“Just a minute, Ma'm, before you go,”said Gerald.“But what have you decided to do about selling us the horses for the Troop?War may break any day now and the boys want the matter settled. It's a Clayton County troop and it's Clayton County horses we want for them.But you, obstinate creature that you are, are still refusing to sell us your fine beasts.”
“Maybe there won't be any war,”Mrs. Tarleton temporized, her mind diverted completely from the Wilkeses'odd marriage habits.
“Why, Ma'm, you can't—”
“Ma,”Hetty interrupted again,“can't you and Mr. O'Hara talk about the horses at Twelve Oaks as well as here?”
“That's just it, Miss Hetty,”said Gerald,“and I won't be keeping you but one minute by the clock. We'll be getting to Twelve Oaks in a little bit, and every man there, old and young, wanting to know about the horses.Ah, but it's breaking me heart to see such a fine pretty lady as your mother so stingy with her beasts!Now, where's your patriotism, Mrs.Tarleton?Does the Confederacy mean nothing to you at all?”
“Ma,”cried small Betsy,“Randa's sitting on my dress and I'm getting all wrinkled.”
“Well, push Randa off you, Betsy, and hush. Now, listen to me, Gerald O'Hara,”she retorted, her eyes beginning to snap.“Don't you go throwing theConfederacy in my face!I reckon the Confederacy means as much to me as it does to you, me with four boys in the Troop and you with none.But my boys can take care of themselves and my horses can't.I'd gladly give the horses free of charge if I knew they were going to be ridden by boys I know, gentlemen used to thoroughbreds.No, I wouldn't hesitate a minute.But let my beauties be at the mercy of backwoodsmen and Crackers who are used to riding mules!No, sir!I’d have nightmares thinking they were being ridden with saddle galls and not groomed properly.Do you think I’d let ignorant fools ride my tender-mouthed darlings and saw their mouths to pieces and beat them till their spirits were broken?Why, I’ve got goose flesh this minute, just thinking about it!No, Mr.O’Hara, you’re mighty nice to want my horses, but you’d better go to Atlanta and buy some old plugs for your clodhoppers.They’ll never know the difference.”
“Ma, can't we please go on?”asked Camilla, joining the impatient chorus.“You know mighty well you're going to end up giving them your darlings anyhow. When Pa and the boys get through talking about the Confederacy needing them and so on, you'll cry and let them go.”
Mrs. Tarleton grinned and shook the lines.
“I'll do no such thing,”she said, touching the horses lightly with the whip. The carriage went off swiftly.
“That's a fine woman,”said Gerald, putting on his hat and taking his place beside his own carriage.“Drive on, Toby. We'll wear her down and get the horses yet.Of course, she's right.She's right.If a man's not a gentleman, he's no business on a horse.The infantry is the place for him.But more's the pity, there's not enough planters'sons in this County to make up a full troop.What did you say, Puss?”
“Pa, please ride behind us or in front of us. You kick up such a heap of dust that we're choking,”said Scarlett, who felt that she could endure conversation no longer.It distracted her from her thoughts and she was very anxious to arrange both her thoughts and her face in attractive lines before reaching Twelve Oaks.Gerald obediently put spurs to his horse and was off in a red cloud after the Tarleton carriage where he could continue his horsy conversation.
Chapter 6
They crossed the river and the carriage mounted the hill. Even beforeTwelve Oaks came into view Scarlett saw a haze of smoke hanging lazily in the tops of the tall trees and smelled the mingled savory odors of burning hickory logs and roasting pork and mutton.
The barbecue pits, which had been slowly burning since last night, would now be long troughs of rose-red embers, with the meats turning on spits above them and the juices trickling down and hissing into the coals. Scarlett knew that the fragrance carried on the faint breeze came from the grove of great oaks in the rear of the big house.John Wilkes always held his barbecues there, on the gentle slope leading down to the rose garden, a pleasant shady place and a far pleasanter place, for instance, than that used by the Calverts.Mrs.Calvert did not like barbecue food and declared that the smells remained in the house for days, so her guests always sweltered on a flat unshaded spot a quarter of a mile from the house.But John Wilkes, famed throughout the state for his hospitality, really knew how to give a barbecue.
The long trestled picnic tables, covered with the finest of the Wilkes'linen, always stood under the thickest shade, with backless benches on either side;and chairs, hassocks and cushions from the house were scattered about the glade for those who did not fancy the benches. At a distance great enough to keep the smoke away from the guests were the long pits where the meats cooked and the huge iron wash-pots from which the succulent odors of barbecue sauce and Brunswick stew floated.Mr.Wilkes always had at least a dozen darkies running back and forth with trays to serve the guests.Over behind the barns there was always another barbecue pit, where the house servants and the coachmen and maids of the guests had their own feast of hoecakes and yams and chitterlings, that dish of hog entrails so dear to negro hearts, and, in season, watermelons enough to satiate.
As the smell of crisp fresh pork came to her, Scarlett wrinkled her nose appreciatively, hoping that by the time it was cooked she would feel some appetite. As it was, she was so full of food and so tightly laced that she feared every moment she was going to belch.That would be fatal, as only old men and very old ladies could belch without fear of social disapproval.
