Taz summoned up his boy’s dignity. “Sir, in the orphan asylum we boys said that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west for the finest gentleman and for that gentleman’s bastard alike.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Legendary Rebel Commander
From childhood, Melanie Hamilton had known that she would marry Ashley Wilkes because “The Wilkeses always marry cousins.”
Every summer, Melanie and her brother, Charles, rode the train from Atlanta to Jonesboro, where John Wilkes’s body servant, Mose, met them at the depot. Mose always had molasses candy in his pocket and always pretended that this time he’d forgotten it.
The Twelve Oaks Wilkeses were the Hamiltons’ grandest relations and Charles and Melanie arrived in their stiffest, starchiest clothing. They’d been scrubbed to a fare-thee-well. Aunt Pittypat’s injunctions (“If you let your napkin fall, don’t pick it up.” “Don’t ask to ride Cousin India’s pony. Wait until India offers.”) were unnecessary: the Hamilton orphans were overawed.
Charles enjoyed these visits; Melanie didn’t. Atlanta was a city, and despite the Wilkeses’ fine library and finer manners, Twelve Oaks was the country. All those impersonal trees amid which a child might so easily become lost, that dark muddy river in which that child might drown. And so many dreadful bugs! Honeybees and newsbees and bumblebees and yellow jackets and mud daubers and sweat bees and paper wasps and the nasty bugs that tangled themselves in Melanie’s hair, and the whining bloodsuckers trapped inside her bed netting that kept her awake half the night. Charles said that if you let them drink their fill, the spot wouldn’t itch afterward. It was horrible to watch Charles let some mosquito fill its pendulous bright red abdomen on his thin outstretched arm.
Charles started calling Twelve Oaks “the Kingdom of Bugs,” swooping and buzzing at Melanie until she didn’t know whether to giggle or cry.
Since Melanie would one day marry Ashley Wilkes, she wanted to love Twelve Oaks as Ashley loved it, but the prospect of becoming the next Mrs. Wilkes, managing that enormous house, servants, and household economy, daunted her. When Ashley’s mother died, Ashley’s sisters, India and Honey, worked awfully hard. One day, Ashley’s wife would be expected to manage everything by herself.
Melanie and Ashley would take their place at Twelve Oaks as Ashley’s parents had, and Twelve Oaks would sustain them until they made their final journey to the graveyard atop the hill behind the house.
The courting couple climbed the stone steps to that graveyard to sit beneath its canopy of aged chestnuts and elms. There they exchanged those solemn sentiments young people utter in such a place.
Melanie did love Twelve Oaks’ gardens: the magnolias, azaleas, rhododendrons, and Bourbon roses. Her happiest memories were of sitting beside Ashley beneath the wisteria, whose thick vines were as old as the manor house itself.
The couple talked about books and beauty. They discussed Mr. Scott’s Ivanhoe and Mr. Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop.
Ashley and Melanie’s courtship was so muted, others could be excused for not noticing it. They were spared those painful doubts, hesitations, half commitments, bold advances, and wounded retreats of those unfortunate lovers who do not marry cousins. One spring afternoon, Ashley asked Melanie to marry him and Melanie said yes. Ashley wore, Melanie later recalled, a rose in his buttonhole. Melanie was surprised by how thoroughly she enjoyed Ashley’s kiss.
After a year of service with his Georgia regiment, Ashley had volunteered for Ravanel’s brigade because, as Ashley wrote Melanie, “I thought it my duty.”
Melanie could not criticize her husband’s decision, but his transfer to Ravanel’s dangerous brigade gave her sleepless nights.
Not long after he joined Ravanel, Ashley regretted that decision. “Charleston gentlemen aren’t Georgia gentlemen. That the Low Country is the known universe and that Charleston is the center of the universe, they have no doubts. When I describe Twelve Oaks’ gardens, the rare roses great-grandmother brought from Virginia’s Tidewater—those same roses her great-grandmother brought from Surrey!—they tell me the roses beside the Jockey Club are the ‘prettiest in the South,’ though they can’t name the variety!”
In a postscript, Ashley added, “Colonel Ravanel is an inspiring commander, but I’d never leave him alone with my sisters!”
In the hectic, thrilling days as the South went to war, Miss Melanie Hamilton had married Mr. Ashley Wilkes, and Miss Scarlett O’Hara had married Mr. Charles Hamilton. Neither couple had time to take a breath. At first when tradesmen called Melanie “Mrs. Wilkes,” she didn’t know whom they were talking to.
