved. Rhett envied them.

Her body was warm against his. He could feel her heartbeat.

It was as if something inside him had snapped. All tension drained out of him. He was as tired as if they'd made love for hours.

That drummer boy couldn't have been more than twelve years old. He should be drifting down a river in the fog, watching for loggerhead turtles on otter slides.

He told her to go on to Tara without him. She had her horse and wagon and she knew the way. He was going to join the army.

"Oh, I could choke you for scaring me so! Let's go on.”

"I am not joking, my dear. Where is your patriotism, your love for Our Glorious Cause?”

"Oh Rhett," she said, "how can you do this to me? Why are you leaving me: Too little, too late.

Rhett Kershaw Butler put his arms around Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her lips melt and awaken to his kiss.

He would never get over her.

He stepped down from the buggy into the darkness beside the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO After Franklin

That fall, after unavailing appeals to less devastated regions of the Confederacy, the Charleston Free Market ran out of food and closed.

Rosemary walked home through the rubble-strewn streets, entered her home through the front door she no longer bothered to lock, and sat across the room from John's favorite chair. After a time, she retrieved the mantel's sole ornament, a silver bud vase, and polished it.

The very next morning, a furloughed convalescent delivered her husband's letter: John was managing "pretty well for an old fellow" and had been promoted. Henceforth, all the world might address him as Captain Haynes — a promotion General Stahl made "only because there were no worthy men seeking it.”

General Forrest took a liking to Rhett," John wrote, "and wanted to commission him an officer. When your brother declined the honor, the ferocious Forrest was greatly amused. I see Rhett whenever our cavalry is in camp. He is in excellent spirits and has acquired a follower, one Archie Flytte, who attends upon Rhett faithfully as a dog. Flytte is a penitentiary bird pardoned to join the army. Although the man is devoted to Rhett, his affection is not reciprocated.

"After Atlanta fell, we marched north. General Hood believed if the Confederate army stood between General Sherman and his Knoxville supply base, it'd bring Sherman boiling out of Atlanta. Once again, Hood misjudged General Sherman, who burned what was left of Atlanta and marched off vigorously in the opposite direction.

"As Sherman proceeds through Georgia, he is wrecking the east-west railroads as thoroughly as he previously wrecked our north-south lines. After those railroads are destroyed, dear heart, you and I will be marooned separately for God knows how long. Rosemary, will you come to me? In anticipation of your favorable decision, Rhett's friend Rufus Bullock has telegraphed you a railroad pass.

"I will understand perfectly if you don't wish to hazard such an arduous, perhaps dangerous journey, but it would make me so glad to see you.

We have so much to make up for, so much to talk about. Our Darling Meg lives in both our hearts. Dear Rosemary, I miss you more than I ever dreamed. My baseless jealousy kept us apart. All the fault is mine. I reproach you for nothing. Please come to me.

"Your loving husband, John.”

Rosemary rushed from room to room, pulling clothing from drawers and chifforobes. She had packed three portmanteaus and a steamer trunk before plumping down on the trunk, covering her face, and giggling. What a ninny!

She stuffed what she absolutely had to have into a carpetbag. Her only ornament was a filigree rose-gold brooch. Why she had ever disliked it, she could not recall.

Rosemary picked up her railroad pass at the depot, where she boarded the train to Savannah.

Next morning in Savannah, Rosemary changed to the Georgia Central, which by noon the following day was huffing cautiously into Macon.

Sherman's cavalry was nearing the city and Macon's depot was clogged with refugees.

Before he burned Atlanta, General William T. Sherman had proposed, "War is cruel and you cannot refine it," a proposition he'd further tested on the undefended farms and towns along his line of march.

Even before Rosemary's train reached the platform, refugees were swarming aboard, hoping to assure a place for themselves when the train departed. When told the locomotive needed fuel, men, children, clergymen — even respectable matrons — passed balks hand over hand up to the wood car.

Militia guarded the Southwestern train Rosemary wanted to board.

Their captain had lost an arm at Chancellorsville, and said he didn't know Rufus Bullock from "Gee Crackey." He hadn't known the Confederacy had a "Railroad Bureau." He touched Rosemary too familiarly. Since the captain chose who rode the train, he said, he picked the prettiest.

Rosemary thanked him and brushed his hand aside as if she hadn't noticed it. She had seated herself in the car when a familiar voice hailed her from the platform. "Rosemary Haynes! Dear Rosemary! Please, please speak to these men!”

The Wards had evacuated Charleston to refuge at a cousin's plantation near Macon. A scant year later, Sherman's bummers torched that plantation and the Wards fled again. Eulalie Ward and her brother-in-law, Frederick, hadn't changed clothes in days. Eulalie's shoes were broken-soled; Frederick, who had always worn a hat out of doors, was bareheaded and his pate was painfully sunburned.

"Rosemary, they let you on the train! Please help us get on, too. We must flee Macon. We have nothing left. Nothing!”

Before the war, Frederick Ward had been a rich man with a rich man's comfortable opinions. Now his sister-in-law led him by the hand. "Stand straight, Frederick. You mustn't be mistaken for a man of no consequence.”

