But his grandson, Mr. T. Watling of New Orleans, detected this movement, retrieved the old man’s offering, and, as Watling 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.”
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 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.
As late-afternoon shadows passed through the room and wind rustled the elm tree outside the window, Scarlett woke in Rhett’s arms.
Tara, Scarlett thought. She would have wept, but she’d wept herself dry.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes so hard, she saw stars. “Fiddle-dee-dee!” Scarlett O’Hara Butler informed the world.
Rhett muttered sleepily and she smoothed the hair off his forehead and kissed his lips. “I’d better see to the children,” Scarlett said. “There’ll be coffee when you come down.”
Mammy and Ella were on the back stoop stringing beans. Pitty, Wade, and Uncle Peter were in the garden.
“We pickin’ ’em ’fore they’re by,” Mammy said. Her old fingers flew. “Mr. Rhett all right?”
“I believe he is. I was trying to remember, Mammy; when did you come to Tara?”
“Goodness, child. I come with your Momma when she was married.”
“Did you know Philippe Robillard?”
Mammy’s lips set themselves in a familiar stubborn line.
“Mammy, they’re all dead. The truth can’t hurt anyone now.”
“Honey, you ain’t lived so long as I have. Truth can hurt whenever it’s told.” Grudgingly, Mammy admitted, “I never cared for Master Philippe. He was a reckless man.”
“Like Rhett?”
“Mr. Rhett? Reckless?” Mammy’s ample flesh shook with laughter. “Mr. Rhett never reckless with people he loves.”
Everything had changed. Everything Scarlett had willed, everything she had once wished for—utterly changed.
Could she, like Ashley, re-create a version of what life had been before the War? Bountiful azaleas and wisteria artfully draped over ruins? Scarlett snorted.
She and Rhett might rebuild Tara. Or maybe they’d just travel for a time. There were a world of places Scarlett had never seen. Maybe she and Rhett would go to Yellowstone and see those Natural Wonders: hot water spouting out of the ground, regular as clockwork. Mercy!
In that mood, she greeted Rhett when he came down. “Good afternoon, darling!” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Am I your darling, then?”
“You know you are. Rhett, please don’t mock me anymore.”
His infuriating grin vanished. “Honey, never again. I promise.”
Each looked into the other’s soul. Her eyes were green; his were dark.
He said, “Life has hurt us again.”
“A worse hurt than those hurts we have already endured?”
“No,” he said. “I suppose not.”
Then Rhett Butler laughed, laughed out loud, and he scooped Scarlett up and waltzed her around the kitchen, smothering her with kisses, to Ella’s delight and Mammy’s consternation. “Mr. Rhett! Mr. Rhett, you gettin’ everything upset!”
Rhett Butler smiled that smile of his and said, “Wife, you are the most captivating woman in the world.”
Scarlett said, “Mercy, Mr. Butler. Isn’t life surprising?”
WHICH WASN’T NEARLY:
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This unusual collaboration was driven by two very different storytellers’ imaginations and the history of that thrilling and terrible period that made the United States what it is today. Like Margaret Mitchell, I have taken some liberties with history. Civil War historians will notice that I’ve attributed some of Confederate raider John Hunt Morgan’s exploits to Colonel Andrew Ravanel. General Morgan was not Andrew Ravanel and did not survive the war. Likewise, Cuban historians will set the date of General Narciso López’s assault several years earlier than I have here. Like the Bay of Pigs and the Iraq invasion, López’s invasion used good motives to conceal venial ones and, like them, failed. López was garotted in Havana and his American freebooters—excepting one man—shot. That exception asked the Spanish commander to post a letter to the still powerful Senator Daniel Webster, which he signed “Your affectionate nephew.” His successful ruse sounded like Rhett Butler to me.
I am grateful to those who helped Rhett Butler’s People:
In Georgia: Mr Paul Anderson, Mr. Hal Clarke, the Special Collections at Emory and Henry University, the Atlanta History Center, Hofwyl-Broadfield Plantation State Historic Site.
In New Orleans: Ms. Penny Tose, Mr. Henri Schindler, Mr. Arthur Carpenter of Loyola University Special Collections and Archives, Louisiana State Museum and Historical Center, Howard Tilton Memorial Library at Tulane University, Historic New Orleans Collection at the Williams Research Center.
In Charleston: Mr. Nick Butler, Dana and Peggy McBean, Dr. J. Tracy Power, Captain Randy Smith, Mr. Peter Wilkerson, Dr. Stephen Wise, The Charleston Museum, Charleston Library Society, South Carolina Historical Society, Charleston Preservation Foundation and the staffs of the Nathaniel Russell, Aiken-Rhett, and Edmondston-Alston houses.
Elsewhere: Mr. Thomas Cartwright and the Carter House Museum in Franklin Tennessee, the International Museum of the Horse at the Kentucky Horse Park, the Alderman Library at the University of Virginia, the Leybum Library at Washington and Lee University, Ms. Jennifer Enderlin at St. Martin’s Press.
And especially my beloved Anne, whose courage never flagged.
Donald McCaig, Rhett Butler's People
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