Six months later, Melanie was devastated when her brother, Charles, died. Melanie had been a toddler when she and Charles were put in Aunt Pittypat’s care. Christened Sarah Jane Hamilton, the plump, childlike woman had been “Pittypat” as long as anyone could remember. Her household had been so happily disordered that “Pittypat’s” was where all the neighborhood children came to play. Melanie couldn’t remember her dead father and mother. She loved her brother, Charles, as only an orphan can love.
Melanie had been such a sickly child, she knew Atlanta’s doctors by their unique tread on the stairs. Melanie had expected to die young, but Charles was supposed to live forever!
When Charles died, the Hamiltons’ shared childhood died with him: Mose’s molasses candy, the closet under Pittypat’s stairs, which had been their secret hiding place, the silly childhood jokes, which could still fetch an adult’s reminiscent smile. “The Kingdom of Bugs” died with Charles Hamilton.
In the first year of the war, with Ashley in the army and Charles in his grave, Melanie Wilkes was desperately alone.
Getting through each long, long day, smiling at those who needed her smile, commiserating with the kind souls who’d come to commiserate with her: Melanie’s duty was her refuge.
Melanie diluted her own grief worrying about her brother’s widow, Scarlett. Melanie entirely approved when Scarlett’s mother sent the young widow to visit kinfolk in Charleston. At the station, Melanie told her sister-in-law what Melanie didn’t believe herself: that grief for Charles would one day end.
When Scarlett’s Charleston visit didn’t improve the young widow’s spirits, Melanie suggested Pittypat invite Scarlett and Baby Wade to live with them in Atlanta. Pittypat hemmed and hawed. Finally, she said, “I’m afraid Scarlett is not a quiet person, dear.”
Melanie said they had responsibilities to the woman Charles had chosen and to Charles’s infant son, Wade Hampton Hamilton. Pittypat, as she always did, gave way.
Melanie’s sister-in-law was as vibrant as Melanie was demure. Scarlett feared nothing, Melanie’s courage had never been tested. Scarlett had had a dozen eager suitors, Melanie had only been courted, and very quietly, by her cousin. Perhaps Melanie hoped some of Scarlett’s vitality would rub off on her. She very much wanted her sister-in-law to be her friend.
Not long after Scarlett arrived at her home, Pittypat’s fears were realized. Scarlett rubbed Pittypat’s dearest friends, Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing, crossways. Melanie made excuses for Scarlett and kept the peace. And Melanie loved Baby Wade. Baby Wade had Charles’s sweet, trusting eyes.
When Captain Butler started calling on the Widow Hamilton, Pittypat’s friends, who could be so kind to sick children and elderly servants, were horrified—and made their disapproval felt.
Melanie’d heard awful things about Captain Butler, and, as luck would have it, neither Pittypat nor Scarlett was home the third time Captain Butler paid a call.
Melanie thought Rhett Butler was handsome in the way a big cat is handsome. He was more muscular than most gentlemen, though his tailors had done their best to disguise that.
Captain Butler was devastated that Mrs. Hamilton wasn’t at home. He was leaving Atlanta tomorrow and his visit had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse.
“Captain Butler,” Melanie said, “you are said to be a scoundrel.”
“Why, yes.” He smiled. “I s
uppose I am.”
“Yet you are well-spoken and have a gentleman’s bearing.”
“Appearances, Mrs. Wilkes, are famously deceiving.”
“Today, you bring Paris shoes for Pittypat and an English toy for Baby Wade.”
“Mrs. Wilkes, any housebreaker worth his salt disarms the guard dogs before he rifles the family silver.”
“Men say you are a sharp trader, but honest.”
He brushed off her mild praise as if brushing crumbs off his lapel. “Businessmen flatter a thief rather than confess he outwitted them.”
“Mr. Butler?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilkes?” His broad smile was heedless of consequence.
“I am told, Captain Butler, you believe this war is a fool’s enterprise.”
His amusement vanished. “Dear lady, this war is already terrible. I fear it will become more terrible. It will destroy the South.”
She offered her small hand. “It is a pleasure to welcome you, Captain Butler. Do come in. Might I brew you a cup of tea?”
From that moment, no one but Scarlett could speak ill of Rhett Butler in Melanie’s presence.
