“Gawdlmighty, Cap'n Butler!
Miss Melly done fainted away back yonder.”
“She’s not dead?
Is she breathing?”
“Yassuh, she breathin'.”
“Then she’s probably better off as she is.
If she were conscious, I doubt if she could live through all the pain.
Take good care of her, Prissy.
Here’s a shinplaster for you.
Try not to be a bigger fool than you are.”
“Yassuh.
Thankee suh.”
“Good-by, Scarlett.”
She knew he had turned and was facing her but she did not speak.
Hate choked all utterance.
His feet ground on the pebbles of the road and for a moment she saw his big shoulders looming up in the dark.
Then he was gone.
She could hear the sound of his feet for a while and then they died away.
She came slowly back to the wagon, her knees shaking.
Why had he gone, stepping off into the dark, into the war, into a Cause that was lost, into a world that was mad?
Why had he gone, Rhett who loved the pleasures of women and liquor, the comfort of good food and soft beds, the feel of fine linen and good leather, who hated the South and jeered at the fools who fought for it?
Now he had set his varnished boots upon a bitter road where hunger tramped with tireless stride and wounds and weariness and heartbreak ran like yelping wolves.
And the end of the road was death.
He need not have gone.
He was safe, rich, comfortable.
But he had gone, leaving her alone in a night as black as blindness, with the Yankee Army between her and home.
Now she remembered all the bad names she had wanted to call him but it was too late.
She leaned her head against the bowed neck of the horse and cried.
CHAPTER XXIV
The bright glare of morning sunlight streaming through the trees overhead awakened Scarlett.
For a moment, stiffened by the cramped position in which she had slept, she could not remember where she was.
The sun blinded her, the hard boards of the wagon under her were harsh against her body, and a heavy weight lay across her legs.
She tried to sit up and discovered that the weight was Wade who lay sleeping with his head pillowed on her knees.
Melanie’s bare feet were almost in her face and, under the wagon seat, Prissy was curled up like a black cat with the small baby wedged in between her and Wade.
Then she remembered everything.
She popped up to a sitting position and looked hastily all around.
Thank God, no Yankees in sight!
Their hiding place had not been discovered in the night.
It all came back to her now, the nightmare journey after Rhett’s footsteps died away, the endless night, the black road full of ruts and boulders along which they jolted, the deep gullies on either side into which the wagon slipped, the fear-crazed strength with which she and Prissy had pushed the wheels out of the gullies.
She recalled with a shudder how often she had driven the unwilling horse into fields and woods when she heard soldiers approaching, not knowing if they were friends or foes—recalled, too, her anguish lest a cough, a sneeze or Wade’s hiccoughing might betray them to the marching men.
Oh, that dark road where men went by like ghosts, voices stilled, only the muffled tramping of feet on soft dirt, the faint clicking of bridles and the straining creak of leather!
And, oh, that dreadful moment when the sick horse balked and cavalry and light cannon rumbled past in the darkness, past where they sat breathless, so close she could almost reach out and touch them, so close she could smell the stale sweat on the soldiers’ bodies!
When, at last, they had neared Rough and Ready, a few camp fires were gleaming where the last of Steve Lee’s rear guard was awaiting orders to fall back.
She had circled through a plowed field for a mile until the light of the fires died out behind her.
And then she had lost her way in the darkness and sobbed when she could not find the little wagon path she knew so well.
Then finally having found it, the horse sank in the traces and refused to move, refused to rise even when she and Prissy tugged at the bridle.
So she had unharnessed him and crawled, sodden with fatigue, into the back of the wagon and stretched her aching legs.
She had a faint memory of Melanie’s voice before sleep clamped down her eyelids, a weak voice that apologized even as it begged:
“Scarlett, can I have some water, please?”
She had said: