And if they do take it, it’s good-by Atlanta!”
“Oh, Uncle Henry, do you think they will?”
“Shucks, girls!
No!
How can they when I’m there?”
Uncle Henry grinned at their frightened faces and then, becoming serious again:
“It’s going to be a hard fight, girls. We’ve got to win it.
You know, of course, that the Yankees have got all the railroads except the one to Macon, but that isn’t all they’ve got.
Maybe you girls didn’t know it, but they’ve got every road, too, every wagon lane and bridle path, except the McDonough road.
Atlanta’s in a bag and the strings of the bag are at Jonesboro.
And if the Yankees can take the railroad there, they can pull up the strings and have us, just like a possum in a poke.
So, we don’t aim to let them get that railroad... I may be gone a while, girls.
I just came in to tell you all good-by and to make sure Scarlett was still with you, Melly.”
“Of course, she’s with me,” said Melanie fondly.
“Don’t you worry about us, Uncle Henry, and do take care of yourself.”
Uncle Henry wiped his wet feet on the rag rug and groaned as he drew on his tattered shoes.
“I got to be going,” he said.
“I’ve got five miles to walk.
Scarlett, you fix me up some kind of lunch to take.
Anything you’ve got.”
After he had kissed Melanie good-by, he went down to the kitchen where Scarlett was wrapping a corn pone and some apples in a napkin.
“Uncle Henry—is it—is it really so serious?”
“Serious?
God'lmighty, yes!
Don’t be a goose.
We’re in the last ditch.”
“Do you think they’ll get to Tara?”
“Why—” began Uncle Henry, irritated at the feminine mind which thought only of personal things when broad issues were involved.
Then, seeing her frightened, woebegone face, he softened.
“Of course they won’t.
Tara’s five miles from the railroad and it’s the railroad the Yankees want.
You’ve got no more sense than a June bug, Missy.”
He broke off abruptly.
“I didn’t walk all this way here tonight just to tell you all good-by.
I came to bring Melly some bad news, but when I got up to it I just couldn’t tell her.
So I’m going to leave it to you to do.”
“Ashley isn’t—you haven’t heard anything—that he’s—dead?”
“Now, how would I be hearing about Ashley when I’ve been standing in rifle pits up to the seat of my pants in mud?” the old gentleman asked testily.
“No.
It’s about his father.
John Wilkes is dead.”
Scarlett sat down suddenly, the half-wrapped lunch in her hand.
“I came to tell Melly—but I couldn’t.
You must do it.
And give her these.”
He hauled from his pockets a heavy gold watch with dangling seals, a small miniature of the long dead Mrs. Wilkes and a pair of massive cuff buttons.
At the sight of the watch which she had seen in John Wilkes’ hands a thousand times, the full realization came over Scarlett that Ashley’s father was really dead.
And she was too stunned to cry or to speak.
Uncle Henry fidgeted, coughed and did not look at her, lest he catch sight of a tear that would upset him.
“He was a brave man, Scarlett.