Melanie was glad when Rhett’s sparkling gig pulled up outside Pittypat’s picket fence. In their topsy-turvy world, Rhett Butler was normalcy. His brushed-felt hat refuted the fact that fine hats were not to be had at any price; Rhett’s polished shoes denied that good shoes were unobtainable; the delicacies he brought were evidence that somewhere the world was not at war.
Sitting comfortably in their parlor, Rhett indulged Pittypat’s curiosity about the latest Paris fashions and what was worn at the Court of St. James.
Melanie had always yearned to travel and delighted to hear Rhett’s tales of New Orleans’ raucous funeral bands and the wild California gold camps. (Mugfuzzle indeed!)
Rhett and Scarlett clashed like flint and steel. It was none of Melly’s affair, but there was something so magnificent about Scarlett and Rhett separately, Melanie couldn’t help hoping they would combine. Melanie couldn’t understand why Scarlett was cold to Rhett—unless her heart was still pledged to Charles. Rhett would mock Scarlett’s coldness and leave angrily, and Scarlett would march through Pittypat’s house, opening and slamming every door.
This particular morning, Captain Butler was out of town and the three ladies of Pittypat’s household were driving to the National Hotel for the reception Dolly Merriwether had organized for Andrew Ravanel. The ladies hoped that Colonel Ravanel’s adjutant, Ashley Wilkes, might accompany him.
It was a glorious, clear, cold winter day. The ambulances creaking through the city were so commonplace, people no longer noticed them.
“Melanie! You mustn’t return those soldiers’ waves,” Aunt Pittypat said. “They may not be gentlemen.”
“They are our dear boys,” Melanie Wilkes replied, and then cried out, “Boys, we are so proud of you!”
At her impropriety, Pittypat’s aged houseman, Uncle Peter, grumbled and popped the reins. The mare picked up her pace for a moment before resuming her habitual amble.
Carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians were converging downtown. Blue bunting draped the gaslights, and Confederate flags fluttered from every window.
Pittypat said, “They say Colonel Ravanel’s banjo player accompanies him everywhere. I’m told Colonel Ravanel’s officers are jolly.”
When their carriage could get no nearer the hotel, the ladies descended and Pittypat instructed Uncle Peter to collect them no later than five o’clock.
“Yes, Miss Pitty. I be doin’ my best.”
The crowd at the Car Shed was so thick, the ladies couldn’t get through. At Scarlett’s suggestion, they crossed behind the freight depot and, ignoring Pitty’s complaints, picked their way across the tracks into the small park facing the National Hotel. From this vantage point, they couldn’t see Colonel Ravanel’s train puff into town, but they heard the welcoming shouts. A rolling barrage of huzzahs attended the hero’s progress down Pryor Street and, pulled by citizens, his carriage hove into sight while boys ran ahead shouting importantly, “Make way for Colonel Ravanel! Make way!”
“Oh dear,” Aunt Pittypat said. “I feel faint.”
Scarlett was hopping with impatience. “Do you see him? Melanie, do you see Ashley?”
“You mustn’t faint, Aunty. Scarlett, I can’t make out who is in the carriage. Please, Scarlett, you are taller than I!”
On tiptoe, Scarlett couldn’t see through the forest of men’s stovepipe hats.
“We won’t get into the reception,” Aunt Pittypat wailed. “We won’t see Ashley, and Uncle Peter will forget to fetch us and we shall have to walk home. The shoes Captain Butler brought are pinching my feet!”
“If you’d given Captain Butler your correct size, your shoes might fit,” Scarlett snapped.
“My dear! Everybody knows I have the smallest feet in the family!”
Scarlett bit her tongue and said, “Melly, aren’t there stairs around back? Can we get in that way?”
“But dear,” Pittypat protested, “those are servants’ stairs.”
Melanie said, “Take my arm, Aunt Pitty. Please, gentlemen, let three ladies pass! Thank you, sir. Sir, thank you. You are so kind.”
They hadn’t invitations, but Dolly Merriwether couldn’t welcome her friends Pittypat and Melanie while turning Scarlett away. “Why, Scarlett,” Mrs. Merriwether said with a tight smile, “I am so glad you’ve come to honor our Colonel.”
Scarlett curtsied. “Dear Mrs. Merriwether, you know how I adore our brave soldier boys.”
Mrs. Merriwether blinked like an owl.