"But Eulalie, I am a man of no consequence.”

Many years ago, when Eulalie's husband died, she thought she had lost everything. She'd never dreamed she had so much more to lose. Willy was dead and her daughters had run off with Sherman's soldiers. Eulalie and Frederick got so hungry, they'd killed Eulalie's little dog, Empress — and then been unable to eat her.

From the rear platform (Rosemary didn't consider getting off the train), Rosemary begged the militia captain to let the Wards board.

"Ma'am," he said, "ain't no place for 'em. Less'n you hop off and make room.”

As the overloaded train pulled out of the depot, Rosemary looked anywhere but at the refugees on the platform.

Where the tracks had been torn up by Sherman's cavalry and hastily relaid, the ramshackle train crept no faster than its passengers, who got off and walked alongside. That night, male passengers held lanterns for the trainmen bracing long bars under the sagging rails to level them as the cars tottered over.

Twelve hours and ninety miles later, the train reached Albany, Georgia.

Rosemary paid five dollars for three corn pones and, with other weary, unwashed refugees, slept on the depot floor until daybreak.

The Selma and Meridian train was a miracle. Untouched by the war, its cars weren't shot up, and its locomotive's bulbous smokestack didn't have a single bullet hole — not one! Although the paint was faded, every car was dark green, with black trim.

The train click-clacked over level rails at a breathtaking thirty miles an hour. The tubercular veteran beside Rosemary had traveled extensively in New England before the war and announced, "By golly, ma'am, we might as well be in Massachusetts!”

This paragon train ended at Demopolis, where the passengers were ferried across the Tombigbee River. From there, they hiked four miles to a log platform, where a wheezing locomotive and familiar mismatched, bulletpocked cars awaited them. In Meridian, Mississippi, Rosemary took a hotel room and slept like the dead. The Mobile and Ohio train she boarded next morning delivered her to Corinth, Mississippi, at dusk. That night, she slept in the depot. At two o'clock the following afternoon, the Memphis and Charleston train brought supplies, conscripts, and Rosemary Haynes into Decatur, Alabama, the end of the line.

The train disgorged barrels of gunpowder and brined beef, boxes of mini? balls, and conscripts onto the platform. The youngest conscript was three days past seventeen, the eldest forty-nine. Most of the conscripts hadn't anything to say, but one fellow in a beaver-collared frock coat confided to Rosemary Haynes that he was too valuable to the war effort to be expended in battle, and a bucktoothed boy chewed his thumbnail and said he'd desert first chance he got. When they stepped down in Decatur, provost's men formed the conscripts into ranks and told them that aspiring deserters should be able to outrun a bullet.

After five hard days' travel, Rosemary was grateful for the unvibrating, untrembling platform beneath her feet. She relinquished her carpetbag to old Joshua. "Have you been waiting long?”

"I reckon.”

She almost didn't recognize the horse tied to the hitching rail. The knacker man would make no profit on him.

"What have you done to Tecumseh?" Rosemary cried. "Oh my poor boy!”

"He old, Miss Rosemary," Joshua replied. "He born in them olden times.”

"He was sound until he went into the army. You were a good boy, weren't you, Tecumseh?”

The gelding lifted his head and nickered a welcome, and Rosemary thought that was the saddest thing of all. "Joshua, Tecumseh wants an apple.”

"Miss Rosemary, whatever oats or apples or corn we gets, we eats.

When horse dead, I reckon we eat him, too.”

Since the railroad bridges north of Decatur had been burned, Hood's supplies and conscripts were off-loaded and freighted by ox, mule wagon, or shank's mare to Columbia, Tennessee. Sometimes, Rosemary rode Tecumseh. From pity, she usually walked. Army supply wagons spilled off the narrow road, cutting ruts through adjacent fields. There were no fences: their rails had fed soldiers' campfires, and if any livestock survived, they were hidden deep in the woods. That night, Rosemary slept beneath a supply wagon.

In the morning, rain plucked the last leaves off the trees and overflowed the ruts. Tecumseh couldn't carry a rider anymore. A little after dark, they entered Pulaski, Tennessee, where Rosemary bought some oats, which the gelding picked at. Joshua slept in a stall with the horse.

Rosemary's hotel room was unheated, but by doubling her threadbare blanket, she was warm enough. She dreamed of John and Rhett on a June day when the sun was so bright and Rhett had brought picnic baskets with more food than they could eat and Tecumseh grazed in timothy so tall, it tickled his belly.

Although there were trains running out of Pulaski, the pale-faced young provost wouldn't let Rosemary board. "Ma'am, I couldn't let you on this train were your pass signed by President Jefferson Davis himself.”

"I have traveled from South Carolina to see my husband in the army.”

"So far as that?" The young provost quoted, " 'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband trusts in her... Her children arise up, and call her blessed.' “

"The Federals killed my daughter. Meg would have been six next March.”

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to carry on. I was a seminarian before the war.”

"Do you still believe in God?”

The young man looked away. "I guess I've gotten used to it.”

Rosemary, Joshua, and the stumbling Tecumseh passed haphazard piles of discarded Federal equipment: artillery horses shot in their traces, overturned wagons. Files of Federal prisoners were marched south.

