Rhett Butler's People

by Donald McCaig

  “But Rhett … Rhett never believed in the Great Cause ….”

  “No, but he loved a gallant gesture.” He eyed Scarlett curiously. “I’m surprised you knew him.”

  Knew him? Knew him? Had she known him at all? Rhett Butler dead? He couldn’t be dead!

  “Now I’ve distressed you. I am sorry. I didn’t know you knew Rhett.”

  Scarlett’s mind whirled. What had she thought? Certainly that she’d see him again, that Rhett’s knowing, mocking smile would infuriate her again. She bit the inside of her lip so she wouldn’t cry. Gone? Those rare moments when she and Rhett had understood each other—gone forever? “Where … where is Rhett buried?”

  “The Federals marked their soldiers’ graves. They dumped ours in the ocean.”

  It was as if she’d lost a part of herself: an arm, her hand, her heart. Rhett Butler dead! Hopelessness washed over her and she sat heavily on the stump of what had been Tara’s grandest chestnut tree. How could she go on? Numbly, she repeated, “Rhett Butler… dead?”

  Andrew Ravanel offered useless male consolations: Perhaps Rhett hadn’t been killed with the others. Rhett was a cat. Rhett had nine lives. …

  Scarlett couldn’t bear this man one moment longer. “Sir, please recall that I am Mrs. Charles Hamilton, a respectable widow. I decline your improper invitation. I cannot imagine what you were thinking of. Now, sir, you must go. You’ve made your intentions all too clear. You cannot remain at Tara.”

  Softly he said, “Years ago, I loved him, too.”

  “Love Rhett Butler? That arrogant, insulting, self-satisfied … Why would anyone love Rhett Butler?”

  “As you prefer.”

  The tall man mounted his small mule and rode away.

  The sun went behind a cloud.

  Scarlett wanted to go upstairs and lie down. She felt so weak and helpless. Lord, how she wanted to lie down.

  Instead, she straightened and started for the potato patch. She and Pork would hill the potatoes. Then she would look for more poke greens.

  Later, she would tell Melanie about Rhett. Melly had always favored him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Low Country Plantation After the War

  Six months later, a horse and rider trotted down the Ashley River Road. The horse was a coal black stallion, sixteen hands high, of the breeding for which the Low Country had once been famous. The rider had the careless grace of a grandee. During the War, countless graves had been filled with men like him and the bones of their beautiful horses bleached in cornfields and peach orchards across the reunited nation.

  One year ago, General Sherman’s army had swarmed down this road. Burned chimneys emerged like cautionary fingers out of the roadside brambles. This toppled gatepost led to the ruin that had been Henry Kershaw’s boyhood home. From a swing suspended from that fire-blackened oak, little Charlotte Fisher had kicked her legs, shrieking, “Higher! Higher! Oh, push me higher.” This overgrown lane curved up to the burned mansion where Edgar Puryear’s mother had died.

  As the rider approached, two rail-thin pariah dogs slipped into the brush.

  Across the river from Broughton Plantation, Rhett Butler pulled off his riding boots, socks, and trousers. He tied his boots to his saddle and wrapped his trouser legs over his stallion’s eyes for a blindfold before he clucked the animal into the muddy river.

  The horse forged across and clambered up Broughton’s main trunk, where Rhett dressed.

  The main trunk was covered with blackberry brambles and the rice fields were shallow tidal pools where squawking mud hens swam away from the intruder.

  Deer and feral hogs had made trails through the untrimmed boxwood hedging Broughton’s lane.

  The carriage turnaround fronted a fire-streaked brick facade and window holes as empty as a skull’s eye sockets. The front door yawned wide. Among the furniture dragged outdoors and burned, Rhett recognized the walnut podium that had held the Butler family Bible.

  Hummingbirds buzzed the trumpet vine invading the broken piazza.

  Rhett stepped across the thick vines to the overlook where he’d stood twenty-five years ago. Rhett’s memory of Broughton’s symmetrical, productive rice fields overlay ruptured trunks and shimmering saline pools that no planter could ever crop again. “Yes, it was beautiful,” Rhett murmured.

  A voice quavered at his elbow. “Yes, sir. It t’were. Master ‘n’ Mistress Butler ain’t receivin’ callers no more.”