“We hoped Ashley would be with Colonel Ravanel. Have you seen him, Dolly?” Melanie asked.
“Dear, I haven’t been able to get near the Colonel. Half Atlanta has pushed itself into our fête. What good are invitations when no one respects them?”
Scarlett pushed through the crowd. A rail-thin, whitish blond Confederate officer had his ear bent to Dr. Meade, a bearded physician who shared his community’s good opinion of himself. Andrew Ravanel turned to Scarlett with a bow. “Had I known Atlanta possessed such beautiful belles, I should have visited before.”
Searching for Ashley, Scarlett’s eyes roved beyond the guest of honor. Offhandedly, she said, “It is just as well you don’t come often, Colonel Ravanel. You’ve turned our city into Bedlam.”
“Isn’t it terrible?” His grin was innocent, a boy’s grin. “Dr. Meade, won’t you introduce us?”
Scarlett couldn’t see Ashley anywhere.
“Colonel Ravanel, Mrs. Charles Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton’s husband gave his life for the Cause.”
Melanie came to Scarlett’s side.
“So very many sacrifices …” The Colonel bent to kiss Scarlett’s hand. “And this other lovely lady is …”
“Mrs. Ashley Wilkes, Colonel. My husband, Major Wilkes, is on your staff.”
The Colonel’s smile froze in place. “Major Wilkes has returned to his regiment.”
Melanie frowned. “But he just joined you.”
“Wilkes asked to return to his Georgia regiment and I honored his request.”
“But … I knew nothing. … Colonel, the mail is so unreliable! Please, tell me: How is my husband? Is Ashley in good health? Good spirits? Has he warm clothing?”
“Wilkes was healthy enough when I last saw him.”
Melanie’s brow furrowed. “But Colonel Ravanel…”
Dr. Meade rescued the Colonel from further awkward questions. “While our soldiers suffer dreadful hardships, speculators make fortunes. I have composed a strong letter to the Gate City Guardian denouncing those who convert public shortages to private gain.” Dr. Meade paused for effect. “Colonel Ravanel, aren’t you Charlestonian by birth? You must know Rhett Butler.”
“Why, yes. His father, Langston, is in the Carolina legislature. Rhett’s the black sheep, I’m afraid.”
Melanie Wilkes said, “Captain Butler is my friend.”
Dr. Meade bowed stiffly.
“Mrs. Wilkes, I do not dispute Butler’s charm. Tell me, Colonel, do you know what army ‘Captain’ Butler is a ‘captain’ in?”
Scarlett barely heard these trivialities. She was so disappointed she could scream! She’d so hoped to see Ashley. Just a moment, one precious moment! What nonsense was Dr. Meade speaking now? Was he condescending to Rhett Butler? “Doubtless, Dr. Meade, you’ll be glad when Captain Butler returns, so you can state your patriotic views to his face.” Scarlett’s smile was deliberately insincere. “Come, Melanie, we must share the Colonel with his admirers.”
Colonel Ravanel said, “My dear Mrs. Hamilton. You mustn’t.” He placed a hand on his breast and declaimed, “If you go, the light will leave the room.”
“Colonel, it’s winter and gets dark early. If you need light, purchase a lantern.”
Melanie’s worried eyes hadn’t left the Colonel. “When I write my husband, Colonel Ravanel, might I convey your regards?”
“You needn’t trouble yourself, madam. Captain Wilkes is well aware of my regard.”
On their ride home, Aunt Pittypat prattled about how handsome the Colonel was. “What did he say to you? Melly? Scarlett? Every word! Oh dear, Melly, are those tears I see?”
That evening, Melanie was so worried about Ashley, she took a sleeping draft. Pittypat was in the kitchen soaking her blistered feet while Scarlett took sassafras tea in the parlor. Daguerreotypes elbowed one another across Aunt Pitty’s crowded mantel, prints from Godey’s Lady’s Book hung beside painted miniatures, silhouettes, and indifferent watercolors. Every precious object held a memory. “That china press belonged to Melly’s mother—it would feel so unwanted in the attic.”
Scarlett shifted seashells (collected on a Savannah beach twenty years ago) to make room for her cup. Scarlett didn’t care for sassafras tea, but she cherished her moments alone.
She closed her eyes to thank God that Ashley had left Colonel Ravanel’s brigade! The newspapers’ “legendary Confederate” was reckless with his men’s precious lives. What if she lost Ashley?