The prisoners wore Confederate rags, their guards sported warm blue Federal uniforms.

In Columbia, Tennessee, Rosemary bought corn pones and brown beans for herself and Joshua.

That evening, as they walked toward Franklin, Tennessee, Rosemary heard distant thunder as if a thousand wagons were rumbling across a wooden bridge.

"They's fightin'," Joshua said.

"They can't be fighting. The Federals are running away. Why would they be fighting?”

"They's fightin'.”

As light faded from the sky, the rumble grew louder and Rosemary could distinguish individual explosions. Muleteers pulled off the road to let fleeing Confederates by.

Rosemary and Joshua bucked a tide of ambulances, blank-faced deserters, and walking wounded. Provost officers cursed and flailed at the men with the flats of their swords. The deserters ducked or left the road and kept moving south.

The frosty Milky Way stretched across the heavens to the horizon, where it drowned in the ruddy penumbra of guns.

"I am Captain John Haynes's wife. He's with General Stahl's command.

Sir, do you know my husband?”

Sorry, ma am.

The firing stopped.

"Rhett Butler, my brother, he's with General Forrest. Do you know Rhett Butler?”

"Ma'am, I served with General Bates.”

Joshua stopped on the roadside and took off his hat. "Miss Rosemary, this here horse ain't goin' no farther.”

Tecumseh stood with legs splayed, head down.

"Me and horse come a far piece with you and Mister John," Joshua said. "But we ain't comin' no more.”

Rosemary walked into the starry night alone.

Dim yellow lanterns bobbed where two great armies had fought. Here and there on the gentle rolling landscape, a campfire flared. The air tasted like burned pepper and Rosemary smelled blood: rich and sour and salty.

The faces of the men tending the wounded were black from powder and some were as bloody as the men they were ministering to. "My husband is with General Stahl's brigade," Rosemary appealed.

The boy's eyes shone like a minstrel's in blackface. "Ma'am, I believe General Stahl's been kilt. They was in the center of the line, twixt the house and the cotton gin.”

"Where are his men now?”

"Ma'am," the boy said cautiously, "I believe most of General Stahl's men are layin' twixt the house and the cotton gin.”

Dawn washed out the lanterns and dimmed the campfires. Wounded men begged for water. The earth bristled with frost.

Rosemary tried to staunch a wounded officer's bleeding, tying his belt above the mangled hole in his thigh. Frost glistened white on the blood he'd spilled. He convulsed and gasped and was astonished by death.

The sun rose. Civilians came from Franklin to help and marvel.

What was John Haynes wearing? Was he still stout? Had he grown a beard? Rosemary would have recognized her husband instantly by his walk or the angle at which he carried his head, but in the jumble of dead men, she couldn't distinguish one from another.

There were more dead on the gentle rise before the abandoned Federal breastworks.

A wounded boy lifted himself onto one elbow.

"I've no water," Rosemary said. "I'm so sorry.”

Some of the dead wore grim expressions, some were determined, others were savoring a joke. Three weeping solders knelt beside a dead comrade.

To another boy, she said, "There'll be someone to help you soon. I'm sorry. I've no water. I'm sorry.”

Rosemary intercepted litter bearers. "I seek my husband. May I lift the cloth from his face?”

The Federal breastworks were fronted by a spiked abatis where dead men were impaled, frozen in final attitudes. An elderly woman asked if Rosemary had seen her grandson, Dan Alan Rush. "We call him Dan Alan, account of his daddy was Dan, too.”

"Mother, I'm sorry. I haven't seen your grandson. I am seeking my husband, Captain John Haynes.”

"My grandson was a bright spark." The woman smiled. "They said he lies hereabouts.”

Two riders came along the face of the breastworks.

Rosemary waved frantically."Oh dear God! Rhett! Rhett!" she shouted.

The horsemen galloped and her brother jumped down and took her in his arms. "Rosemary! Oh Rosemary, I wish you had not seen this.”

"Oh Rhett! Thank God! Dear Brother, you are alive!" Rhett's uniform was torn and filthy, but he wasn't wounded. Merciful heaven!

"I haven't found John. Rhett, do you know where he is?" Rosemary pushed hair off her eyes. "John may be hurt...”

"Yes, he may be hurt.”

"Likely he's kilt." Rhett's companion spat tobacco juice.

"Shut up, Archie," Rhett said.

The leather-faced man beside her brother had the tip of his wooden leg in a makeshift scabbard. He had a poor man's teeth and the lips of a hard one.

Rhett said, "Rosemary, this was the worst thing I've ever seen.”

"Then you ain't never been to the penitentiary," his companion said.

"Archie" — Rhett pointed — "go through the Federal position and collect any repeating rifles you find.”

As Archie left, Rhett said, "The Chinese believe if you save a man's life, you are obligated to that man forever." He took his sister's icy hands and rubbed them. "Dear Rosemary, do you have nerve for this?”

At her nod, Rhett boosted her onto his horse.

The ditch before the Federal breastworks brimmed with dead men, packed so tightly that some were upright, unable to fall. Soldiers and civilians were dismantling the tableau to get at wounded men underneath.

