We been eatin’ on dem today.”
“Bring them before you dig the potatoes.
And, Pork—I—I feel so faint.
Is there any wine in the cellar, even blackberry?”
“Oh, Miss Scarlett, de cellar wuz de fust place dey went.”
A swimming nausea compounded of hunger, sleeplessness, exhaustion and stunning blows came on suddenly and she gripped the carved roses under her hand.
“No wine,” she said dully, remembering the endless rows of bottles in the cellar.
A memory stirred.
“Pork, what of the corn whisky Pa buried in the oak barrel under the scuppernong arbor?”
Another ghost of a smile lit the black face, a smile of pleasure and respect.
“Miss Scarlett, you sho is de beatenes’ chile!
Ah done plum fergit dat bah'l.
But, Miss Scarlett, dat whisky ain’ no good.
Ain’ been dar but ’bout a year an’ whisky ain’ no good fer ladies nohow.”
How stupid negroes were!
They never thought of anything unless they were told.
And the Yankees wanted to free them.
“It’ll be good enough for this lady and for Pa.
Hurry, Pork, and dig it up and bring us two glasses and some mint and sugar and I’ll mix a julep.”
“Miss Scarlett, you knows dey ain’ been no sugar at Tara fer de longes’.
An’ dey hawses done et up all de mint an’ dey done broke all de glasses.”
If he says “They” once more, I’ll scream.
I can’t help it, she thought, and then, aloud:
“Well, hurry and get the whisky, quickly.
We’ll take it neat.”
And, as he turned: “Wait, Pork. There’s so many things to do that I can’t seem to think... Oh, yes.
I brought home a horse and a cow and the cow needs milking, badly, and unharness the horse and water him.
Go tell Mammy to look after the cow. Tell her she’s got to fix the cow up somehow.
Miss Melanie’s baby will die if he doesn’t get something to eat and—”
“Miss Melly ain’—kain—?”
Pork paused delicately.
“Miss Melanie has no milk.”
Dear God, but Mother would faint at that!
“Well, Miss Scarlett, mah Dilcey ten’ ter Miss Melly’s chile.
Mah Dilcey got a new chile herseff an’ she got mo'n nuff fer both.”
“You’ve got a new baby, Pork?”
Babies, babies, babies. Why did God make so many babies?
But no, God didn’t make them.
Stupid people made them.
“Yas’m, big fat black boy.
He—”
“Go tell Dilcey to leave the girls. I’ll look after them. Tell her to nurse Miss Melanie’s baby and do what she can for Miss Melanie.
Tell Mammy to look after the cow and put that poor horse in the stable.”
“Dey ain’ no stable, Miss Scarlett.
Dey use it fer fiah wood.”
“Don’t tell me any more what ‘They’ did.
Tell Dilcey to look after them.
And you, Pork, go dig up that whisky and then some potatoes.”
“But, Miss Scarlett, Ah ain’ got no light ter dig by.”
“You can use a stick of firewood, can’t you?”