飘-第65章

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well；　in　order　to　protect　his　rear。　He　had　lost　a　third　of　his　men　in　that　fight　and　the　remainder　slogged　tiredly　through　the　rain　across　the　country　toward　the　Chattahoochee　River。　The　Confederates　could　expect　no　more　reinforcements；　whereas　the　railroad；　which　the　Yankees　now　held　from　Tennessee　south　to　the　battle　line；　brought　Sherman　fresh　troops　and　supplies　daily。　So　the　gray　lines　went　back　through　the　muddy　fields；　back　toward　Atlanta。
　With　the　loss　of　the　supposedly　unconquerable　position；　a　fresh　wave　of　terror　swept　the　town。　For　twenty…five　wild；　happy　days；　everyone　had　assured　everyone　else　that　this　could　not　possibly　happen。　And　now　it　had　happened！　But　surely　the　General　would　hold　the　Yankees　on　the　opposite　bank　of　the　river。　Though　God　knows　the　river　was　close　enough；　only　seven　miles　away！
　But　Sherman　flanked　them　again；　crossing　the　stream　above　them；　and　the　weary　gray　files　were　forced　to　hurry　across　the　yellow　water　and　throw　themselves　again　between　the　invaders　and　Atlanta。　They　dug　in　hastily　in　shallow　pits　to　the　north　of　the　town　in　the　valley　of　Peachtree　Creek。　Atlanta　was　in　agony　and　panic。
　Fight　and　fall　back！　Fight　and　fall　back！　And　every　retreat　was　bringing　the　Yankees　closer　to　the　town。　Peachtree　Creek　was　only　five　miles　away！　What　was　the　General　thinking　about？
　The　cries　of　“Give　us　a　man　who　will　stand　and　fight！”　penetrated　even　to　Richmond。　Richmond　knew　that　if　Atlanta　was　lost；　the　war　was　lost；　and　after　the　army　had　crossed　the　Chattahoochee；　General　Johnston　was　removed　from　command。　General　Hood；　one　of　his　corps　commanders；　took　over　the　army；　and　the　town　breathed　a　little　easier。　Hood　wouldn’t　retreat。　Not　that　tall　Kentuckian；　with　his　flowing　beard　and　flashing　eye！　He　had　the　reputation　of　a　bulldog。　He’d　drive　the　Yankees　back　from　the　creek；　yes；　back　across　the　river　and　on　up　the　road　every　step　of　the　way　back　to　Dalton。　But　the　army　cried：　“Give　us　back　Old　Joe！”　for　they　had　been　with　Old　Joe　all　the　weary　miles　from　Dalton　and　they　knew；　as　the　civilians　could　not　know；　the　odds　that　had　opposed　them。
　Sherman　did　not　wait　for　Hood　to　get　himself　in　readiness　to　attack。　On　the　day　after　the　change　in　command；　the　Yankee　general　struck　swiftly　at　the　little　town　of　Decatur；　six　miles　beyond　Atlanta；　captured　it　and　cut　the　railroad　there。　This　was　the　railroad　connecting　Atlanta　with　Augusta；　with　Charleston；　and　Wilmington　and　with　Virginia。　Sherman　had　dealt　the　Confederacy　a　crippling　blow。　The　time　had　come　for　action！　Atlanta　screamed　for　action！
　Then；　on　a　July　afternoon　of　steaming　heat；　Atlanta　had　its　wish。　General　Hood　did　more　than　stand　and　fight。　He　assaulted　the　Yankees　fiercely　at　Peachtree　Creek；　hurling　his　men　from　their　rifle　pits　against　the　blue　lines　where　Sherman’s　men　outnumbered　him　more　than　two　to　one。
　Frightened；　praying　that　Hood’s　attack　would　drive　the　Yankees　back；　everyone　listened　to　the　sound　of　booming　cannon　and　the　crackling　of　thousands　of　rifles　which；　though　five　miles　away　from　the　center　of　town；　were　so　loud　as　to　seem　almost　in　the　next　block。　They　could　hear　the　rumblings　of　the　batteries；　see　the　smoke　which　rolled　like　low…hanging　clouds　above　the　trees；　but　for　hours　no　one　knew　how　the　battle　was　going。
　By　late　afternoon　the　first　news　came；　but　it　was　uncertain；　contradictory；　frightening；　brought　as　it　was　by　men　wounded　in　the　early　hours　of　the　battle。　These　men　began　straggling　in；　singly　and　in　groups；　the　less　seriously　wounded　supporting　those　who　limped　and　staggered。　Soon　a　steady　stream　of　them　was　established；　making　their　painful　way　into　town　toward　the　hospitals；　their　faces　black　as　negroes’　from　powder　stains；　dust　and　sweat；　their　wounds　unbandaged；　blood　drying；　flies　swarming　about　them。