Rosemary asked, "Does John have a beard now?”

"He is clean-shaven.”

Rosemary had never thought she'd see an exposed human brain or an adolescent boy with a neat scorch mark around the bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Dizzy, she clasped the horse's neck and pressed her face into its coarse mane. "I despair, Rhett. Dear Brother, John and I were so far apart.”

"Rosemary, John often spoke of you. He never stopped loving you.”

Rosemary wiped her eyes as they entered a farmyard where so many horses and men lay in death. It had been a prosperous small farm, but every outbuilding — the corncrib, cotton gin, woodshed, chicken coop — and the farmhouse itself had been perforated by hundreds of bullets. A dead Federal was pinned to the woodshed by a bayonet through his neck.

When Rhett jerked the bayonet out, the dead soldier crumpled, groaning with expelling gas. "I knew it would come to this. I knew it! What sentimental urge brought me to fight for this 'Glorious Cause'?" Tears streaked Rhett's powder-blackened cheeks.

"General Hood was out of temper. The Federals had slipped his net and he'd be damned if they'd get away. 'Attack!' " Rhett whispered. " 'Prove you are brave enough to face fortifications!' " Her brother was honestly bewildered.

"Twenty thousand men marching straight into the Federal guns, flags flying and officers waving swords, and, Rosemary" — Rhett's eyes brimmed again — "the bands were playing 'Dixie.' 'In Dixieland I'll take my stand. To live and die in Dixie.' Oh Rosemary. I've never, never ...”

Rhett dropped the bayonet beside the soldier it had slain. "More bad news, Sister. Belle Watling's son, Tazewell, has enlisted. That boy followed my stupid, stupid example.”

Archie Flytte rode up and said. "Ain't no repeating rifles. Federals took 'em." He stuffed his lip and, having settled his chew, said, "Your husband's shot, ma'am. I met up with a feller from Captain Haynes's regiment. They carried your husband into town." He pointed toward Franklin.

"Oh thank you. How can I thank you?”

"Let me 'n' your brother get about our business. Genr'l Forrest's musterin'.

We 'uns movin' out.”

Rosemary kissed her brother's cheek. "Take every care, Rhett. You have custody of my heart.”

Bounded by a gentle arc of the Harpeth River, Franklin, Tennessee, had nine hundred citizens, a fine new courthouse, and three academies, which along with the First Baptist and the First Presbyterian Church were now hospitals. Rosemary Haynes stepped around the blood, ignored the moans of the wounded, and inspected the ranks of dead men laid out-of doors.

She was directed to a private home on Market Street. The tidy frame house was marred by bloody drag marks across the porch and an amputated forearm in the coal scuttle beside the door.

The elderly woman who answered Rosemary's knock was dressed as primly as a schoolteacher.

"I was told my husband ... Captain Haynes ... might be here.”

"I'm afraid I don't know them by name, dear, but do, please, come in.”

John wasn't with the four men lying in the front parlor, nor the three in the bed, nor the two on the bedroom floor.

A surgeon, the elderly woman explained, visited every few hours, and in the meantime she and her sister saw to the men's needs. "We've potato soup. We bring them water. They complain of the cold, though we've burned so much coal already. I hope for a mild winter.”

Her younger sister tugged Rosemary's sleeve. "My dear, there is one poor fellow out back in our garden. We put him there for the others' sake.”

A bullet had shattered John Haynes's right elbow and that arm was turned backward at an impossible angle. Another bullet had bloodied the breast of his broadcloth coat, the same coat John wore when he left home.

His trousers were rough homespun and too big for him. His feet were bare.

When Rosemary knelt and kissed her husband's brow, his flesh was warm, and for an exhilarating instant, Rosemary believed John was still alive. "Oh John, oh John," she said. "I'm here. It's your Rosemary, your own wife. Oh John, please ...”

The small garden had been neatly put away for the winter. The beanpoles were lashed together, the strawberry bed covered with straw. Wooden buckets were overturned under a light dusting of snow. Even as Rosemary kissed his cheeks, John Haynes's flesh cooled.

Behind Rosemary, the old woman said, "I am sorry, child. Your husband did not suffer and was conscious until the end. He believed you were coming to him and yearned to live long enough to see you one last time.

When he understood that was not to be his fate, he begged me: 'Tell my Rosemary to trust her good heart.' He spoke of a daughter he would meet in Paradise." The old woman touched Rosemary's trembling shoulder.

"Near the end, he became delirious. Child, your husband's final words were, 'Take me to my wife.' “

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Last Runner

Just after midnight some six weeks later, Rhett Butler threaded his way through gin poles, drays, and stevedores on the Wilmington wharves, where the Banshee, the Let 'er Rip, and the Merry Widow were moored bow to stern. Sweating workers hove, skidded, suspended, and stowed cotton bales aboard the blockade runners. In the southwest, the night sky pulsed where the Federal guns were hammering Fort Fisher. Light off the wharves sparkled the black river.

In his dark suit and captain's cap, Tunis Bonneau was checking his manifest when Rhett said, "Captain Bonneau.”

Turning at the interruption, Tunis's frown became a grin. "Rhett Butler — I'll be darned to tarnation!" His glasses gleaming in the torchlight, Tunis clasped his friend's hand.

