Rhett Butler's People

by Donald McCaig

  “Rosemary, I can’t take this.”

  “Yes, you can, Brother. We Butlers have never been good at loving. We’ve loved too late, or wrongly, or not loved at all. Give Scarlett this scarf. Years ago, it proved your love to me. Now my poor Meg has added her child’s love, too. Please, Rhett, give it to the woman you love.”

  “Rosemary, you and John …”

  “You can do nothing for us now.”

  “I would—”

  “I know you would, dear. Hush. Go. There’s a five A.M. train.”

  The brother kissed his sister and walked uptown.

  Twenty minutes later, at the depot, the provost wouldn’t let Rhett board the Georgia train until Rhett showed him Rufus Bullock’s pass. “Sir, there’s room in the officers’ car.”

  Since Rhett had studied artillery at the Point, he appreciated the artillery major’s account of the Chickamauga victory, and when Rhett brought a bottle of rum from his carpetbag, the major decided this civilian wasn’t a bad fellow after all. As their train raced the sun into the west, Rhett, the major, and two junior officers settled into a game of stud poker.

  By nightfall, Rhett had cleaned them out, but it was only Confederate money, and there were no hard feelings.

  The next day, as the train crossed into Georgia, a nineteen-year-old lieutenant—“Biloxi, Mississippi, born and reared, Mr. Butler”—said, “We’re hittin’ Billy Yank hard; whippin’ him most every scrap. Federals surely can’t take more losses bad as Chickamauga. One or two more whippin’s, ol’ Lincoln will sue for peace.”

  Looking into the lieutenant’s hopeful face, Rhett felt a thousand years old.

  Their train was sidetracked in Augusta. Inured to delays, the officers headed for the nearest saloon, but Rhett found Rufus Bullock at the Southern Express office.

  Bullock had come south before the War to superintend the Adams Railway Express Company. An affable, even-tempered man, when Rufus Bullock strolled down Main Street, respectable Georgians felt he was just the sort of man they liked to see strolling down Main Street, even if Bullock was a Yankee. When the War began, the Southern Express seceded from its northern parent and Rufus Bullock became the new company’s president.

  Soon, Bullock was coordinating Confederate telegraphy and shipping army payrolls. As his responsibilities increased, Bullock became acting chief of the Confederate railroads and was commissioned as a lieutenant colonel. Bullock never wore a uniform; for Rufus Bullock, war was business as usual.

  With the confidence of old familiarity, Rhett plunked down a bottle on Bullock’s desk.

  “My Lord, Rhett, where did you find this?”

  “Bahamian rum. Twenty years old, aged in wood. Without your pass, Rufus, I’d never have gotten out of Charleston.”

  The bottle vanished into a drawer. “Rufus Bullock understands you brought military stores this run, Rhett. Rufus asked himself, How can Rhett Butler profit from military stores?” Bullock chuckled comfortably. He was a comfortable man.

  “I am reformed, Rufus. No more blockade running. When John Haynes is able to think about business again, I hope John will quit the business, too.”

  “I heard his daughter was killed. Tragic.”

  “Yes. Rufus, put me on an Atlanta train.”

  “Even Rufus Bullock can’t help you there. Every car we have is packed to overflowing with supplies.” “Rufus, I know you. There is nothing you can’t do.”

  Rhett rode in the locomotive with Mr. Bates, the dour engineer, and a huge, silent negro fireman.

  The sun was setting as they rolled out of Augusta. Rhett took refuge atop the tender. Sprawled across cordwood in the wood car, hands laced behind his head, Rhett tried to recall exactly what Tunis Bonneau had told him about love—what was it, six years ago?

  They’d met on the Freeport docks and the friends who hadn’t seen each other since Rhett left the Low Country had repaired to the nearest skibberdeen and proceeded to drink it dry.

  Tunis caught Rhett up on Charleston doings. “Your sister, she growed into a mighty handsome young woman.”

  “If I give you a Cuban shawl, will you take it to her?”

  “Surely will.” Tunis wasn’t as drunk as Rhett. “Something troubling you?”

  “A woman. Nothing at all.”

  “You ain’t actin’ like she’s nothin’. You love her?”

  He’d snorted, “Love?” Rhett drank straight from the bottle. “I have been in love too many times. Then I climb out of bed and put my trousers on. There is something about the humble act of donning trousers that trivializes love.”

