Gone With the Wind (123 page)

“The Klan—”

At first, Scarlett spoke the word as if she had never heard it before and had no comprehension of its meaning and then:

“The Klan!” she almost screamed it. “Ashley isn’t in the Klan! Frank can’t be! Oh, he promised me!”

“Of course, Mr. Kennedy is in the Klan and Ashley, too, and all the men we know,” cried India. “They are men, aren’t they? And white men and Southerners. You should have been proud of him instead of making him sneak out as though it were something shameful and—”

“You all have known all along and I didn’t—”

“We were afraid it would upset you,” said Melanie sorrowfully.

“Then that’s where they go when they’re supposed to be at the political meetings? Oh, he promised me! Now, the Yankees will come and take my mills and the store and put him in jail—oh, what did Rhett Butler mean?”

India’s eyes met Melanie’s in wild fear. Scarlett rose, flinging her sewing down.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going downtown and find out. I’ll ask everybody I see until I find—”

“Set,” said Archie, fixing her with his eye. “I’ll tell you. Because you went gallivantin’ this afternoon and got yore-self into trouble through yore own fault, Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy and the other men are out tonight to kill that thar nigger and that thar white man, if they can catch them, and wipe out that whole Shantytown settlement. And if what that Scalawag said is true, the Yankees suspected sumpin’ or got wind somehow and they’ve sont out troops to lay for them. And our men have walked into a trap. And if what Butler said warn’t true, then he’s a spy and he is goin’ to turn them up to the Yankees and they’ll git kilt just the same. And if he does turn them up, then I’ll kill him, if it’s the last deed of m’ life. And if they ain’t kilt, then they’ll all have to light out of here for Texas and lay low and maybe never come back. It’s all yore fault and thar’s blood on yore hands.”

Anger wiped out the fear from Melanie’s face as she saw comprehension come slowly across Scarlett’s face and then horror follow swiftly. She rose and put her hand on Scarlett’s shoulder.

“Another such word and you go out of this house, Archie,” she said sternly. “It’s not her fault She only did—did what she felt she had to do. And our men did what they felt they had to do. People must do what they must do. We don’t all think alike or act alike and it’s wrong to—to judge others by ourselves. How can you and India say such cruel things when her husband as well as mine may be—may be—”

“Hark!” interrupted Archie softly. “Set, Ma’m. Thar’s horses.”

Melanie sank into a chair, picked up one of Ashley’s shirts and, bowing her head over it, unconsciously began to tear the frills into small ribbons.

The sound of hooves grew louder as horses trotted up to the house. There was the jangling of bits and the strain of leather and the sound of voices. As the hooves stopped in front of the house, one voice rose above the others in a command and the listeners heard feet going through the side yard toward the back porch. They felt that a thousand inimical eyes looked at them through the unshaded front window and the four women, with fear in their hearts, bent their heads and plied their needles. Scarlett’s heart screamed in her breast: “I’ve killed Ashley! I’ve killed him!” And in that wild moment she did not even think that she might have killed Frank too. She had no room in her mind for any picture save that of Ashley, lying at the feet of Yankee cavalrymen, his fair hair dappled with blood.

As the harsh rapid knocking sounded at the door, she looked at Melanie and saw come over the small, strained face a new expression, an expression as blank as she had just seen on Rhett Butler’s face, the bland blank look of a poker player bluffing a game with only two deuces.

“Archie, open the door,” she said quietly.

Slipping his knife into his boot top and loosening the pistol in his trouser band, Archie stumped over to the door and flung it open. Pitty gave a little squeak, like a mouse who feels the trap snap down, as she saw massed in the doorway, a Yankee captain and a squad of bluecoats. But the others said nothing. Scarlett saw with the faintest feeling of relief that she knew this officer. He was Captain Tom Jaffery, one of Rhett’s friends. She had sold him lumber to build his house. She knew him to be a gentleman. Perhaps, as he was a gentleman, he wouldn’t drag them away to prison. He recognized her instantly and, taking off his hat, bowed, somewhat embarrassed.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kennedy. And which of you ladies is Mrs. Wilkes?”

“I am Mrs. Wilkes,” answered Melanie, rising and for all her smallness, dignity flowed from her. “And to what do I owe this intrusion?”

