“I don’t know and I don’t care.
But anyone at Tara who won’t work can go hunt up the Yankees.
You can tell the others that too.”
“Now, what about the corn and the cotton, Pork?”
“De cawn?
Lawd, Miss Scarlett, dey pasture dey hawses in de cawn an’ cah'ied off whut de hawses din’ eat or spile.
An’ dey driv dey cannons an’ waggins ‘cross de cotton till it plum ruint, ’cept a few acres over on de creek bottom dat dey din’ notice.
But dat cotton ain’ wuth foolin’ wid, ‘cause ain’ but ’bout three bales over dar.”
Three bales.
Scarlett thought of the scores of bales Tara usually yielded and her head hurt worse.
Three bales.
That was little more than the shiftless Slatterys raised.
To make matters worse, there was the question of taxes.
The Confederate government took cotton for taxes in lieu of money, but three bales wouldn’t even cover the taxes.
Little did it matter though, to her or the Confederacy, now that all the field hands had run away and there was no one to pick the cotton.
“Well, I won’t think of that either,” she told herself.
“Taxes aren’t a woman’s job anyway.
Pa ought to look after such things, but Pa— I won’t think of Pa now.
The Confederacy can whistle for its taxes.
What we need now is something to eat.” “Pork, have any of you been to Twelve Oaks or the MacIntosh place to see if there’s anything left in the gardens there?”
“No, Ma’m! Us ain’ lef’ Tara.
De Yankees mout git us.”
“I’ll send Dilcey over to MacIntosh. Perhaps she’ll find something there.
And I’ll go to Twelve Oaks.”
“Who wid, chile?”
“By myself.
Mammy must stay with the girls and Mr. Gerald can’t—”
Pork set up an outcry which she found infuriating.
There might be Yankees or mean niggers at Twelve Oaks. She mustn’t go alone.
“That will be enough, Pork.
Tell Dilcey to start immediately.
And you and Prissy go bring in the sow and her litter,” she said briefly, turning on her heel.
Mammy’s old sunbonnet, faded but clean, hung on its peg on the back porch and Scarlett put it on her head, remembering, as from another world, the bonnet with the curling green plume which Rhett had brought her from Paris.
She picked up a large split-oak basket and started down the back stairs, each step jouncing her head until her spine seemed to be trying to crash through the top of her skull.
The road down to the river lay red and scorching between the ruined cotton fields.
There were no trees to cast a shade and the sun beat down through Mammy’s sunbonnet as if it were made of tarlatan instead of heavy quilted calico, while the dust floating upward sifted into her nose and throat until she felt the membranes would crack dryly if she spoke.
Deep ruts and furrows were cut into the road where horses had dragged heavy guns along it and the red gullies on either side were deeply gashed by the wheels.
The cotton was mangled and trampled where cavalry and infantry, forced off the narrow road by the artillery, had marched through the green bushes, grinding them into the earth.
Here and there in the road and fields lay buckles and bits of harness leather, canteens flattened by hooves and caisson wheels, buttons, blue caps, worn socks, bits of bloody rags, all the litter left by the marching army.
She passed the clump of cedars and the low brick wall which marked the family burying ground, trying not to think of the new grave lying by the three short mounds of her little brothers.
Oh, Ellen-She trudged on down the dusty hill, passing the heap of ashes and the stumpy chimney where the Slattery house had stood, and she wished savagely that the whole tribe of them had been part of the ashes.
If it hadn’t been for the Slatterys—if it hadn’t been for that nasty Emmie who’d had a bastard brat by their overseer—Ellen wouldn’t have died.
She moaned as a sharp pebble cut into her blistered foot.
What was she doing here?
Why was Scarlett O’Hara, the belle of the County, the sheltered pride of Tara, tramping down this rough road almost barefoot?
Her little feet were made to dance, not to limp, her tiny slippers to peep daringly from under bright silks, not to collect sharp pebbles and dust.
She was born to be pampered and waited upon, and here she was, sick and ragged, driven by hunger to hunt for food in the gardens of her neighbors.
At the bottom of the long hill was the river and how cool and still were the tangled trees overhanging the water!
She sank down on the low bank, and stripping off the remnants of her slippers and stockings, dabbled her burning feet in the cool water.
It would be so good to sit here all day, away from the helpless eyes of Tara, here where only the rustle of leaves and the gurgle of slow water broke the stillness.