  “Now you joshin’ me.”

  “Am I?”

  Tunis had told Rhett shyly that he was courting Ruthie Prescott, Reverend Prescott’s oldest daughter. “Ruthie’s high-headed and it’s a chore, sometimes, gettin’ next to her, but she’s the one for me. Rhett, you ever been in love?”

  “Friend, why these questions?”

  “Was you ever with a gal that you felt like you would never be right or full or good if you wasn’t with her no more?”

  “I’ve felt flattered and sometimes thrilled. But, no, that’s not how love was.”

  “Then you never been in love,” Tunis Bonneau said firmly. “Not really. ’Cause that’s what love be.”

  Now, every stroke of the pistons, every turn of the driving wheels brought Scarlett closer. The engine’s rumble echoed in Rhett’s heartbeat. Faster! Faster!

  Every other woman, every previous passion was lifeless by comparison; yet Rhett had never told Scarlett what she meant to him. He’d jibed. He’d hidden behind a false indifference.

  “Damn coward,” he whispered.

  Armed with Rosemary’s precious gift, Rhett could tell her how he felt. By God, he would!

  A euphoric Rhett Butler stepped down into the cab and gave cigars to Mr. Bates and his fireman.

  The open firebox roared. Sparks and cinders burned tiny holes in Rhett’s black broadcloth suit.

  Enlivened by the excellent cigar, Mr. Bates volunteered, “This drivin’ at night is nervy business and I don’t care for it. I can’t see nothin’, and if the Federals were to jerk up the rails, I wouldn’t know it until this here engine was flyin’ through the air! Mister, it is troublesome gettin’ out of her onct she commences tumblin’. There’s the steam, you see. Steam’ll pluck the flesh off a man to bare bones.” Mr. Bates puffed his cigar with entire satisfaction.

  They paused every two hours while Mr. Bates filled the boiler. Rhett and the fireman heaved four cords of wood into the tender.

  Come daybreak, the train was transversing the Georgia piedmont.

  “Cap’n Butler,” Mr. Bates said, “Yonder’s Stone Mountain. We’ll be in Atlanta within the hour.”

  “Unless the Federals have torn up the tracks.”

  “No sir,” Bates snorted. “Federals’ll never come within a hundred miles of Atlanta.”

  As the train was pulling into the Car Shed and the wheel brakes were still squealing, Rhett shook Mr. Bates’s free hand, slipped the fireman two bits, and swung down. One hand holding his hat, he dashed down the platform to the cab rank.

  Rhett climbed up beside the driver and gave Pittypat’s address.

  The driver eyed his grubby passenger disapprovingly. “You sure you can pay?”

  “I’m sure if you don’t set off immediately, I’ll strangle you,” Rhett replied.

  The cabbie lashed his horse into a trot.

  The fastest wasn’t fast enough.

  At Pittypat’s, Rhett hammered on the door.

  “Wait a minute! Just a blamed minute! I’m a-comin’!” After Uncle Peter opened the door, he drew back. “Cap’n Butler?” Uncle Peter was aghast. “My goodness, what you been gettin’ up to?”

  In the parlor, Pittypat put down her mending. “Oh dear, Captain Butler! Have you been in a fire? Your clothes … And you always wear such beautiful clothes. Is that your hat? Bless your heart! Wouldn’t you like to wash your hands? Peter, fetch a basin and pitche
r!”

  “Miss Pittypat, you are too kind.” Rhett set his carpetbag down and opened it. “Please, you’ll have to take it out. Yes, the small parcel. That’s it. My hands …”

  As Pittypat unwrapped a rectangle of exquisite Belgian lace, Rhett said, “The instant I saw it, I said, ‘Won’t this make Miss Pittypat a lovely collar?’”

  “Oh, Captain Butler. How can I ever thank you?”

  “I deserve no thanks, Miss Pitty, for adorning a lady who needs no adornment at all.”

  “You’re talking blarney,” Scarlett sniffed as she came into the room. “Captain Butler, have you quit bathing?”

  Pittypat fled with her gift.

