Rhett Butler's People

by Donald McCaig

  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 nigh
t, 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 coining, 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, Confedera
te 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.