The eyes of the captain flickered quickly about the room, resting for an instant on each face, passing quickly from their faces to the table and the hat rack as though looking for signs of male occupancy.

“I should like to speak to Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy, if you please.”

“They are not here,” said Melanie, a chill in her soft voice.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t you question Miz Wilkes’ word,” said Archie, his beard bristling.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wilkes. I meant no disrespect. If you give me your word, I will not search the house.”

“You have my word. But search if you like. They are at a meeting downtown at Mr. Kennedy’s store.”

“They are not at the store. There was no meeting tonight,” answered the captain grimly. “We will wait outside until they return.”

He bowed briefly and went out, closing the door behind him. Those in the house heard a sharp order, muffled by the wind: “Surround the house. A man at each window and door.” There was a tramping of feet. Scarlett checked a start of terror as she dimly saw bearded faces peering in the windows at them. Melanie sat down and with a hand that did not tremble reached for a book on the table. It was a ragged copy of
Les Miserables,
that book which caught the fancy of the Confederate soldiers. They had read it by campfire light and took some grim pleasure in calling it “Lee’s Miserables.” She opened it at the middle and began to read in a clear monotonous voice.

“Sew,” commanded Archie in a hoarse whisper and the three women, nerved by Melanie’s cool voice, picked up their sewing and bowed their heads.

How long Melanie read beneath that circle of watching eyes, Scarlett never knew but it seemed hours. She did not even hear a word that Melanie read. Now she was beginning to think of Frank as well as Ashley. So this was the explanation of his apparent calm this evening! He had promised her he would have nothing to do with the Klan. Oh, this was just the kind of trouble she had feared would come upon them! All the work of this last year would go for nothing. All her struggles and fears and labors in rain and cold had been wasted. And who would have thought that spiritless old Frank would get himself mixed up in the hot-headed doings of the Klan? Even at this minute, he might be dead. And if he wasn’t dead and the Yankees caught him, he’d be hanged. And Ashley, too!

Her nails dug, into her palms until four bright-red crescents showed. How could Melanie read on and on so calmly when Ashley was in danger of being hanged? When he might be dead? But something in the cool soft voice reading the sorrows of Jean Valjean steadied her, kept her from leaping to her feet and screaming.

Her mind fled back to the night Tony Fontaine had come to them, hunted, exhausted, without money. If he had not reached their house and received money and a fresh horse, he would have been hanged long since. If Frank and Ashley were not dead at this very minute, they were in Tony’s position, only worse. With the house surrounded by soldiers they couldn’t come home and get money and clothes without being captured. And probably every house up and down the street had a similar guard of Yankees, so they could not apply to friends for aid. Even now they might be riding wildly through the night, bound for Texas.

But Rhett—perhaps Rhett had reached them in time. Rhett always had plenty of cash in his pocket. Perhaps he would lend them enough to see them through. But that was queer. Why should Rhett bother himself about Ashley’s safety? Certainly he disliked him, certainly he professed a contempt for him. Then why— But his riddle was swallowed up in a renewed fear for the safety of Ashley and Frank.

“Oh, it’s all my fault!” she wailed to herself. “India and Archie spoke the truth. It’s all my fault. But I never thought either of them was foolish enough to join the Klan! And I never thought anything would really happen to me! But I couldn’t have done otherwise. Melly spoke the truth. People have to do what they have to do. And I had to keep the mills going! I had to have money! And now I’ll probably lose it all and somehow it’s all my fault!”

After a long time Melanie’s voice faltered, trailed off and was silent. She turned her head toward the window and stared as though no Yankee soldier stared back from behind the glass. The others raised their heads, caught by her listening pose, and they too listened.

There was a sound of horses’ feet and of singing, deadened by the closed windows and doors, borne away by the wind but still recognizable. It was the most hated and hateful of all songs, the song about Sherman’s men “Marching through Georgia” and Rhett Butler was singing it.

Hardly had he finished the first lines when two other voices, drunken voices, assailed him, enraged foolish voices that stumbled over words and blurred them together. There was a quick command from Captain Jaffery on the front porch and the rapid tramp of feet. But even before these sounds arose, the ladies looked at one another stunned. For the drunken voices expostulating with Rhett were those of Ashley and Hugh Elsing.

