Rhett Butler's People

  When she began her transformation, Belle wrote:

  Dear Taz,

  Do you see many lords and ladies in England? Have you ever seen Queen Victoria? I would love to see the Queen and all those fancy castles.

  Minette is running the house while I try on fancy dresses and drink tea at the Kimball House. Atlanta is so up-to-date! They’ve even got an elevator!

  Say, what do you think of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe? It’s a funny old book, but I’m partial to it.

  Dear son, there have been some mighty changes in your old Ma’s life. I ain’t going to let anybody tell me who I am!

  Who knows, I might even marry somebody!

  I miss you, dear Taz!

  Your loving Ma, Ruth Belle Watling

  Rhett was out of town two weeks in three and Belle forwarded his mail to the St. Nicholas Hotel in New York City, the Spotswood in Richmond, or the St. Louis in New Orleans.

  When Rhett was in Atlanta, Belle lingered in his office, knitting while he did accounts, answered correspondence, and signed documents she didn’t pretend to understand. Having learned from Godey’s Lady’s Book about British tea customs, every afternoon at three, she brought a tray with biscuits, cups, and her new china teapot.

  Her Cyprians exchanged knowing looks.

  Lisa, the country girl who’d been Belle’s housemaid during the war, returned to the Chapeau Rouge looking for work. Lisa confessed she’d fallen on hard times, become nothing better than “a slut” and “a common drunk.” She confessed, “Miz Watling, I can’t half tell you the wickedness I got up to.” Lisa hadn’t touched a drop in six months, and Belle had always had a soft spot for the girl.

  Two days later, Rhett came downstairs and met her.

  Lisa licked her lips, “Please, Captain Butler, I ain’t that girl no more.”

  “Get out,” Rhett said.

  For fear he’d murder her, Lisa departed so precipitously that she left her belongings, which MacBeth bundled and took to the sporting house where she’d found work. Belle didn’t dare ask Rhett why he’d banished the girl. Some months later, Belle heard Lisa had been taken up by a rich Scalawag, and Belle figured things had turned out as well for little Lisa as they were going to.

  Three days after the Georgia legislature unanimously refused to ratify the Fourteenth Amendment, a telegram came for Rhett: “Father died today. Burial Friday. Please come. Rosemary.”

  “Oh Rhett, I’m sorry,” Belle said.

  “Funnily,” Rhett said, “I am, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Miss Elizabeth Kneels

  Langston Butler’s anger had defied the undertaker’s art: The poor man’s attempts to pad and pinch the corpse’s features into a pleasant expression had been defeated by the resolutely down-turned mouth, puckered lips, and frown lines no embalmer’s wax could disguise.

  Langston Butler had sought deference, obedience, and power. He’d never pleasured in the inconsequential: a heron’s awkward flight, the evanescence of riffles on a sandy beach, the astonishing softness of the underside of a woman’s arm. In his entire lifetime, Langston Butler had never once chanced being a fool.

  Tennyson’s poem echoed in Rhett’s mind: “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  St. Michael’s stained-glass windows had been taken out during Charleston’s bombardment and hadn’t been returned. Langston’s bier was in the shadows of lantern light.

  When the church doors were opened for the coffin to pass out, a lance of afternoon sunlight thrust into the sanctuary and haloed the pallbearers’ heads. These were men of Langston’s generation: Secessionists, Nullifiers, men whose abstract political theories had been refuted in blood.

  The churchyard was bounded by the high iron fence Rhett and Tecumseh had jumped; how many years ago?

  How easily he could have impaled the horse or himself on those brutal spikes. How easily he might have been thrown, maimed, or killed. Life hadn’t been worth much: a gewgaw, a trifle to be carelessly thrown away.

  Lord, Rhett thought, was I so miserable then?

  His gaze found poor troubled Rosemary. Thank God she had her baby. For a time at least, little Louis Valentine Ravanel would be all the world to her.

  Rhett had heard reports of Andrew Ravanel’s Klan activities. His sister’s husband was becoming notorious. Andrew was so angry about “betrayals,” “Southern rights,” “niggers,” “Carpetbaggers,” Rhett couldn’t talk to him.

  What had happened to the boy Andrew had been? Where had that decent, brave, romantic, melancholy boy gone to?