  The aged negro supported himself on a gnarled driftwood cane. His eyes were filmed white.

  “Good morning, Uncle Solomon,” Rhett said.

  “Young Master Rhett? That be you?” The old negro’s fingers fluttered over Rhett’s face. “We heard you was killed. Lord be praised! How do you fare, Young Master? You ain’t been home in such a time!”

  Rhett wished to see his parents if they still lived.

  “Oh, yes. Master and Mistress still livin’.” He lowered his voice. “Master Langston, he’s got White Plague. He shrunk to a nubbin.

  “All our niggers run off ’ceptin’ me.” Uncle Solomon tut-tutted. “Hercules and Sudie, they gone to town. Hercules say he won’t work for no Butlers no more.” The old man’s lower lip quivered with indignation. “That nigger gettin’ above hisself! I born on Broughton, lived all my days on Broughton, and Broughton Plantation be where I lie down.”

  “Yes, Uncle. Then my parents are in town?”

  “Town house blowed to bits! Nicest house on Meeting Street. None nicer! Market niggers used to call me ‘Mr. Solomon’ account of I come from that house. The Master and Mistress bidin’ with Overseer Watling now.”

  “Watling?”

  “You been gone such a time, Master Rhett! Such a time! Master Langston said he wasn’t leavin’ Broughton no more. Your sister and her husband comes out sometimes. Miss Rosemary wants Master Langston and Mistress ’Lizabeth come stay with them. But you know how Master Langston be.”

  “John Haynes is dead, Uncle. John died in the war.”

  “Not Mr. Haynes. Colonel Ravanel, your sister’s second husband.”

  “Andrew Ravanel?”

  “Yes, sir. Old Jack’s boy. They say he was a hero in the War, but I don’t know about that.”

  “Andrew Ravanel? …”

  “All the womens gettin’ married. One day they widow, next day they wife, next day they carryin’ a child ….”

  Isaiah Watling’s home stood at the tip of a peninsula bounded by shallow tidal flats. Game chickens pecked in the yard. The ribby milk cow had a turpentine-soaked rag wrapped around her head to protect her from mosquitoes.

  A young man was whittling, leaning back in a chair beside the front door. When Rhett tied his horse to the fence, the young man let his chair down with a thump. His pale blond hair was balding off his sloping forehead. His nose was sharp and his eyes were so light, the pupils were almost invisible. An oiled revolver was stuck in his belt.

  “Nice horse,” he observed. The young man cut a long peel from his whittling stick. “Yankees got all the good horses these days.” His grin lacked upper teeth and his right cheek was puckered by a scar. He answered Rhett’s gaze. “I was yelling to Frank when I got shot. Spect you heard of Frank. Frank James’s a heller.” He tapped his scar. “Bill Quantrill said a man should keep his mouth shut, but sometimes it pays to have it open, don’t it?”

  He elaborated. “I mean, if I hadn’t had my mouth open, that bullet would have took out my bottom teeth, too. I expect I’ll get back with Frank and Jesse one day.”

  “I am Rhett Butler. Are the Butlers here?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Suppose you could tell them I’ve come?”

  The young man stood. “I’m Isaiah’s nephew, Josie. I rode with Bill Quantrill until the Federals cut him down. They was figurin’ to do me too, so I come east to renew family acquaintances.” He winked. “Rhett Butler, Uncle Isaiah hates you like poison. I expect one day he’ll take revenge on you. Waitin’ on revenge is a hopeful thin
g, don’t you think?”

  Josie approached him as a pit dog approaches. “I known better men’n you killed for worse horses than that one.”

  “Four years of war; aren’t you tired of killing?”

  Josie shrugged. “I been doin’ folks since I was a sprout. Spect I got a taste for it.”

  “If you’re going to use that revolver, do. If not, tell the Butlers I’m here.”

  “Ain’t you the feisty son of a bitch.” Without taking his eyes off Rhett, he shouted, “Uncle Isaiah! Feller’s come!”

  When he opened the door, Isaiah Watling shaded his eyes against the sun. “Young Butler. You are not welcome here.”

  Josie Watling set a boot on a fence rail, crossed his arms, and grinned like a man who wasn’t nearly as bored as he’d thought he’d be.

  “Your home, Watling? Isn’t this Broughton Plantation? Isn’t this the Overseer’s house? I’m here to see the Butlers.”

