When the soldiers began arriving almost daily, Mammy protested against their being allowed to use the bedrooms.
Always she feared lest some louse had escaped her.
Rather than argue the matter, Scarlett turned the parlor with its deep velvet rug into a dormitory.
Mammy cried out equally loudly at the sacrilege of soldiers being permitted to sleep on Miss Ellen’s rug but Scarlett was firm.
They had to sleep somewhere.
And, in the months after the surrender, the deep soft nap began to show signs of wear and finally the heavy warp and woof showed through in spots where heels had worn it and spurs dug carelessly.
Of each soldier, they asked eagerly of Ashley.
Suellen, bridling, always asked news of Mr. Kennedy.
But none of the soldiers had ever heard of them nor were they inclined to talk about the missing.
It was enough that they themselves were alive, and they did not care to think of the thousands in unmarked graves who would never come home.
The family tried to bolster Melanie’s courage after each of these disappointments.
Of course, Ashley hadn’t died in prison.
Some Yankee chaplain would have written if this were true.
Of course, he was coming home but his prison was so far away.
Why, goodness, it took days riding on a train to make the trip and if Ashley was walking, like these men...
Why hadn’t he written?
Well, darling, you know what the mails are now—so uncertain and slipshod even where mail routes are re-established.
But suppose—suppose he had died on the way home.
Now, Melanie, some Yankee woman would have surely written us about it!...
Yankee women!
Bah!...
Melly, there ARE some nice Yankee women.
Oh, yes, there are!
God couldn’t make a whole nation without having some nice women in it!
Scarlett, you remember we did meet a nice Yankee woman at Saratoga that time—Scarlett, tell Melly about her!
“Nice, my foot!” replied Scarlert.
“She asked me how many bloodhounds we kept to chase our darkies with!
I agree with Melly.
I never saw a nice Yankee, male or female.
But don’t cry, Melly!
Ashley’ll come home.
It’s a long walk and maybe—maybe he hasn’t got any boots.”
Then at the thought of Ashley barefooted, Scarlett could have cried.
Let other soldiers limp by in rags with their feet tied up in sacks and strips of carpet, but not Ashley.
He should come home on a prancing horse, dressed in fine clothes and shining boots, a plume in his hat.
It was the final degradation for her to think of Ashley reduced to the state of these other soldiers.
One afternoon in June when everyone at Tara was assembled on the back porch eagerly watching Pork cut the first half-ripe watermelon of the season, they heard hooves on the gravel of the front drive.
Prissy started languidly toward the front door, while those left behind argued hotly as to whether they should hide the melon or keep it for supper, should the caller at the door prove to be a soldier.
Melly and Carreen whispered that the soldier guest should have a share and Scarlett, backed by Suellen and Mammy, hissed to Pork to hide it quickly.
“Don’t be a goose, girls!
There’s not enough for us as it is and if there are two or three famished soldiers out there, none of us will even get a taste,” said Scarlett.
While Pork stood with the little melon clutched to him, uncertain as to the final decision, they heard Prissy cry out.
“Gawdlmighty!
Miss Scarlett!
Miss Melly!
Come quick!”
“Who is it?” cried Scarlett, leaping up from the steps and racing through the hall with Melly at her shoulder and the others streaming after her.
Ashley! she thought.
Oh, perhaps— “It’s Uncle Peter!
Miss Pittypat’s Uncle Peter!”