  After the burial, Langston’s negro mourners, Hercules and Solomon, made themselves scarce. Julian Butler stayed just long enough to relate some state-house gossip and assure Rhett that if he ever needed anything from the legislature, anything at all … Julian had lost all his hair. His skull gleamed like a newly laid egg.

  Isaiah Watling was helping Elizabeth Butler into his wagon when Rosemary interrupted. “Mother, you’ll be staying with us now. We’ve plenty of room. You can help with the baby.”

  “May I?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened as her old lips formed a smile. “May I? Why, I’d never considered I might. Rosemary,” she beseeched, “might I? I would so like to stay. I would! I’d attend vespers at St. Michael’s. Vespers is such a gentle service.”

  “Miss ’Lizabeth,” Isaiah intoned. “Ain’t we been prayin’? Ain’t we been Bible readin’ and prayin’ mornin’ and night?”

  “I suppose so,” Elizabeth said. “But God wants things to be nice. Remember what Jesus said about the lilies of the fields! St. Michael’s kneeling stools are kinder to old knees than your bare wooden floor.”

  “I’ll fashion you a kneeling stool, soon as we get home to Broughton, Miss ’Lizabeth.”

  “My mother will stay with Rosemary,” Rhett said.

  Isaiah Watling’s merciless eyes found Rhett’s.

  Elizabeth babbled happily, “Oh dear Rhett, may I stay? I’ve always loved Charleston. Do you remember when you told your father that the only difference between Charlestonians and alligators is that alligators show their teeth before they bite? Oh Rhett, you were such a renegade!” She covered her mouth to hide her giggle.

  Isaiah Watling ran his tongue around his teeth and the inside of his mouth. “I’ll be goin’, then. Miss ‘Lizabeth, I’ll pray for you long as I am able.”

  “Why, Isaiah,” Elizabeth Butler spoke as if to a remote kinsman, “bless your heart.”

  The old man set his hat squarely on his head. “Miss Rosemary,” he said, “I expect you’ll take good care of Miss ’Lizabeth. I’d be obliged to you.” Isaiah Watling’s smile was unexpectedly kind. “Mr. Rhett Butler,” he prophesied, “my day will come.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Wednesday-Night Democrats

  Three days later, just before ten in the morning, Rhett entered Chapeau Rouge’s kitchen. “Good morning, dear Belle.” He kissed her cheek and cocked his head quizzically. “What a lovely dress. It flatters your complexion. And that ribboned hair net! Even Charleston ladies aren’t so fashionable. Don’t tell me, Belle. You have a beau!”

  Belle flushed. “Don’t be a silly. Who’d want an old cow like me?”

  He took her hands and smiled the smile Belle loved. “I would, for one.” He released her. “Now, Belle, let’s have your news. What are Rufus Bullock and the Republicans up to? Have the Carpetbaggers looted the Georgia Railroad? Is Edgar Puryear lobbying for the Pennsylvania? What will the Yankees do about the Klan?”

  Belle brewed coffee and brought Rhett up-to-date. Out back, MacBeth was whistling as he curried the horses.

  Belle asked, “Was Papa at the burying?”

  “He was. With your delightful cousin Josie.”

  “Uncle Abraham’s boy.”

  “Josie Watling is a dangerous young man.”

  Belle refilled Rhett’s cup. “I haven’t seen Uncle Abraham since we was back at Mundy Hollow. Our homeplace ain’t—I me
an isn’t—five miles out of Jonesboro, but I never wanted to go back. I b’lieve Cousin Josie did some awful things in the War.”

  “I hear Josie’s in the Klan.”

  Belle shrugged, “So’s Archie Flytte, ’n’ Frank Kennedy ’n’ Mr. Ashley Wilkes. Nowadays, half Atlanta’s gentlefolk got a white robe in their closet. How’s your sister farin’?”

  “Drawn. Distracted.” Rhett stretched luxuriously. “What’s this about the Klan?”

  “MacBeth won’t drive Yankee officers home no more—no matter how drunk they is. It ain’t safe for negroes to be out at night. And t’other night, Rhett, after we closed up, I thought I heard somethin’, so I stuck my head out back, and there was riders beside the creek. Fifteen, twenty of ’em in white robes and pointy caps. They wasn’t comin’ for us, but they scared hell out of me.”

  “The Yankees won’t let armed night riders terrorize the countryside.”

