But there were so many old men and young boys, and the sight of them made her heart contract with pity and with fear.
There were graybeards older than her father trying to step jauntily along in the needlefine rain to the rhythm of the fife and drum corps.
Grandpa Merriwether, with Mrs. Merriwether’s best plaid shawl laid across his shoulders to keep out the rain, was in the first rank and he saluted the girls with a grin.
They waved their handkerchiefs and cried gay good-bys to him; but Maybelle, gripping Scarlett’s arm, whispered:
“Oh, the poor old darling!
A real good rainstorm will just about finish him!
His lumbago—”
Uncle Henry Hamilton marched in the rank behind Grandpa Merriwether, the collar of his long black coat turned up about his ears, two Mexican War pistols in his belt and a small carpetbag in his hand.
Beside him marched his black valet who was nearly as old as Uncle Henry, with an open umbrella held over them both.
Shoulder to shoulder with their elders came the young boys, none of them looking over sixteen.
Many of them had run away from school to join the army, and here and there were clumps of them in the cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers on their tight gray caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps crossing their chests sodden.
Phil Meade was among them, proudly wearing his dead brother’s saber and horse pistols, his hat bravely pinned up on one side. Mrs. Meade managed to smile and wave until he had passed and then she leaned her head on the back of Scarlett’s shoulder for a moment as though her strength had suddenly left her.
Many of the men were totally unarmed, for the Confederacy had neither rifles nor ammunition to issue to them.
These men hoped to equip themselves from killed and captured Yankees.
Many carried bowie knives in their boots and bore in their hands long thick poles with iron-pointed tips known as “Joe Brown pikes.”
The lucky ones had old flintlock muskets slung over their shoulders and powder-horns at their belts.
Johnston had lost around ten thousand men in his retreat.
He needed ten thousand more fresh troops.
And this, thought Scarlett frightened, is what he is getting!
As the artillery rumbled by, splashing mud into the watching crowds, a negro on a mule, riding close to a cannon caught her eye.
He was a young, saddle-colored negro with a serious face, and when Scarlett saw him she cried:
“It’s Mose!
Ashley’s Mose!
Whatever is he doing here?”
She fought her way through the crowd to the curb and called: “Mose!
Stop!”
The boy seeing her, drew rein, smiled delightedly and started to dismount.
A soaking sergeant, riding behind him, called:
“Stay on that mule, boy, or I’ll light a fire under you!
We got to git to the mountain some time.”
Uncertainly, Mose looked from the sergeant to Scarlett and she, splashing through the mud, close to the passing wheels, caught at Moses’ stirrup strap.
“Oh, just a minute, Sergeant!
Don’t get down, Mose.
What on earth are you doing here?”
“Ah’s off ter de war, agin, Miss Scarlett.
Dis time wid Ole Mist’ John ’stead ob Mist’ Ashley.”
“Mr. Wilkes!”
Scarlett was stunned.
Mr. Wilkes was nearly seventy.
“Where is he?”
“Back wid de las’ cannon, Miss Scarlett.
Back dar!”
“Sorry, lady.
Move on, boy!”
Scarlett stood for a moment, ankle deep in mud as the guns lurched by.
Oh, no! She thought.
It can’t be.
He’s too old.
And he doesn’t like war any more than Ashley did!
She retreated back a few paces toward the curb and scanned each face that passed.