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, well-armed 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 Velásquez 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 you?’”
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, an
d 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.
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