  “You’ve no kin here.”

  “Suppose you let us decide that.”

  Isaiah Watling’s hot eyes bored into Rhett’s for a long moment before he wheeled and went inside.

  “Nice day,” Josie said. “Me, I always did like the fall of the year. You can see folks creepin’ up better onct the leaves are gone.” After a time, he added, “You ain’t no talker, are you?” Josie Watling scratched his ear with the front sight of his revolver.

  Isaiah Watling reappeared and jerked his head. Rhett followed him up the dimly remembered stairs of the house the Butlers had inhabited until their grand house was built. He entered the modest bedroom his parents had shared when he was a child. The room was neat. The floor had been swept. Medicine vials and a bowl of yellow sputum threaded with blood crowded the table beside the bed where Rhett Butler’s father lay.

  Langston Butler had been a big man and his bones still were. His skin was yellowish except for bright red spots on his cheeks. His curly brown hair was still without a streak of gray.

  “You have the consumption,” Rhett said.

  “Have you come to tell me what I already know?”

  “I’ve come to help. I can provide for you and Mother.”

  Langston Butler wheezed and choked. His eyes bulged with outrage at his helplessness. He spat into the bowl beside the bed. “You will not disturb Elizabeth. My wife has Jesus Christ and the devoted Isaiah Watling. Why would Elizabeth Butler need you?”

  “Sir, you agreed to see me. You must have had some reason.”

  “You were said to be dead and I am more interested in resurrections than I was.” The old man’s smile was a ghastly slash. “Julian will inherit. You will not attend my funeral.”

  “Do you believe you can be Broughton’s Master beyond the grave? Father …”

  Langston Butler turned his face to the wall.

  “I reckon you oughta git now,” Josie Watling leaned against the door frame. “Uncle says I can shoot you if you don’t do like the old rooster says. I guess I could shoot you. I admire your horse.”

  Isaiah Watling was in the yard.

  “Watling, your daughter Belle is safe in Atlanta. Your grandson, Tazewell Watling, is in an English school. I have good reports of him.”

  “Belle may yet repent,” Isaiah said. “Thanks to you, my son Shadrach will never repent. Rhett Butler, you consigned Shadrach Watling to eternal damnation.”

  Josie Watling hid his smile behind his hand. “Ain’t he a heller?” he asked. “You ever see such a one?”

  When Rhett rode down the lane between the flooded rice fields, he felt a spot burning between his shoulder blades—the same feeling he’d had when some Federal sharpshooter was drawing a bead.

  A meandering path had been cleared down Charleston’s Meeting Street, where whites combed through rubble for something to sell and negro gangs under Federal noncoms pulled down ruined walls. When Rhett went by, the men stopped working. A young negro called, “Bottom rail on top now, mister.”

  Here and there, a house had been spared; here and there, an entire block. Forty-six Church Street’s window glass was so new, the putty hadn’t cured. The raw pine front door swung easily on new hinges when Rhett’s sister, Rosemary, answered his knock.

  Her face drained of color and she braced herself against the door frame. “Rhett… you, you’re not dead. … Oh Rhett! My God, Brother!” Her smile was bright, but she was weeping. Rhett took her in his arms, murmuring into her hair until she pushed him away, dabbing her eyes. Rosemary asked, “Is it ungrateful to be astonished when prayers are answered?”

  “I came nearer to shaking hands with Saint Peter than I liked. You didn’t get my telegram?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then,” Rhett grinned, “I’ll have to be the answer to your prayers.”

  “Oh Rhett! You haven’t changed.”

  “Little Sister, I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “Congratulations?…” When Rosemary put her hand to her mouth, it was her mother’s gesture.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Ravanel. May you be as happy as … as happy can be.”

  Rosemary led her brother inside. Some of the parlor furniture dated from her first marriage, but the love seat and sofa were new. “Sit, dear Brother, and I’ll bring you something. Brandy?”

  “Nothing now, thanks.”

  “Please, Rhett. Don’t be angry with me.”

  “Angry? Why should I be angry?”

  “Rhett, I … I thought you were dead! Not one word!”

  “I’m sorry. I telegraphed before I left for London. The Federals are after my money. Thus far, my banker, Rob Campbell, has fended them off, but meantime, Sister, I am in reduced circumstances.”

