Rhett Butler's people (76 page)

Far behind, Rhett shouted, "Hands tight! Hold tight!" When Wade misstepped, his hand was snatched from hers and she blocked his body so he wouldn't tumble down. Wade said, "Sorry, Mother," sounding just like Charles Hamilton.

In the tiny vestibule outside the kitchen, Scarlett tried to remember whether the latch was on the left or right. Somewhere above, Rhett cried, "We are nearly there! Louis Valentine! Pirates never snivel!"

The narrow door swung open on Mammy in nightdress and calico nightcap. The old negress said helplessly, "Scarlett, honey. We is on fire."

Scarlett pulled Wade into the cool kitchen.

"Yes, Mammy, we're on fire. Ring the farm bell and rouse everybody." Scarlett handed Louis Valentine into the kitchen, then Rosemary and Ella, then Beau, and finally Rhett Butler, who was tucking his scorched hands into his armpits.

"But it was such a fine barbecue," a dazed Mammy said. "We ain't had such a time in years!"

Scarlett cried, "Oh Rhett! Your hands, your poor, poor hands!"

"Left my gloves in Glasgow," he replied lightly.

Rosemary shepherded the children into the yard as Mammy's bell clamored the alarm. The steading was dark and quiet. When Ella collapsed, Rhett caught and carried her. Ella's chubby bare feet dangled from his

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arms. Rhett laid Ella in some grass beside the springhouse and said, "Poor child. She was as brave as she needed to be."

"I'll stay with Ella," Rosemary said. "Wade Hamilton, please heed the younger boys."

Taz leaned a ladder against Gerald O'Hara's balcony, where his unflus-tered mother was waiting. Flames flickered behind Tara's upstairs windows. Ellen O'Hara's fanlight and side lights glowed white. An empty fuel can lay next to the front door. Scarlett could smell kerosene in the wood smoke.

Tara's front stairs, where the orchestra had played Strauss waltzes just hours before, were burning.

Rhett braced the ladder as Taz climbed.

Grass beside the house was scorched. The boxwoods were burned sticks. As if ghosts were sitting in it, Tara's porch swing creaked back and forth.

Her pink dressing gown as intact as her dignity, Belle Watling backed down the ladder rung by cautious rung.

Negroes ran to the house. Dilcey shouted, "Tara! We got to save Tara!"

Scarlett woke from her stupor. "Rhett!" she cried. "My God! It's Tara." She darted for the door as the fanlight popped and flame blossomed on the underside of the porch roof.

Rhett caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet. "No!" he said. "It's too far gone."

She kicked at his shins. "Not Tara. I won't lose Tara."

"By God! I won't lose you! Not ever again!" Rhett bore Scarlett away as flames burst through the soffits and over the roof peak.

The heat was blistering. Rhett, Scarlett, Tazewell, and Belle retreated to the turnaround.

Scarlett wept angrily. "We should have tried!" She flailed at Rhett's chest. "We should have done

something

!"

The lire roared and Tara's windows glowed like Satan's eyes. Hoofbeats in the lane: the neighbors. Too late. Altogether too late.

"Oh Rhett," Scarlett moaned, "it's Tara. It's Tara." She buried her face in his shoulder.

"Yes, honey. It was."

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The voice wasn't as loud as the fire. "My day is come." The ragged old man had twigs in his beard. His greasy hair was knotted into tangles. He'd got too near the fire and his shirtfront and sleeves were scorched here and there. He held a rusty single-shot dueling pistol.

"Rhett Butler," Isaiah Watling repeated dully, "my day is come."

Rhett pushed Scarlett aside. "Good evening, Watling. You didn't need to burn my wife's house. I'd have come out if you'd asked."

"Cleansing fire ..." Isaiah mumbled.

"I don't recall needing a cleansing fire," Rhett said. "But I'm not particularly religious. Doubtless, you know a good deal more about cleansing fires than I do."

The old man found a residue of energy and straightened. "You murdered my son, Shadrach. Because of Rhett Butler, the Young Master of Broughton Plantation, my boy burns in hell."

Through chattering teeth, Scarlett yelled, "You! Leave Tara! Depart from us, you miserable creature!"

Rhett said, "Isaiah, if I hadn't killed your son, somebody else would have. You know that. Shad Watling wasn't going to die in bed."

"Nor will you, sinner!" With trembling hands, old Isaiah raised his pistol.

Rhett took a step toward him. "Give me the pistol, Isaiah."

Belle ran to her father, crying, "Poppa! Poppa! Please! You mustn't!"

The report wasn't loud: a crack, not much louder than a stick breaking. Belle Watling shuddered. Tucking her pink dressing gown neatly so no one could see her bare legs, Belle sat down on the mounting block.

Belle said, "Poor, poor Poppa," and died.

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Chapter

Chapter Sixty

Tomorrow Is Another Day

After years of wondering about the place, Mrs. Meade and Mrs. Elsing visited the Chapeau Rouge. It was their patriotic duty.

Nine years after the War, the Confederate story had flowered into a flamboyant, romantic myth. Certain lurid events that had once embarrassed these ladies had become prominent in their family legends. As Mrs. Elsing told her grandchildren, "When Georgia's Yankee occupiers were hanging brave men right and left, Belle Watling's ruse saved your father from the gallows. You simply cannot imagine!" Mrs. Elsing's astonishment at Yankee gullibility was renewed every time she repeated the familiar tale. "The Yankees actually believed Hugh Elsing would brawl in a sporting house! Imagine that!"

But a legend is one thing, a sporting house another, and when the ladies' coach stopped before the notorious place, the ladies almost told their coachman to drive on. They were greatly relieved to see others they knew, respectable citizens come to pay their respects to Atlanta's most notorious fallen woman.