  Belle went to her icebox for a bowl of eggs. “Well, Rhett honey. Despite the world’s troubles, the sun’s shining and it’s gonna be a fine day, and I’m of a mind to cook you breakfast. There’s country ham, and it won’t take five minutes to fry a mess of eggs.”

  Rhett pushed his chair back. “Sorry, Belle, I’ve business downtown. I’ve bought stock in the Farmer’s and Merchants’ Bank. I’ve got to look in on my investment.”

  “The hell you will!” Belle said, surprising both of them. “Captain Rhett Butler, you sit down at that kitchen table! Your darned business isn’t near as important as tellin’ me about your Daddy’s buryin’ ’n’ Miss Rosemary ‘n’ all the rest.”

  Ruefully, Rhett settled back. “Well, Belle, I guess I could eat something.”

  Over breakfast, they conversed as companionably as an old married couple.

  “How was Papa, then?”

  Rhett shrugged. “Unchanged. I vetoed his plan to keep Mother at Broughton. If he were a different man, I’d say he’s sweet on her.” He drank coffee. “Andrew won’t have free negroes in his home—not that volunteers would be easily found. Andrew’s ‘principles’ mean Rosemary must care for an infant, plus a senile old woman.”

  Belle softened, remembering. “Andrew was gentle, Rhett.”

  “Well, he’s a Grand Wizard now. Charleston’s grandees flatter Andrew shamelessly but never invite him to their homes.”

  “Poor Andrew.”

  Rhett crumpled his napkin beside his plate. “You care for him still?”

  “I care for the girl I was.” Belle blinked. “I hope that girl’s still inside of me some’eres. Tell me, Rhett; can you ever forgive your father for what he done?”

  “Forgive him? Dear Belle, I forgave him years ago. Only a fool doesn’t forgive. The worse fool forgets.”

  Rhett gave her his flashing grin. “Now, let me tell you about my nephew. Master Louis Valentine Ravanel. What a set of lungs that boy has ….”

  That night in her lonely bed, Belle Watling went to sleep smiling, her pillow Rhett’s compliment: “I would, for one.”

  As per their custom, on New Year’s Eve, over a glass of champagne, Belle paid Rhett his share of the profits from the sporting house. As she did every year, she reminded him why she’d named it as she had. When she pressed him to check her figures, Rhett said, “Belle, if I had to check your books, I’d find another partner.”

  That night, they both got a little tipsy.

  When Rhett was in town, the Chapeau Rouge was calmer and friendlier. Rhett worked at his desk until late afternoon; then he went out to dinner and played cards at the Girl of the Period saloon until midnight.

  As Taz’s letters came, Belle laid them on Rhett’s desk, and he returned them the next day without comment—even those where Taz complained about his bastardy.

  In the privacy of her boudoir, Belle read her novels. She didn’t care for Mr. Thackeray but enjoyed Mr. Dickens’s Oliver Twist. Belle’s eyes were wet when she closed that book. She read Mr. Hawthorne’s novels, and one bitter February afternoon after Mrs. Elsing snubbed her in the Georgia Bank, Belle told Rhett, “Now I know how poor Hester Prynne felt.”

  Rhett raised an eyebrow. “‘Hester Prynne,’ Belle?”

  March came in like a lion. The United States Congress disbanded Georgia’s legislature and the state became “Military District Number Three.” White Georgians vilified Rufus Bullock and his Republicans as traitors.

  Atlanta was restless that cold spring night. Federal sentries heard hoofbeats where no horsemen could possibly be; dogs set to howling across the city and quit as suddenly as they had begun. Small clouds scudded across the sky and smoke whipped sideways from the chimneys.

  Chapeau Rouge’s gentlemen callers were as jittery as the elm branches scratching the house. Yankee officers who usually talked too much were secretive, and normally reticent men spouted information. Minette could hardly keep them in brandy. Officers arrived, sat for a moment, then departed. Whenever someone new came in, officers surrounded him, whispering questions.

  That afternoon, a white woman had been attacked outside Shantytown, where many freed negroes lived. When she heard the dreadful news, Eloise swooned and had to be revived with smelling salts. The Cyprians were desperate for details: Had the white woman been raped? Beaten? Killed?

  In her bedroom, Belle was reading Mr. Dickens’s Bleak House while her parlor stove glowed red and the wind rattled the stovepipe against its tin collar.

  Belle was snug and happy when a ruckus erupted in the front of the house. Hastily, Belle threw on her pink robe and came into the parlor just as her callers were exiting onto the front porch and dooryard. A patrol was dismounting outside her gate.