  “John left me well provided for. If you need …”

  “I’ve enough cash for a time. And”—he fingered his lapels—“my credit is good with my tailor. Money is”—he shrugged—”merely money. I am sorry I worried you.”

  She considered for a time before speaking plainly. “After John was killed, I didn’t think I wanted to live. My child, my husband, and—I thought—I’d lost you, too.” She touched Rhett’s cheek. “You are real, aren’t you?”

  “Too real sometimes.”

  “Then Andrew came back to Charleston. Two orphans in a storm.”

  “Andrew always had a curious effect on women.” Rhett raised one finger. “Don’t mistake me, Sister. Andrew was my friend, and for your sake, we will be friends again.” Rhett smiled at the slight swelling of her belly. “I see I am to be an uncle again. I rather like that role. Uncles get to buy toys and accept the child’s kisses, but when the child is fractious, uncles can ride away.”

  “We need a child. Andrew … Sometimes Andrew gets lost. Our child will bring him home.” Rosemary cocked her head. “And you, Rhett? What of Miss Scarlett?”

  “Who?”

  “Rhett, this is Rosemary you’re talking to!”

  “That’s finished. It ended one evening on the Jonesboro road. Love overwhelms us like a squall on the ocean and departs as swiftly as it came.”

  “Um.”

  “No more remorse or confusion.”

  “Um.”

  He frowned. “Why the smile, Sister? That oh-so-slightly condescending smirk?”

  Rosemary laughed. “Because my big brother knows everything about everything but won’t confess his own heart.”

  Beneath his black hood, a Yankee daguerreotypist was immortalizing East Bay’s dramatic ruins.

  The Federal fleet lay at anchor inside the harbor. Captured blockade runners seemed embarrassed to be flying the Stars and Stripes.

  Rhett was heading for the Haynes & Son offices when a shout intercepted him. “Hullo there, Rhett. Aren’t you the bad penny?”

  “Jamie Fisher, I’ll be damned. The war didn’t grow you taller.”

  “’Fraid not. Lord, it’s good to see you.” Jamie shook Rhett’s hand. “Come see what we’ve done to Grandmother’s house. I’ve patched the roof myself. Aren’t I the worker bee?”

>   The Fisher mansion’s gray slate roof was spotted with black tarry repairs.

  Jamie stuck his head inside the front door. “Juliet, Juliet—come see who’s risen from the dead.”

  Juliet Ravanel removed a dusty kerchief. “Why, Rhett Butler. Bless your black heart!” Juliet calculated the price of Rhett’s suit. “Thank God the War didn’t leave everyone a pauper!”

  Jamie sighed. “My poor sister, Charlotte, put every penny of our money into Confederate bonds. To show faith in Andrew, I suppose.” He paused. “There was so much money. You’d think she’d have overlooked something.” Jamie spread his arms. “Rhett, standing before you is Charleston’s most popular equestrian instructor. I teach the children of Yankee officers how not to fall off their ponies.”

  “The Confederates’ daring scout is in great demand,” Juliet observed, smiling.

  “I am strict with the parents because they expect strictness from a Daring Confederate Scout, but their children see right through me. They recognize another spoiled child when they see one!” With a flourish, Jamie ushered Rhett into the house. “Mind the top step, Rhett.”

  They’d papered and painted the front hall and the circular staircase was polished to a soft cherry glow.

  Jamie opened the drawing room door on a jumble of broken bricks, laths, and plaster, explaining, “We haven’t begun on the downstairs. But three bedrooms are finished and rented to Carpetbaggers.”

  “Gold,” Juliet said with real feeling. “They pay in gold.”

  “Your new brother-in-law says only traitors rent to Carpetbaggers.” Jamie’s face hardened. “By God, when Andrew finds solvent Confederates for our rooms, we’ll put the Yankees into the street. Rhett, I fought beside Andrew. We shared a cell in that damned penitentiary. Rhett, it is difficult, so very difficult, to keep someone alive who does not wish to live.”

  “Andrew has always been melancholy.”

  “Andrew snubs me—and his sister, Juliet—in favor of the worst gang of ‘patriots’ who ever sharpened a bowie knife.”

  “Ah,” Rhett said. “‘Patriots.’ I had hoped we were done with patriots.”