　Aunt　Pitty’s　was　one　of　the　first　houses　which　the　wounded　reached　as　they　struggled　in　from　the　north　of　the　town；　and　one　after　another；　they　tottered　to　the　gate；　sank　down　on　the　green　lawn　and　croaked：
　“Water！”
　All　that　burning　afternoon；　Aunt　Pitty　and　her　family；　black　and　white；　stood　in　the　sun　with　buckets　of　water　and　bandages；　ladling　drinks；　binding　wounds　until　the　bandages　gave　out　and　even　the　torn　sheets　and　towels　were　exhausted。　Aunt　Pitty　completely　forgot　that　the　sight　of　blood　always　made　her　faint　and　she　worked　until　her　little　feet　in　their　too　small　shoes　swelled　and　would　no　longer　support　her。　Even　Melanie；　now　great　with　child；　forgot　her　modesty　and　worked　feverishly　side　by　side　with　Prissy；　Cookie　and　Scarlett；　her　face　as　tense　as　any　of　the　wounded。　When　at　last　she　fainted；　there　was　no　place　to　lay　her　except　on　the　kitchen　table；　as　every　bed；　chair　and　sofa　in　the　house　was　filled　with　wounded。
　Forgotten　in　the　tumult；　little　Wade　crouched　behind　the　banisters　on　the　front　porch；　peering　out　onto　the　lawn　like　a　caged；　frightened　rabbit；　his　eyes　wide　with　terror；　sucking　his　thumb　and　hiccoughing。　Once　Scarlett　saw　him　and　cried　sharply：　“Go　play　in　the　back　yard；　Wade　Hampton！”　but　he　was　too　terrified；　too　fascinated　by　the　mad　scene　before　him　to　obey。
　The　lawn　was　covered　with　prostrate　men；　too　tired　to　walk　farther；　too　weak　from　wounds　to　move。　These　Uncle　Peter　loaded　into　the　carriage　and　drove　to　the　hospital；　making　trip　after　trip　until　the　old　horse　was　lathered。　Mrs。　Meade　and　Mrs。　Merriwether　sent　their　carriages　and　they；　too；　drove　off；　springs　sagging　beneath　the　weight　of　the　wounded。
　Later；　in　the　long；　hot　summer　twilight；　the　ambulances　came　rumbling　down　the　road　from　the　battle　field　and　commissary　wagons；　covered　with　muddy　canvas。　Then　farm　wagons；　ox　carts　and　even　private　carriages　commandeered　by　the　medical　corps。　They　passed　Aunt　Pitty’s　house；　jolting　over　the　bumpy　road；　packed　with　wounded　and　dying　men；　dripping　blood　into　the　red　dust。　At　the　sight　of　the　women　with　buckets　and　dippers；　the　conveyances　halted　and　the　chorus　went　up　in　cries；　in　whispers：
　“Water！”
　Scarlett　held　wobbling　heads　that　parched　lips　might　drink；　poured　buckets　of　water　over　dusty；　feverish　bodies　and　into　open　wounds　that　the　men　might　enjoy　a　brief　moment’s　relief。　She　tiptoed　to　hand　dippers　to　ambulance　drivers　and　of　each　she　questioned；　her　heart　in　her　throat：　“What　news？　What　news？”
　From　all　came　back　the　answer：　“Don’t　know　fer　sartin；　lady。　It’s　too　soon　to　tell。”
　Night　came　and　it　was　sultry。　No　air　moved　and　the　flaring　pine　knots　the　negroes　held　made　the　air　hotter。　Dust　clogged　Scarlett’s　nostrils　and　dried　her　lips。　Her　lavender　calico　dress；　so　freshly　clean　and　starched　that　morning；　was　streaked　with　blood；　dirt　and　sweat。　This；　then；　was　what　Ashley　had　meant　when　he　wrote　that　war　was　not　glory　but　dirt　and　misery。
　Fatigue　gave　an　unreal；　nightmarish　cast　to　the　whole　scene。　It　couldn’t　be　real—or　it　was　real；　then　the　world　had　gone　mad。　If　not；　why　should　she　be　standing　here　in　Aunt　Pitty’s　peaceful　front　yard；　amid　wavering　lights；　pouring　water　over　dying　beaux？　For　so　many　of　them　were　her　beaux　and　they　tried　to　smile　when　they　saw　her。　There　were　so　many　men　jolting　down　this　dark；　dusty　road　whom　she　knew　so　well；　so　many　men　dying　here　before　her　eyes；　mosquitoes　and　gnats　swarming　their　bloody　faces；　men　with　whom　she　had　danced　and　laughed；　for　whom　she　had　played　music　and　sung　songs；　teased；　comforted　and　loved—a　little。
