What is there to see in Europe?
I’ll bet those foreigners can’t show us a thing we haven’t got right here in Georgia.
I’ll bet their horses aren’t as fast or their girls as pretty, and I know damn well they haven’t got any rye whisky that can touch Father’s.”
“Ashley Wilkes said they had an awful lot of scenery and music.
Ashley liked Europe.
He’s always talking about it.”
“Well—you know how the Wilkes are.
They are kind of queer about music and books and scenery.
Mother says it’s because their grandfather came from Virginia.
She says Virginians set quite a store by such things.”
“They can have ’em.
Give me a good horse to ride and some good licker to drink and a good girl to court and a bad girl to have fun with and anybody can have their Europe... What do we care about missing the Tour?
Suppose we were in Europe now, with the war coming on?
We couldn’t get home soon enough.
I’d heap rather go to a war than go to Europe.”
“So would I, any day... Look, Brent! I know where we can go for supper. Let’s ride across the swamp to Abel Wynder’s place and tell him we’re all four home again and ready for drill.”
“That’s an idea!” cried Brent with enthusiasm.
“And we can hear all the news of the Troop and find out what color they finally decided on for the uniforms.”
“If it’s Zouave, I’m damned if I’ll go in the troop.
I’d feel like a sissy in those baggy red pants.
They look like ladies’ red flannel drawers to me.”
“Is y’all aimin’ ter go ter Mist’ Wynder’s?
‘Cause ef you is, you ain’ gwine git much supper,” said Jeems.
“Dey cook done died, an’ dey ain’ bought a new one.
Dey got a fe’el han’ cookin', an’ de niggers tells me she is de wustest cook in de state.”
“Good God!
Why don’t they buy another cook?”
“Huccome po’ w'ite trash buy any niggers?
Dey ain’ never owned mo'n fo’ at de mostes’.”
There was frank contempt in Jeems’ voice.
His own social status was assured because the Tarletons owned a hundred negroes and, like all slaves of large planters, he looked down on small farmers whose slaves were few.
“I’m going to beat your hide off for that,” cried Stuart fiercely.
Don’t you call Abel Wynder ‘po’ white.’
Sure he’s poor, but he ain’t trash; and I’m damned if I’ll have any man, darky or white, throwing off on him.
There ain’t a better man in this County, or why else did the Troop elect him lieutenant?”
“Ah ain’ never figgered dat out, mahseff,” replied Jeems, undisturbed by his master’s scowl.
“Look ter me lak dey’d ‘lect all de awficers frum rich gempmum, ’stead of swamp trash.”
“He ain’t trash!
Do you mean to compare him with real white trash like the Slatterys?
Able just ain’t rich.
He’s a small farmer, not a big planter, and if the boys thought enough of him to elect him lieutenant, then it’s not for any darky to talk impudent about him.
The Troop knows what it’s doing.”
The troop of cavalry had been organized three months before, the very day that Georgia seceded from the Union, and since then the recruits had been whistling for war.
The outfit was as yet unnamed, though not for want of suggestions.
Everyone had his own idea on that subject and was loath to relinquish it, just as everyone had ideas about the color and cut of the uniforms.
“Clayton Wild Cats,”
“Fire Eaters,”
“North Georgia Hussars,”
“Zouaves,”
“The Inland Rifles” (although the Troop was to be armed with pistols, sabers and bowie knives, and not with rifles),