Another ghost of a smile lit the black face, a smile of pleasure and respect.
“Miss Scarlett, you sho is de beatenes'chile!Ah done plum fergit datbah'l. But, Miss Scarlett, dat whisky ain'no good.Ain'been dar but‘bout a year an'whisky ain’no good fer ladies nohow.”
How stupid negroes were!They never thought of anything unless they were told. And the Yankees‘wanted to free them.
“It'll be good enough for this lady and for Pa. Hurry, Pork, and dig it up and bring us two glasses and some mint and sugar and I'll mix a julep.”
His face was reproachful.
“Miss Scarlett, you knows dey ain'been no sugar at Tara fer de longes'. An'dey hawses done et up all de mint an'dey done broke all de glasses.”
“If he says‘They'once more, I'll scream. I can't help it,”she thought, and then, aloud:“Well, hurry and get the whisky quickly.We'll take it neat.”And, as he turned:“Wait, Pork.There's so many things to do that I can't seem to think Oh, yes, I brought home a horse and a cow and the cow needs milking, badly, and unharness the horse and water him.Go tell Mammy to look after the cow.Tell her she's got to fix the cow up somehow.Miss Melanie's baby will die if he doesn't get something to eat and—”
“Miss Melly ain'—kain—?”Pork paused delicately.
“Miss Melanie has no milk.”Dear God, but Mother would faint at that!
“Well, Miss Scarlett, mah Dilcey ten'ter Miss Melly's chile. Mah Dilcey got a new chile herseff an'she got mo'n nuff fer both.”
“You've got a new baby, Pork?”
Babies, babies, babies. Why did God make so many babies?But no, God didn't make them.Stupid people made them.
“Yas'm, big fat black boy. He—”
“Go tell Dilcey to leave the girls. I'll look after them.Tell her to nurse Miss Melanie's baby and do what she can for Miss Melanie.Tell Mammy to look after the cow and put that poor horse in the stable.”
“Dey ain'no stable, Miss Scarlett. Dey use it fer fiah wood.”
“Don't tell me any more what‘They'did. Tell Dilcey to look after them.And you, Pork, go dig up that whisky and then some potatoes.”
“But, Miss Scarlett, Ah ain'got no light ter dig by.”
“You can use a stick of firewood, can't you?”
“Dey ain'no fiah wood—Dey—”
“Do something……I don't care what. But dig those things and dig them fast.Now, hurry.”
Pork scurried from the room as her voice roughened and Scarlett was left alone with Gerald. She patted his leg gently.She noted how shrunken were the thighs that once bulged with saddle muscles.She must do something to drag him from his apathy—but she could not ask about Mother.That must come later, when she could stand it.
“Why didn't they burn Tara?”
Gerald stared at her for a moment as if not hearing her and she repeated her question.
“Why—”he fumbled,“they used the house as a headquarters.”
“Yankees—in this house?”
A feeling that the beloved walls had been defiled rose in her. This house, sacred because Ellen had lived in it, and those—those—in it.
“So they were, Daughter. We saw the smoke from Twelve Oaks, across the river, before they came.But Miss Honey and Miss India and some of their darkies had refugeed to Macon, so we did not worry about them.But we couldn't be going to Macon.The girls were so sick—your mother—wecouldn't be going.Our darkies ran—I'm not knowing where.They stole the wagons and the mules.Mammy and Dilcey and Pork—they didn't run.The girls—your mother—we couldn't be moving them.”
“Yes, yes.”He mustn't talk about Mother. Anything else.Even that General Sherman himself had used this room, Mother's office, for his headquarters.
Anything else.
“The Yankees were moving on Jonesboro, to cut the railroad. And they came up the road from the river—thousands and thousands—and cannon and horses—thousands.I met them on the front porch.”
“Oh, gallant little Gerald!”thought Scarlett, her heart swelling, Gerald meeting the enemy on the stairs of Tara as if an army stood behind him instead of in front of him.
“They said for me to leave, that they would be burning the place. And I said that they would be burning it over my head.We could not leave—the girls—your mother were—”
“And then?”Must he revert to Ellen always?
“I told them there was sickness in the house, the typhoid, and it was death to move them. They could burn the roof over us.I did not want to leave anyway—leave Tara—”
His voice trailed off into silence as he looked absently about the walls and Scarlett understood. There were too many Irish ancestors crowding behind Gerald's shoulders, men who had died on scant acres, fighting to the end rather than leave the homes where they had lived, plowed, loved, begotten sons.
“I said that they would be burning the house over the heads of three dying women. But we would not leave.The young officer was—was a gentleman.”
“A Yankee a gentleman?Why, Pa!”
“A gentleman. He galloped away and soon he was back with a captain, a surgeon, and he looked at the girls—and your mother.”
“You let a damned Yankee into their room?”
“He had opium. We had none.He saved your sisters.Suellen was hemorrhaging.
He was as kind as he knew how. And when he reported that they were—ill—they did not burn the house.They moved in, some general, his staff, crowding in.They filled all the rooms except the sick room.And the soldiers—”
He paused again, as if too tired to go on. His stubbly chin sank heavily in loose folds of flesh on his chest.With an effort he spoke again.
“They camped all round the house, everywhere, in the cotton, in the corn. The pasture was blue with them.That night there were a thousand camp fires.They tore down the fences and burned them to cook with and the barns and the stables and the smokehouse.They killed the cows and the hogs and the chickens—even my turkeys.”Gerald's precious turkeys.So they were gone.“They took things, even the pictures—some of the furniture, the china—”
“The silver?”