The stacks of the adjacent runner puffed heavy black smoke. Tunis gave his manifest to a crewman. "Tell Mr. MacLeod get up steam.”

"You believe Fisher will fall?" Rhett asked.

"The Federals got a mighty landing party and a mighty fleet. Maybe Fisher beat 'em off, maybe she won't. If she falls while we're still in Wilmington, they'll capture my boat.”

"You heard about John Haynes?”

Tunis removed his cap. "Ruthie wrote me. Mr. Haynes, he was a good man. All the time I knew him, I never heard him do nothin' to hurt nobody.”

"At Franklin ..." Rhett cleared his throat. "At Franklin, John wanted to be certain the men in his rear rank saw their officer... " Rhett swallowed.

"So he stuck his sword through his hat and waved it over his head." Rhett cleared his throat.

When a burly crewman approached, Captain Bonneau stayed him with a gesture.

"Tunis, what in God's name was John Haynes doing charging Federal breastworks with his hat on the tip of his sword? John Haynes? John was the most pacific man on earth.”

Stevedores skidded five-hundred-pound cotton bales onto slings and eased them onto the Widows deck. The smoke that rolled from her stacks settled as a noxious fog on sweating men and cotton.

"Did Miss Rosemary ... did she bring Mr. Haynes home?”

"Ah, Tunis ... John's buried in Franklin. Things as they are, Rosemary couldn't get him back to Charleston.”

Tunis's crewman said, "Mr. MacLeod's compliments, Captain. He'll have steam up in a quarter hour.”

Tunis dismissed the man with a nod. Rhett wiped his eyes. "Damn smoke," he said.

Tunis looked away from his friend. "My boy Nat's startin' to talk. First thing he said was 'boat.' Ruthie says he calls every blessed thing 'boat.' He'll be a sailor, like his daddy.”

"Good news, friend. Calls for a celebration.”

"Some other night, Brother Rhett. I got to be in open water before sunup.”

"Tunis, I've a favor to beg.”

"Sure, Rhett. Anything.”

Tunis's smile vanished when Rhett told him what he wanted. He set his lips and jammed his captain's cap down on his head. "Can't do it, Rhett.

Can't chance waitin' another day. If you had that boy here now, course I'd take him, but I can't wait. The Federals're corkin' the bottle. What wants to be drunk wants to be drunk tonight.”

Rhett breathed a tuneless whistle. "That's that, then. Seems a shame a fifteen-year-old boy won't get a chance to grow up, but I guess boys aren't worth as much as they once were." Rhett opened his cigar case but closed it and put it away. "Taz won't surrender, Tunis. He'll get himself killed.”

Beside them, the Banshees lines were loosed. Her great paddle wheels revolved as stevedores leapt for the wharf. As she churned into the current, her helmsman saluted Captain Bonneau.

Tunis clicked open his gold hunter. "Banshee will be in Nassau Monday.

If I cast off now, I'd beat her there. Rhett, I ... Tarnation!”

Tunis closed his eyes and his lips moved in prayer. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled; not a big smile. "Rhett, what's say you and me celebrate my Nat's first word? I'll wait on your boy. Might be Fort Fisher will keep 'em off one day longer. Can't know what them crazy Johnny Rebs might get up to.”

Near noon the next day, Major Edgar Puryear climbed to the second floor of the Commercial Hotel. At his knock, a barefoot, barechested, unshaven Rhett Butler let him in. "Good morning, Edgar, if it is still morning." At the sink, Rhett emptied the water jug over his head.

"Edgar, never drink rum with a sailorman." He yawned. "I trust Fort Fisher remains in Confederate hands?”

Edgar Puryear tossed an envelope onto the bureau.

Rhett opened the window, leaned outside, and listened to the distant guns. "Don't sulk, Edgar. I won't forget you for this.”

Edgar Puryear touched a scar on his nose. "Isn't he the boy who struck me? Your son.”

"My 'ward,' Edgar. ''Ward? " Rhett chuckled. "You're not the first man ever laid low by Venus.”

Edgar didn't share Rhett's amusement.

Rhett took the paper from the envelope and examined it. "Taz's orders, signed by the General himself. Good, excellent. By the way, how do you get on with Bragg?”

"Braxton Bragg enjoys flattery.”

"Ah. You've a gift for that." Rhett took a fresh shirt from his carpetbag.

Puryear cleared his throat. "After the War, you'll be the richest man in the South.”

"And this might be a good time for the farsighted soldier to explore postwar employment?”

"It'll be a new shuffle after the War. There'll be opportunities for the right sort of man.”

Rhett said, "Umm.”

"You were celebrating with Captain Bonneau? The nigger captain? Rhett, you have some strange friends.”

Despite the raw January air, Rhett stood at the open window, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke as though Edgar Puryear weren't in the room. "When I woke this morning, I was remembering a time Tunis and I took a notion to sail his father's skiff down the coast to Beaufort. Damn fool idea — fifty miles in open water — but we set sail without a care. That sky — I do believe the sky was bluer in those days. I remember the sun on my back, the hard seat of the skiff, the snap of the sail. So many years have passed, but I cannot remember a happier day.”