　She　found　Carey　Ashburn　on　the　bottom　layer　of　wounded　in　an　ox　cart；　barely　alive　from　a　bullet　wound　in　his　head。　But　she　could　not　extricate　him　without　disturbing　six　other　wounded　men；　so　she　let　him　go　on　to　the　hospital。　Later　she　heard　he　had　died　before　a　doctor　ever　saw　him　and　was　buried　somewhere；　no　one　knew　exactly。　So　many　men　had　been　buried　that　month；　in　shallow；　hastily　dug　graves　at　Oakland　Cemetery。　Melanie　felt　it　keenly　that　they　had　not　been　able　to　get　a　lock　of　Carey’s　hair　to　send　to　his　mother　in　Alabama。
　As　the　hot　night　wore　on　and　their　backs　were　aching　and　their　knees　buckling　from　weariness；　Scarlett　and　Pitty　cried　to　man　after　man：　“What　news？　What　news？”
　And　as　the　long　hours　dragged　past；　they　had　their　answer；　an　answer　that　made　them　look　whitely　into　each　other’s　eyes。
　“We’re　falling　back。”　“We’ve　got　to　fall　back。”　“They　outnumber　us　by　thousands。”　“The　Yankees　have　got　Wheeler’s　cavalry　cut　off　near　Decatur。　We　got　to　reinforce　them。”　“Our　boys　will　all　be　in　town　soon。”
　Scarlett　and　Pitty　clutched　each　other’s　arms　for　support。
　“Are—are　the　Yankees　coming？”
　“Yes’m；　they’re　comin’　all　right　but　they　ain’t　goin’　ter　git　fer；　lady。”　“Don’t　fret；　Miss；　they　can’t　take　Atlanta。”　“No；　Ma’m；　we　got　a　million　miles　of　breastworks　‘round　this　town。”　“I　heard　Old　Joe　say　it　myself：　‘I　can　hold　Atlanta　forever。’　”　“But　we　ain’t　got　Old　Joe。　We　got—”　“Shut　up；　you　fool！　Do　you　want　to　scare　the　ladies？”　“The　Yankees　will　never　take　this　place；　Ma’m。”　“Whyn’t　you　ladies　go　ter　Macon　or　somewheres　that’s　safer？　Ain’t　you　got　no　kinfolks　there？”　“The　Yankees　ain’t　goin’　ter　take　Atlanta　but　still　it　ain’t　goin’　ter　be　so　healthy　for　ladies　whilst　they’re　tryin’　it。”　“There’s　goin’　ter　be　a　powerful　lot　of　shellin’。”
　In　a　warm　steaming　rain　the　next　day；　the　defeated　army　poured　through　Atlanta　by　thousands；　exhausted　by　hunger　and　weariness；　depleted　by　seventy…six　days　of　bat…tie　and　retreat；　their　horses　starved　scarecrows；　their　cannon　and　caissons　harnessed　with　odds　and　ends　of　rope　and　strips　of　rawhide。　But　they　did　not　come　in　as　disorderly　rabble；　in　full　rout。　They　marched　in　good　order；　jaunty　for　all　their　rags；　their　torn　red　battle　flags　flying　in　the　rain。　They　had　learned　retreating　under　Old　Joe；　who　had　made　it　as　great　a　feat　of　strategy　as　advancing。　The　bearded；　shabby　files　swung　down　Peachtree　Street　to　the　tune　of　“Maryland！　My　Maryland！”　and　all　the　town　turned　out　to　cheer　them。　In　victory　or　defeat；　they　were　their　boys。
　The　state　militia　who　had　gone　out　so　short　a　time　before；　resplendent　in　new　uniforms；　could　hardly　be　distinguished　from　the　seasoned　troops；　so　dirty　and　unkempt　were　they。　There　was　a　new　look　in　their　eyes。　Three　years　of　apologizing；　of　explaining　why　they　were　not　at　the　front　was　behind　them　now。　They　had　traded　security　behind　the　lines　for　the　hardships　of　battle。　Many　of　their　number　had　traded　easy　living　for　hard　death。　They　were　veterans　now；　veterans　of　brief　service；　but　veterans　just　the　same；　and　they　had　acquitted　themselves　well。　They　searched　out　the　faces　of　friends　in　the　crowd　and　stared　at　them　proudly；　defiantly。　They　could　hold　up　their　heads　now。
　The　old　men　and　boys　of　the　Home　Guard　marched　by；　the　graybeards　almost　too　weary　to　lift　their　feet；　the　boys　wearing　the　faces　of　tired　children；　confronted　too　early　with　adult　problems。　Scarlett　caught　sight　of　Phil　Meade　and　hardly　recognized　him；　so　black　was　his　face　with　powder　and　grime；　so　taut　with　strain　and　weariness。　Uncle　Henry　went　limping　by；　hatless　in　the　rain；　his　head　stuck　through　a　hole　in　a　piece　of　old　oilcloth。　Grandpa　Merriwether　rode　in　on　a　gun　carriage；　his　bare　feet　tied　in　quilt　scraps。　But　search　though　she　might；　she　saw　no　sign　of　John　Wilkes。
　Johnston’s　veteran