  Rhett had cinders in his hair and his face was streaked with soot. His clothes had been drenched with seawater, dried into shapelessness, and scorched with hot cinders. His shirt cuffs were ripped, his fingernails broken, and the hat in his hands was a felt rag. Scarlett stalked around him like an offended cat.

  “I was so eager to see you, my dear,” Rhett said, “I didn’t tarry. …”

  “Eager to see me? Why on earth would you be eager to see me? Dear me, I certainly hope I haven’t encouraged you. Captain Butler, mightn’t you have washed before calling on a lady?”

  Uncle Peter brought in pitcher, basin, lye soap, and a threadbare towel. As Rhett bent to wash his face, Scarlett continued mercilessly: “How long have you neglected us? Did we see you in May? July?” Her laugh was light and careless. “No matter, I suppose. How time flies.”

  Rhett toweled his face. “I was trying to resist your fatal charms.”

  “Lord love us,” Scarlett snorted. “What a creature is the smooth-talkin’ man. Do go on, Captain Butler. That nonsense about my ‘fatal charms,’ I rather liked that.”

  When Rhett handed Uncle Peter the soot-blackened towel, Peter took it out at arm’s length.

  Rhett had sought a new beginning. He’d wanted to tell Scarlett about little Meg, about Will, the trunk master, about the yellow scarf. He’d wanted to tell Scarlett he loved her.

  He couldn’t talk. In Pittypat’s parlor, unable to sit down lest he soil the furniture, unable to touch lest he smudge something, silently Rhett Butler gave Scarlett O’Hara his lover’s gift—a dirty parcel wrapped in filthy butcher’s paper.

  “What’s this?” Scarlett unwrapped it. She gave the yellow silk scarf a cursory glance before draping it carelessly over a chair. “Thank you so much, Captain Butler. You are too kind.”

  Suddenly, Rhett Butler was choking with rage. He swallowed the knot in his throat and said coldly, “Oh, it’s nothing—a gewgaw, the smallest token of my admiration for a lady who is as beautiful as she is kind.”

  After Rhett left Pittypat’s, he walked the streets until his temper cooled and he found himself outside Belmont’s, Atlanta’s finest jeweler.

  In this third year of the war, Mr. Belmont had repurchased so much jewelry and sold so little, he’d considered closing his doors. When Rhett Butler asked to see Mr. Belmont’s finest cameo brooch, Mr. Belmont practically skipped to his vault.

  As always, Belle’s Cyprians made over Rhett. “But you are so filthy, cher.” Minette giggled. “Let me scrub your back, no?”

  Hélène laid a horse blanket over the settee so Rhett could sit while Minette poured his champagne. Minette told Eloise to fetch hot water upstairs for Rhett’s bath.

  “Why can’t Hélène do it?”

  “Because you have strong, fat arms.”

  When Rhett inquired about Lisa, Minette dismissed the girl with a shrug. “Lisa took Captain Busy’s advice and left our Chapeau Rouge for a … a sporting house. Lisa is no courtesan!” Minette leaned forward conspiratorially. “Captain Busy is gone from Atlanta. Captain Busy was distressed at his transfer. He blames you.” She winked.

  Rhett had a second glass before he went upstairs to bathe and shave.

  That evening, Rhett took Belle Watling to dine at the Atlanta Hotel and over brandy afterward, he gave her the cameo.

  “Oh Rhett! It’s too fine! It’s … You’ve always been good to me! You know I—”

  He silenced Belle with a “Hush” and a smile.

  “Rhett, why are you givin’ me this? It’s too grand for a woman like me.”

  He reached across the table to tilt her chin. “Because, dear Belle, I cannot give you a yellow silk scarf.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Fox on the Run

  In the first year of the War, the Light Horse became Ravanel’s Brigade in General Bragg’s Army of Tennessee. The brigade raided behind Federal lines in Kentucky and Tennessee, ambushing Federal contingents, smashing supply trains, burning railroad bridges, and blowing railroad tunnels.

  Loyalties in Border States were divided, and if some ladies spat at the Rebels when they rode by, others were eager to prove their devotion to the Cause in person, to the dashing young Colonel who embodied that cause.

  Andrew Ravanel loved these ladies but never could remember their names.

  While their Colonel was being entertained, Andrew’s scout and his banjo picker would sleep in the stable, on the front porch, once in a broken-down carriage, and once, shivering, in a corncrib with lattice walls.