Tell the truth, they were disappointed. Afterward, Mrs. Meade told her friends, "Why, Miss Watling's parlor seemed very nearly respectable!"

Mrs. Elsing, who detested French decor, disagreed. "Too ar-tis-tic, my dear. Far too ar-tis-tic."

The Chapeau Rouge hadn't changed since the days when Confederate officers rollicked there and veterans returned to honor the young men they had been. In uneasy association, reputable and disreputable Atlantans waited on a walk bordered by Belle's fragrant roses.

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MacBeth greeted those he knew and those he didn't with the same impersonal "Mornin', sir, mornin', ma'am. Glad you could come out on such a sorrowful day."

Inside, curiosity seekers who expected gay cockatiels and exotic flamingos found wrens: Belle's black-clad Cyprians.

Several presently respectable matrons had worked here during the War. Mrs. Gerald D. had been the vivacious "Miss Susanna" and "L'il Flirt" was now Mrs. William P. By neither word nor gesture did the Cyprians recognize their former comrades.

The mortician's men had delivered fifty straight-backed chairs and shifted Belle's parlor furniture upstairs. They'd set the coffin on sawhorses and draped the bier in black crepe. They'd placed scores of wreaths and floral arrangements to best advantage.

Belle was laid out in a gray silk dress of distinctly old-fashioned cut. Her hair was loose on the white satin pillow and her hands were crossed devoutly. She looked like a child wearing her mother's ball gown. A broad red ribbon with

Beloved

in black letters was draped across her coffin.

An ashen-faced Rhett Butler accepted condolences. "Yes, she was a fine woman. Belle had a trusting heart. Yes, Belle meant a great deal to me. Thank you, Henry, for coming."

Mrs. Butler stood beside her husband. "So glad you could come, Grandfather Merriwether. I hope you'll partake of our refreshments. Kitchen's through that door."

Scarlett introduced the young man: "Belle's son, Tazewell Watling. Mr. Watling is a cotton factor from New Orleans. A Confederate veteran, yes."

Stunned by grief, Tazewell Watling accepted well-meant condolences from strangers. Though he thanked each politely, their kind words meant nothing. Tazewell's mind was regretting what so easily might have been: his mother in the sunshine in his little Vieux Carre garden, happy at last. How he wished he'd kept one, just one, of his mother's silly, precious letters!

Although respectable Atlantans eschewed Belle's lavish funeral feast, rougher citizens and their womenfolk gathered in the kitchen for roast beef, ham, and whiskey. They complained about the national depression

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and wondered when Atlanta would get up and get going again. They toasted Belle's memory. They recounted Belle's kindnesses when they'd been down on their luck.

The

Atlanta Journal

reporter wrote,

Wearing clanking leg irons, his wrists cuffed with bracel

ets of iron, the murdered woman's father was escorted to the wake by Clayton County sheriff Oliver Talbot. As mourners recoiled in horror, the bearded patriarch who had taken his daughters life approached her bier. No fatherly tenderness softened his stony features; he uttered no grief-stricken cry. His finger had pressed the fatal trigger. His daughter had fallen at his feet, crying piteously. But if Isaiah Witling felt remorse, he showed none.

What thoughts must have tormented his obstinate mind; what fevered emotions must have been quenched by his obdurate will. He bent for a moment over his daughters coffin and was seen to place something therein.

But his grandson, Mr. T. Witling of New Orleans, detected this movement, retrieved the old man's offering, and, as Witling was led away, the young man returned it to him....

"I believe sir, you forgot this." Taz placed the New Testament into his grandfather's shackled hands.

"I weren't..." With rheumy old eyes, Isaiah searched his grandson's face. He licked his lips. "I weren't never my own man...." He dropped his gaze, and when Sheriff Talbot tugged, the old man followed, obedient as a dog.

Rhett had persuaded a reluctant St. Philip's rector that Belle Watling should rest in the city's oldest churchyard. The rector picked a site against the back wall, where Belle's presence wouldn't offend. Rhett tapped a bishop's prominent stone. "Belle never fancied old Charley anyway."

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And so, on a beautiful Sunday morning, Ruth Belle Watling was laid to rest. Dew sparkled the grass. Churches tolled Christians to worship. Its bell chiming prettily, one of Atlanta's new streetcars rolled past.

Wade Hamilton and Ella Kennedy flanked Scarlett. Beau Wilkes and Louis Valentine Ravanel stood with Ashley and Rosemary. The rector read from the Book of Common Prayer. The children were awed. Louis Valentine shuffled his feet.

Tazewell Watling wept.

The rector got away as soon as he decently could. Negroes with shovels waited at a respectful distance.

Ashley Wilkes offered Rhett his hand. "I am sorry, Rhett. Belle was a fine woman. She saved my life."

Rhett took the slighter man's hand. "How many years have we known each other?"

Ashley considered, "We met in '61."

"Thirteen years. Strange, it's seems so much longer. How's your garden coming along?"

Ashley brightened. "Wonderfully well. I've got the fountain flowing. You must stop by some time and see it." Ashley took Rosemary's arm. "Your sister is becoming a horticulturalist."

Rosemary asked, "Have you ever wondered why it is, brother, that men pretend to take care of women, when it's generally t'other way 'round?"

Rhett kissed Rosemary's forehead.

Tazewell had been away from his business too long and he left for the railroad station.

When the Butlers reached Aunt Pittypat's, Rhett's strength abandoned him and he stumbled on the stairs. In what had been Melanie Wilkes's bedroom, Scarlett helped her husband undress. When she put Rhett into bed, his teeth chattered and he shivered so violently, Scarlett undressed, slipped under the covers, and held him until he slept.