That afternoon, the wharves were quiet. Smoke wisping from her stacks, the Merry Widow was the only runner left in Wilmington.

Rhett shook hands with the crew he'd once commanded. Mismatched paint mottled the Widows hull where shell holes had been patched, and the starboard paddle-wheel housing was new. In the engine room, new iron braces clamped oversized engines to their frames. Mr. MacLeod, the engineer, greeted Rhett with a reproach. "Your last Charleston run, Captain Butler! My vessel still suffers from it!”

Just at dusk this 14th of January 1865, the last Confederate blockade runner slipped her moorings and eased into the Cape Fear River. The long gray ship was one of the fastest vessels afloat; some said she was the fastest.

The Widow hugged the western shore, making just enough speed to maintain steerageway.

The Federals had landed above Fort Fisher and severed the fort's land connection to Wilmington. Federal campfires dotted the narrow peninsula between the Atlantic and the river.

When their pickets spotted the Widow, the Federals gathered on the bank to see the legendary runner. The river was too wide here for their field artillery, and as the graceful boat slipped downstream, these Yankee soldiers threw their hats in the air and cheered her.

Tunis anchored below Fort Fisher, just above the bar where the river emerged into open ocean.

The Federal fleet was pounding the great sand fort, and from the Widows deck, Fort Fisher was a colossal sandstorm: sand plumes and dirty sand clouds tossed aloft by artillery concussions. Tunis shouted to Rhett over the pandemonium. "Ten o'clock, Rhett! You hear?" Tunis tapped his watch.

"You ain't here by ten o'clock, with or without your boy, I'm pullin' out.”

Rhett bowed. "I am obliged to you, Captain Bonneau.”

"And don't you ever tell Ruthie I done it!”

Rowing himself to shore in the Widows dinghy, Rhett tasted sand in his teeth.

Since he'd received no reinforcements from Braxton Bragg, General Whiting, Fort Fisher's commander, had stripped other river forts of men, and as Rhett tied up, a gunboat was disgorging soldiers onto the wharf.

These artillerymen were like no Confederates Rhett had seen in years: well fed, their uniforms entire and recently laundered. Until today, these men had had a good war. Perched in gun batteries above the river, they'd lobbed an occasional shell at Federal blockaders venturing too close, but they'd never been under fire themselves. Grateful runner captains had kept them supplied with victuals and whiskey.

Formed into ragged ranks, these comfortable soldiers peered unhappily at the maelstrom ahead.

Rhett turned to a corpulent captain whose uniform had fit less snugly four years ago. "Nice day," Rhett observed.

The ocean was a mirror except where short rounds fell and spouted.

White streamers marked projectiles' arcs into the battered fort. Each Federal vessel was visible, as if under slight magnification. The breeze their firing created was strong enough to whip the smoke from their gun muzzles.

The ironclads Pawtuxet, Brooklyn, Mahopac, Canonicus, Huron, Saugus, Kansas, Pontoosuc, Yantic, Mohican, Monadnock, New Ironsides, Pequot, Senaca, Tacony, Unadilla, and Maumee stood a thousand yards offshore, fronting wooden warships Minnesota, Colorado, Tuscarora, Mackinaw, Powhatan, Wabash, Susquehanna, Ticonderoga, Juniata, Vanderbilt, and Shenendoah. A dozen smaller warships were farther out, attended by eighteen gunboats and twenty-two troop transports.

Fort Fisher was contiguous sand dunes in an upside down L. The long leg of the L faced the Federal fleet, and the short leg crossed the peninsula, facing the Federal landing party. Fisher's sand dunes were fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, linked by gun platforms in the saddles between.

Before the Federal bombardment, Fort Fisher had had barracks, corrals, and a parade ground. These had been pounded so thoroughly, not a scrap remained.

The corpulent captain raised his hand and ordered his men to the double-quick. Rhett took a deep breath, lowered his head, and ran like a hare. He pounded along the road until it disappeared in shell holes. Rhett's legs ached from running through soft sand and he stumbled and fell. Exploding sand erupted around him and concussions slapped his eardrums.

The sand deluge filled his shirt, pants, and boots and thickened every strand of his sweaty hair.

Fort Fisher's flag was a torn rag on a spliced flagpole. Some risers on the Headquarters Battery staircase were shattered; others, two and three in a row, were missing. Rhett clambered up rails, risers — whatever he could grab hold of. The battery's guns had been dismounted and one gunbarrel flung partway down the sea face. Across the saddle between the dunes, sandbags were piled waist-high. Behind them, an officer had his glass trained on the Federal fleet. At his feet, his orderly kept his back against the sandbags.

"General Whiting?”

The General snapped his glass closed. "If you are a journalist, sir, inform your readers we will hold this fort.”

"I have come from General Bragg.”

The General's face flamed with eagerness. "Is Bragg sending reinforcements?”

"I am not privy to General Bragg's plans, sir." Rhett wiped his envelope clean of sand before giving it to the General.

Braxton Bragg's orders transferred Private Tazewell Watling from the 18th North Carolina Junior Reserves to Colonel Rufus Bullock's Department of Railroads. Rhett Butler, of that department, would escort Private Watling.