  “She do squall,” Cassius had remarked.

  “Like a cat in heat,” Jamie Fisher replied. “I wish I had another blanket.”

  “Don’t believe I’ll ever be warm again,” Cassius said. “Damn! What the Colonel doin’ to that gal?”

  “I hate to imagine.” Jamie lay curled, warming his hands between his thighs.

  “How come you never get yourself a gal, Master Jamie? I mean, I seen some of them ladies lookin’ at you.” Cassius raised his head from his pallet. “Might be you could find yourself a gal wasn’t so noisy.”

  “Listen! Do you hear horses approaching?” Jamie took his revolver and strode into the moonlight.

  In the glory days, their Federal foes were conscripts on their first horses and many of those horses had recently pulled plows. Federal commanders quarreled and postured like fighting cocks and the Confederates’ awful rebel yells terrified many an incompetent federal commander to surrender without firing a shot.

  Jamie Fisher was a tireless horseman with a keen eye for topography; he knew instinctively where the brigade should bivouac, which roads could be impassable in wet weather, when and where pickets should be stationed, when a ford was good and when, despite un-riffled water and what seemed a hard gravel bottom, a crossing should not be attempted.

  One night, as the scout and banjo picker lay in the loft of another patriotic lady’s horse barn, Cassius confided that he’d once jumped the broomstick with a girl, Desdemona, just a slip of a thing. Cassius told Jamie, “When Master Huger sold my wife away, I bawl just like a baby.”

  At the Cynthiania skirmish, Federal cavalry killed Captain Henry Kershaw and very nearly captured Colonel Ravanel. Major Wilkes, the brigade’s Georgia adjutant, criticized Colonel Ravanel for his failure to post pickets and for ill treatment of Federal prisoners captured after the brigade retook the town.

  Ravanel’s men took Major Wilkes’s criticisms badly and the brigade’s officers sneered that Wilkes was an “overly sentimental rustic aristocrat.” When Wilkes left the brigade, Jamie Fisher accompanied him to the depot. Although Jamie hadn’t spoken out as Wilkes had, Andrew’s actions had distressed him, too. “The war has cost the Colonel too many friends,” Jamie told Wilkes.

  Ashley Wilkes shook his head no. Inadequate justification.

  “Andrew is a good man,” Jamie said. “Everybody loves him.”

  “Sometimes those who are easiest to love,” Wilkes replied, “are hardest to respect.”

  Reputation often lags behind deeds, and Andrew Ravanel’s fame grew even as his veterans wore out horses trying to replicate early, easier triumphs. They took risks they wouldn’t have a year before.

  The Army of Tennessee’s commander, Major General Braxton Bragg, was a crook-backed, bearded martinet whose dark eyebrows collided over hi
s nose. Bragg had a bad stomach, bad nerves, and such painful boils, he could not sit his saddle. General Bragg was evidence for the theory that bad luck finds those who deserve it.

  Bragg decided to send Colonel Ravanel to Atlanta and Charleston, where patriotic citizens were eager to applaud the Confederate hero. Bragg cautioned Andrew, “Sir, you must never forget you are my personal emissary; you are representing Braxton Bragg!”

  As they left headquarters, Jamie said, “Dear God, Andrew. Bragg’s personal emissary—ain’t you proud?” When Jamie broke up laughing, Andrew swatted him.

  Jamie helped Andrew pack and gave him a new hat to replace the one the Federals had ruined at Cynthiania. “You’ll want a feather,” Jamie said. “For the ladies.”

  Andrew clasped his brother-in-law’s shoulders. “I need no feather, Jamie. You are the feather in my cap.”

  “Give my love to dear Sister Charlotte,” Jamie said happily.

  Colonel Ravanel’s men followed their leader’s progress with great interest.

  An Atlanta corporal’s sister wrote, “Colonel Ravanel and his nigger banjo player came courting Charles Hamilton’s widow, but she run him off. Everybody’s laughing about it.” His troopers were pleased their Colonel was up to his old tricks but were glad he’d been rebuffed. Some hadn’t seen their wives or sweethearts since the previous spring.

  The Colonel’s assignation with Mrs. Haynes prompted rough jokes.

  The color sergeant guffawed. “Two hours together not enough? Don’t take me ten minutes.”