Voices rose louder on the front walk, Captain Jaffery’s curt and questioning, Hugh’s shrill with foolish laughter, Rhett’s deep and reckless and Ashley’s queer, unreal, shouting: “What the hell! What the hell!”

“That can’t be Ashley!” thought Scarlett wildly. “He never gets drunk! And Rhett—why, when Rhett’s drunk he gets quieter and quieter—never loud like that!”

Melanie rose and, with her, Archie rose. They heard the captain’s sharp voice: “These two men are under arrest.” And Archie’s hand closed over his pistol butt.

“No,” whispered Melanie firmly. “No. Leave it to me.”

There was in her face the same look Scarlett had seen that day at Tara when Melanie had stood at the top of the steps looking down at the dead Yankee, her weak wrist weighed down by the heavy saber—a gentle and timid soul nerved by circumstances to the caution and fury of a tigress. She threw the front door open.

“Bring him in, Captain Butler,” she called in a clear tone that bit with venom. “I suppose you’ve gotten him intoxicated again. Bring him in.”

From the dark windy walk, the Yankee captain spoke: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilkes, but your husband and Mr. Elsing are under arrest.”

“Arrest? For what? For drunkenness? If everyone in Atlanta was arrested for drunkenness, the whole Yankee garrison would be in jail continually. Well, bring him in, Captain Butler—that is, if you can walk yourself.”

Scarlett’s mind was not working quickly and for a brief moment nothing made sense. She knew neither Rhett nor Ashley was drunk and she knew Melanie knew they were not drunk. Yet here was Melanie, usually so gentle and refined, screaming like a shrew and in front of Yankees too, that both of them were too drunk to walk.

There was a short mumbled argument, punctuated with curses, and uncertain feet ascended the stairs. In the doorway appeared Ashley, white faced, his head lolling, his bright hair tousled, his long body wrapped from neck to knees in Rhett’s black cape. Hugh Elsing and Rhett, none too steady on their feet, supported him on either side and
it
was obvious he would have fallen to the floor but for their aid. Behind them came the Yankee captain, his face a study of mingled suspicion and amusement. He stood in the open doorway with his men peering curiously over his shoulders and the cold wind swept the house.

Scarlett, frightened, puzzled, glanced at Melanie and back to the sagging Ashley and then half-comprehension came to her. She started to cry out: “But he can’t be drunk!” and bit back the words. She realized she was witnessing a play, a desperate play on which lives hinged. She knew she was not part of it nor was Aunt Pitty but the others were and they were tossing cues to one another like actors in an oft-rehearsed drama. She understood only half but she understood enough to keep silent.

“Put him in the chair,” cried Melanie indignantly. “And you, Captain Butler, leave this house immediately! How dare you show your face here after getting him in this condition again!”

The two men eased Ashley into a rocker and Rhett, swaying, caught hold of the back of the chair to steady himself and addressed the captain with pain in his voice.

“That’s fine thanks I get, isn’t it? For keeping the police from getting him and bringing him home and him yelling and trying to claw me!”

“And you, Hugh Elsing, I’m ashamed of you! What will your poor mother say? Drunk and out with a—a Yankee-loving Scalawag like Captain Butler! And, oh, Mr. Wilkes, how could you do such a thing?”

“Melly, I ain’t so very drunk,” mumbled Ashley, and with the words fell forward and lay face down on the table, his head buried in his arms.

“Archie, take him to his room and put him to bed—as usual,” ordered Melanie. “Aunt Pitty, please run and fix the bed and oo-oh,” she suddenly burst into tears. “Oh, how could he? After he promised!”

Archie already had his arm under Ashley’s shoulder and Pitty, frightened and uncertain, was on her feet when the captain interposed.

“Don’t touch him. He’s under arrest. Sergeant!”

As the sergeant stepped into the room, his rifle at trail, Rhett, evidently trying to steady himself, put a hand on the captain’s arm and, with difficulty, focused his eyes.

“Tom, what you arresting him for? He ain’t so very drunk. I’ve seen him drunker.”

“Drunk be damned,” cried the captain. “He can lie in the gutter for all I care. I’m no policeman. He and Mr. Elsing are under arrest for complicity in a Klan raid at Shantytown tonight. A nigger and a white man were killed. Mr. Wilkes was the ringleader in it.”