General Whiting said, "I ask Bragg for reinforcements and he takes the men I have.”

"Watling's just a boy, sir. He's fifteen.”

"The Federals outnumber us four to one.”

The winter night was closing down and each minute was darker than the last. When the Federal fleet abruptly stopped firing, silence rang like a carillon. Whiting's orderly stood up, stretched, and took out his pipe.

"Don't light that pipe, Sergeant," Whiting said. "They may not be finished with us.”

One by one, the anchored fleet's portholes illuminated. Bugles, some discordant, some sweet, sounded the dinner call.

"I don't suppose you'd take Private Watling's place, sir? You're no boy of fifteen." The General waited, head cocked for Rhett's reply. "I thought not." General Whiting endorsed Bragg's orders with a pencil stub. "Are you sure Bragg said nothing of a counterattack? Did you see signs he might come to our relief?”

Rhett spoke carefully: "Yesterday, General, there were wagons at Bragg's headquarters. I believe General Bragg was evacuating.”

General Whiting smacked his fist into his palm. "He cannot abandon us. Not even that goddamned Bragg... I will write him myself. Bragg must understand!" The General scrambled down the broken staircase.

When the orderly lit his pipe, the match flare was blinding. "Might as well get kilt tonight as tomorrow," he opined.

Like ants from an anthill, Fort Fisher's defenders emerged from bombproofs deep under the dunes. The full moon brightened the fort.

While quartermasters rolled barrels and relayed boxes of hardtack, hungry soldiers formed ragged lines.

The wiry corporal finished his side meat and licked his fingers clean before he'd touch Rhett's document. The corporal ran his forefinger over each word and refolded the paper into the envelope. "Watling know 'bout this?”

"No.”

"Watling's a good boy. Most of these Junior Reserves are plumb petrified.

Some of 'em won't come out of the bombproofs even when the Federals ain't shootin'." The corporal was missing a front tooth. "Watling was our powder boy long as we still had us a gun to shoot. Us gunners think high of that boy, mister.”

"You don't mind my taking him out?”

The corporal grinned a gap-toothed grin. "Take me, too?”

Chewing on a biscuit, Taz Watling sat on the trunnion of a dismounted Columbiad. His uniform hung loose on his skinny frame. "Be damned," Taz said. "I thought you were in the army.”

"Rode with Forrest for a spell.”

"They say Forrest's had twenty horses killed under him.”

"That's what they say.”

Out on the ocean, an ironclad fired. The streak of the burning fuse arced across dark water, dropped into the fort, and exploded.

"They'll hit us tomorrow," Taz said matter-of-factly.

"They only outnumber you four to one.”

"Don't joke. You're always joking.”

"You mean this isn't funny? Eighteen hundred brave men waiting to die while Braxton Bragg is skedaddling? Got to hand it to ol' Brax.”

"I was proud when you joined the army," Taz said. "What are you doing here? Why are you in civilian clothes?”

"My uniform hatched lice." Rhett perched on an empty powder keg and lit a cigar. "The Army of Tennessee's finished, so I got reassigned. I thought I'd look you up.”

The interior of the fort was moonlit sand except for sparks from cigars and pipes. Out on the ocean, the Federal fleet was a floating metropolis ablaze with light. On the peninsula, Federal campfires flamed from shore to shore.

"I understand you're a hero. I had hoped your expensive education would prevent that." Taz shrugged. "The Creoles say, 'Capon vive longtemps. ' Probably my Butler blood. Wasn't Great-Grandfather a pirate?”

" 'The coward lives a long time,' " Rhett translated. "Creoles are feisty bastards. I don't know if Louis Valentine Butler would have called himself a 'pirate.' Louis would have preferred 'Gentleman of Fortune.' “

The boy sighed. "Anyway, I'm glad to see you.”

Rhett wiped sand from his silver flask and unscrewed two nesting cups.

Rhett filled his before filling one for the boy.

A fiery streak passed overhead and its concussion pressed Rhett's jacket against his back.

The boy took a mouthful, gagged and coughed.

"Don't waste it, son. That brandy's older than you are.”

Taz took another swallow. "I haven't heard anything from my mother.

We get no mail.”

"Belle was fine when I passed through Atlanta. She's safe there. The Federals won't come back.”

Taz drank his brandy in brave gulps and passed his cup for a refill.

"Might as well get drunk once in my life.”

"Might as well." Rhett brimmed the cup.

They drank for a time.

Taz said, "Being a powder boy isn't easy as you'd think. I run to the bombproof magazine — that tunnel is six hundred steps, by my count — for a twenty-five-pound powder bag, which I tote back to the gun. Federal shells flyin' around like ... like" — he gestured — "like damn sand fleas. If you get buried in sand, you better claw out, or you'll suffocate. I'll take another drink, thank you. I'm thirstier'n I thought.

"I'd rather be a powder boy, anyway, than hid in the bombproofs, breathing twice-breathed air and stinkin' buckets to do your business in.

Damn! If this is how brandy tastes, it's a wonder anyone drinks it!”