  “Did you arrest ’em, Bob?”

  “Naw, but we kilt several. Huzzah!”

  Belle pushed onto the porch. “What on earth is going on? Think of the neighbors! Come back inside! All of you!”

  The officers ignored her. “How many’d you kill?”

  “Dunno. They dragged ’em off.”

  “How many of our boys got hit?”

  “Callahan and Schmidt. Schmidt was gut-shot.”

  “Captain Jaffery knows who they are and he’s layin’ for ’em. Captain Bateson’s got patrols out. The bastards ain’t slippin’ away this time!”

  Hot breath at Belle’s ear. “Miss Belle, you got to come. You got to come right now.” MacBeth’s scar was pale against his dark skin.

  Belle followed MacBeth through the house into the stableyard. The pungency of hard-ridden horses and the coppery stink of fresh blood made her ill.

  “I got their horses in the stable,” MacBeth whispered hoarsely. “I rub ’em down now.”

  “Wait, MacBeth!” Belle said, but MacBeth kept walking.

  The stair rail to Rhett’s office was blood-smeared, and Belle hiked her robe over spattered risers. When she pushed the office door open, frightened eyes turned to her.

  Pittypat’s brother, Henry Hamilton, dropped his head back into his hands. Hugh Elsing resumed whispering to old man Merriwether.

  Dr. Meade was probing a wound in Ashley Wilkes’s shoulder. White-lipped with pain, Melanie Wilkes’s husband lay on the daybed while, kneeling beside him, Rhett dropped one bloody cloth into a bucket and patted the wound with a clean one.

  Hugh Elsing hissed, “We wanted to teach the niggers to keep their black hands off our womenfolk.”

  Dr. Meade scrabbled through his bag for forceps. “Wilkes,” the doctor said, “this will hurt like blazes. Do you want leather to bite? You mustn’t cry out.”

  With a terse nod, Ashley refused.

  The big elm tree’s branches whisked the clapboard like a broom. Rhett looked up. “Sorry, Belle. I didn’t know where else to bring them. The Yankees were on our heels.”

  “And you?” Belle asked. “Was you with ’em, Rhett?”

  “Me? A Klansman?” He snorted. “I was playing stud tonight with two captains too drunk to keep their mouths shut. Seems they were keeping an eye on these gentlemen. Our brave Klansmen meant to ride thro
ugh Shantytown shooting any negro too slow to get out of their way. The Yankees set a trap.

  “I rode to warn them, but they were in the trap already.” Rhett shrugged. “So I sprang it before the Yankees could. Mr. Colt’s revolvers make a lovely racket. The Yankees thought I was a brigade!”

  Ashley bucked under Dr. Meade’s probe and Rhett used his whole strength to hold him down.

  Hugh Elsing persisted, “The Fourteenth Amendment gives the vote to negroes and takes it from every man who saw Confederate service. We are beneath the conqueror’s boot. …”

  Rhett flared. “If it wasn’t for your womenfolk, I’d let you all hang. What in pluperfect hell did you think you were doing?”

  Belle’s front door slammed and officers careened into the yard below the window, serenading. “Just before the battle, Mother …”

  The room got so deathly still, the plunk of the bullet into the bucket made everyone jump. Rhett stifled Ashley’s moan. Below, a Yankee stepped around the corner to pee and hummed as his water splashed the ground.

  Belle touched Rhett’s arm. “Mr. Wilkes … will he—”

  “He’ll live. Christ, what a mess! There are two dead men in the basement of the old Sullivan house. I stuffed their robes up the chimney. They called themselves ‘The Wednesday-Night Democrats.’ Clever, yes? Under that guise, they met to decide which uppity negro needed their attentions.” His face was grim. “The fools could hang for this night’s work.”

  Grandpa Merriwether’s face was so red, Belle feared he’d burst a blood vessel. “Get us horses, Butler! We can pay. We’ll run tonight. We’ll run to Texas.”

  Belle couldn’t forget how kind Mrs. Wilkes had been. She asked, “Couldn’t you just say they were here?”

  Rhett snorted. “Atlanta’s fanciest gentlemen in a sporting house?”

  “My girls … my Cyprians will swear they were here all night. They come upstairs—every Wednesday night, you said?—just a few girls. The Wednesday-Night Democrats are extremely discreet.”