LITMIR.BIZ

      “Ashley, you have not favored us with your opinion,” said Jim Tarleton, turning from the group of shouting men. There was no one there so handsome, thought Scarlett. Even the older men stopped to listen to his words.

      “Why, gentlemen, if Georgia fights, I’ll go with her. Why else would I have joined the Troop?” he said. “But, like Father, I hope the Yankees will let us go in peace and that there will be no fighting.”

      Of all the group there was only one who seemed calm. Scarlett’s eyes turned to Rhett Butler, who leaned against a tree, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. He stood alone and had uttered no word as the conversation grew hotter. There was contempt in his black eyes – contempt, as if he listened to the braggings of children. He listened quietly until Stuart Tarleton repeated: “Why, we could lick them in a month! A month – why, one battle —”

      “Gentlemen,” said Rhett Butler, not moving from his position against the tree or taking his hands from his pockets, “may I say a word?”

      The group turned toward him.

      “Has any one of you gentlemen ever thought that there’s not a cannon factory south of the Mason-Dixon Line? Or how few iron foundries there are in the South? Or woolen mills or cotton factories? Have you thought that we would not have a single warship and that the Yankee fleet could bottle up our harbors in a week, so that we could not sell our cotton abroad?”

      “The trouble with most of us Southerners,” continued Rhett Butler, “is that we either don’t travel enough or we don’t profit enough by our travels. Now, of course, all you gentlemen are well traveled. But what have you seen? You’ve seen the hotels and the museums and the balls and the gambling houses. And you’ve come home believing that there’s no place like the South. As for me, I was Charleston born, but I have spent the last few years in the North. I have seen many things that you all have not seen. The thousands of immigrants who’d be glad to fight for the Yankees for food and a few dollars, the factories, the foundries, the shipyards, the iron and coal mines – all the things we haven’t got. Why, all we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. They’d lick us in a month.”

      For a tense moment, there was silence.

      “Sir,” said Stuart Tarleton heavily, “what do you mean?”

      Rhett looked at him with polite but mocking eyes.

      “I mean,” he answered, “what Napoleon – perhaps you’ve heard of him? – remarked once, ‘God is on the side of the strongest battalion!’” and, turning to John Wilkes, he said with courtesy: “You promised to show me your library, sir. I fear I must go back to Jonesboro early this afternoon where a bit of business calls me.”

      He faced the crowd, clicked his heels together and bowed like a dancing master. Then he walked across the lawn with John Wilkes, his black head in the air, and the sound of his laughter floated back to the group.

      There was a startled silence and then the buzzing broke out again.

      Ashley went over to where Scarlett and Charles sat, a thoughtful and amused smile on his face.

      “Arrogant devil, isn’t he?” he observed, looking after Butler. “He looks like one of the Borgias[21].”

      Scarlett thought quickly but could remember no family in the County or Atlanta or Savannah by that name.

      “I don’t know them. Is he kin to them? Who are they?”

      An odd look came over Charles’ face, shame struggling with love. Love triumphed as he realized that it was enough for a girl to be sweet and beautiful, without having an education and he made swift answer: “The Borgias were Italians.”

      “Oh,” said Scarlett, losing interest, “foreigners.”

      She turned her prettiest smile on Ashley, but for some reason he was not looking at her. He was looking at Charles, and there was understanding in his face and a little pity.