The unfamiliar taste didn't deter him from drinking too much too fast.

Taz rambled on about Fort Fisher, how proud he was to have the gunners' respect, until his speech began to slur. When the cup dropped from his nerveless hand, the boy murmured, "Why won't you be my father?" and slid down onto the sand.

With the wiry corporal on one end of the litter and Rhett on the other, they carried the boy to the dock.

"What's your name, Corporal?”

"Why'd you be wanting to know?”

"Might meet up after the war.”

"Small chance of that." The corporal added, "If you keep this young'un alive, he'll make a man one day.”

Fifteen minutes before Tunis's deadline, Rhett's dinghy bumped against the Merry Widow and her crewmen plucked the unconscious boy aboard.

When Rhett returned to the fort, the corporal said, "Didn't expect to see you again. Federals'll be hittin' us tomorrow.”

"Did you ever love a woman?”

Startled: "My wife, Ella, died three years past.”

"You lost everything.”

"I reckon.”

After a time, Rhett said, "Anyway, it's a fine moon.”

The corporal nodded. "You got the boy away?”

"Tazewell Watling's going to England.”

"I'll be! I've heard tell England is a green sort of place. I heard folks is happy there.”

"In any event, they're not shooting each other.”

"My," the corporal said, "wouldn't that be pleasant?”

The next morning when Taz Watling woke, his headache woke, too.

He was lying on a hard deck, surrounded by cotton bales, whose woody, oily smell passed through his nose straight to his stomach, and he crawled backward out of his cotton cave to a ship's rail (where in hell was he?) to vomit. His head thumped with each spasm and he opened his eyes wide to relieve the pressure on his skull. He got up. He brushed sand off his knees. He was in a boat on a flat sea. They weren't going fast. A stream of water shot from the bow into the sea. The sun was not quite high noon.

Goddamn Rhett Butler. Taz's headache settled into a throb. His stomach was empty, thank God. What boat was this? Men climbed from the hold to rig a windlass. After it was rigged, a cotton bale emerged into sunlight.

They swung it out and dropped it over the side.

Taz asked a sailor where they were.

"Day and a half day from Nassau if she floats. Lend a hand. Heave on that rope when I say 'Heave.' “

When Taz pulled the thick hemp rope, his head expanded like one of the pig bladders children inflate and pop at Christmastime. The sailors wore clean singletons, clean duck trousers. Taz was dirty and he smelled bad.

When her belowdecks cargo had been jettisoned, the Widows crew breathed easier and the helmsman lit his pipe.

Tazewell Watling felt light as a feather. As he mined the bitterness of Rhett Butler's betrayal, Taz discovered he hadn't wanted to die after all.

This expanse of milky green sea was so flat, at the horizons he could see the earth curve. Sandy, dangerous, noisy, doomed Fort Fisher seemed very far away. His head stopped hurting and he was hungry.

He went belowdecks to the galley, where he found a half-carved roast of beef and some bread.

Four men labored at the hand pump in the cavernous hold. Water ran in through bulkhead seams. In the engine room, one of the two engines was cold. Exhausted men sprawled on pallets inches above the water-slick deck. Nobody questioned Taz; nobody seemed to care who he was.

About three o'clock, the crew started jettisoning deck cargo. Cotton bales splashed over the side and bobbed in the Widows wake.

A weary negro captain issued the orders.

Taz cleared his throat politely and said, "I am Tazewell Watling. I am not aboard of my own will.”

"I know who you is." Another cotton bale splashed into the sea and scraped along the hull. "This was to be the Widow's last run. Me and Ruthie and Nat was goin' to Canada. My father's in Kingston. He says there's no such thing as a nigger in Canada.”

The Federal gunboats that tried to stop the Merry Widow's flight hadn't hurt her; she'd hurt herself. Her overpowered engines had torqued plates apart, popped rows of rivets, and sprung the vessel's knees. Although Mr. MacLeod had caulked and plugged every hole he could, he couldn't reach all of them, and water was within six inches of the fireboxes when they started heaving cargo over the side.

"Are we sinking, sir?”

Another bale hit the water and thumped and bumped along the hull.

"Rhett's made arrangements for you, boy. We get to Nassau, I'll put you on a ship. They expectin' you in England.”

"Sir, I am a Confederate soldier.”

"You a what?" The negro captain's mouth worked furiously. "Mercy," he said. He turned to his crew. "That's enough overboard, Mr. MacLeod! Let's see if we can keep a couple to sell." More to himself than to the boy, he added, "One thousand dollars for one bale of cotton. One thousand dollars.”

It was a bright day. Taz had been a powder boy in the greatest Confederate fort ever known. He'd done dangerous duty and through no fault of his own his life had been spared. He'd been prepared to die, but he hadn't, and the sun had never shone so bright as it shone on him today. Tazewell Watling was a young man on his way to a new life. The hair on his arms tingled.

Her engine strained as the Merry Widow wallowed across the glassy green sea. She had been sleek and beautiful and fast, but she was beautiful no more. If she got to Nassau, the ship breakers would take her.

Captain Tunis Bonneau turned his bloodshot eyes on his passenger.

"Boy," he said, "there ain't no Confederates no more.”