Margaret Mitchell - Gone with the Wind

“Phil Meade, you hush your mouth!” hissed Melanie, climbing in beside Mrs. Meade and taking her in her arms. “Do you think it’ll help your mother to have you off getting shot too? I never heard anything so silly. Drive us home, quick!”

She turned to Scarlett as Phil picked up the reins.

“As soon as you take Auntie home, come over to Mrs. Meade’s. Captain Butler, can you get word to the doctor? He’s at the hospital.”

The carriage moved off through the dispersing crowd. Some of the women were weeping with joy, but most looked too stunned to realize the heavy blows that had fallen upon them. Scarlett bent her head over the blurred lists, reading rapidly, to find names of friends. Now that Ashley was safe she could think of other people. Oh, how long the list was! How heavy the toll from Atlanta, from all of Georgia.

Good Heavens! “Calvert—Raiford, Lieutenant.” Raif! Suddenly she remembered the day, so long ago, when they had run away together but decided to come home at nightfall because they were hungry and afraid of the dark.

“Fontaine—Joseph K., private.” Little bad-tempered Joe! And Sally hardly over having her baby!

“Munroe—LaFayette, Captain.” And Lafe had been engaged to Cathleen Calvert. Poor Cathleen! Hers had been a double loss, a brother and a sweetheart. But Sally’s loss was greater—a brother and a husband.

Oh, this was too terrible. She was almost afraid to read further. Aunt Pitty was heaving and sighing on her shoulder and, with small ceremony, Scarlett pushed her over into a corner of the carriage and continued her reading.

Surely, surely—there couldn’t be three “Tarleton” names on that list. Perhaps—perhaps the hurried printer had repeated the name by error. But no. There they were. “Tarleton—Brenton, Lieutenant.” “Tarleton—Stuart, Corporal.” “Tarleton—Thomas, private.” And Boyd, dead the first year of the war, was buried God knew where in Virginia. All the Tarleton boys gone. Tom and the lazy long-legged twins with their love of gossip and their absurd practical jokes and Boyd who had the grace of a dancing master and the tongue of a wasp.

She could not read any more. She could not know if any other of those boys with whom she had grown up, danced, flirted, kissed were on that list. She wished that she could cry, do something to ease the iron fingers that were digging into her throat.

“I’m sorry, Scarlett,” said Rhett. She looked up at him. She had forgotten he was still there. “Many of your friends?”

She nodded and struggled to speak: “About every family in the County—and all—all three of the Tarleton boys.”

His face was quiet, almost somber, and there was no mocking in his eyes.

“And the end is not yet,” he said. “These are just the first lists and they’re incomplete. There’ll be a longer list tomorrow.” He lowered his voice so that those in the near—by carriages could not hear. “Scarlett, General Lee must have lost the battle. I heard at headquarters that he had retreated back into Maryland.”

She raised frightened eyes to his, but her fear did not spring from Lee’s defeat. Longer casualty lists tomorrow! Tomorrow. She had not thought of tomorrow, so happy was she at first that Ashley’s name was not on that list. Tomorrow. Why, right this minute he might be dead and she would not know it until tomorrow, or perhaps a week from tomorrow.

“Oh, Rhett, why do there have to be wars? It would have been so much better for the Yankees to pay for the darkies—or even for us to give them the darkies free of charge than to have this happen.”

“It isn’t the darkies, Scarlett. They’re just the excuse. There’ll always be wars because men love wars. Women don’t, but men do—yea, passing the love of women.”

His mouth twisted in his old smile and the seriousness was gone from his face. He lifted his wide Panama hat.

“Good-by. I’m going to find Dr. Meade. I imagine the irony of me being the one to tell him of his son’s death will be lost on him, just now. But later, he’ll probably hate to think that a speculator brought the news of a hero’s death.”

Scarlett put Miss Pitty to bed with a toddy, left Prissy and Cookie in attendance and went down the street to the Meade house. Mrs. Meade was upstairs with Phil, waiting her husband’s return, and Melanie sat in the parlor, talking in a low voice to a group of sympathetic neighbors. She was busy with needle and scissors, altering a mourning dress that Mrs. Elsing had lent to Mrs. Meade. Already the house was full of the acrid smell of clothes boiling in homemade black dye for, in the kitchen, the sobbing cook was stirring all of Mrs. Meade’s dresses in the huge wash pot.

“How is she?” questioned Scarlett softly.

“Not a tear,” said Melanie. “It’s terrible when women can’t cry. I don’t know how men stand things without crying. I guess it’s because they’re stronger and braver than women. She says she’s going to Pennsylvania by herself to bring him home. The doctor can’t leave the hospital.”

“It will be dreadful for her! Why can’t Phil go?”

“She’s afraid he’ll join the army if he gets out of her sight. You know he’s so big for his age and they’re taking them at sixteen now.”

One by one the neighbors slipped away, reluctant to be present when the doctor came home, and Scarlett and Melanie were left alone, sewing in the parlor. Melanie looked sad but tranquil, though tears dropped down on the cloth she held in her hands. Evidently she had not thought that the battle might still be going on and Ashley perhaps dead at this very moment. With panic in her heart, Scarlett did not know whether to tell Melanie of Rhett’s words and have the dubious comfort of her misery or keep it to herself. Finally she decided to remain quiet. It would never do for Melanie to think her too worried about Ashley. She thanked God that everyone, Melly and Pitty included, had been too engrossed in her own worries that morning to notice her conduct.

After an interval of silent sewing, they heard sounds outside and, peering through the curtains, they saw Dr. Meade alighting from his horse. His shoulders were sagging and his head bowed until his gray beard spread out fanlike on his chest. He came slowly into the house and, laying down his hat and bag, kissed both the girls silently. Then he went tiredly up the stairs. In a moment Phil came down, all long legs and arms and awkwardness. The two girls looked an invitation to join them, but he went onto the front porch and, seating himself on the top step, dropped his head on his cupped palm.

Melly sighed.

“He’s mad because they won’t let him go fight the Yankees. Fifteen years old! Oh, Scarlett, it would be Heaven to have a son like that!”

“And have him get killed,” said Scarlett shortly, thinking of Darcy.

“It would be better to have a son even if he did get killed than to never have one,” said Melanie and gulped. “You can’t understand, Scarlett, because you’ve got little Wade, but I—Oh, Scarlett, I want a baby so bad! I know you think I’m horrid to say it right out, but it’s true and only what every woman wants and you know it.”

Scarlett restrained herself from sniffing.

“If God should will that Ashley should be—taken, I suppose I could bear it, though I’d rather die if he died. But God would give me strength to bear it. But I could not bear having him dead and not having—not having a child of his to comfort me. Oh, Scarlett, how lucky you are! Though you lost Charlie, you have his son. And if Ashley goes, I’ll have nothing. Scarlett, forgive me, but sometimes I’ve been so jealous of you—”

“Jealous—of me?” cried Scarlett, stricken with guilt.

“Because you have a son and I haven’t. I’ve even pretended sometimes that Wade was mine because it’s so awful not to have a child.”