Gone with the Wind

“My poor innocent! Of course not. There are plenty of sturdy Union patriots who are not averse to picking up money selling goods to the Confederacy. I run my boat into New York, buy from Yankee firms, sub rosa, of course, and away I go. And when that gets a bit dangerous, I go to Nassau where these same Union patriots have brought powder and shells and hoop skirts for me. It’s more convenient than going to England. Sometimes it’s a bit difficult running it into Charleston or Wilmington-but you’d be surprised how far a little gold goes.”

“Oh, I knew Yankees were vile but I didn’t know-”

“Why quibble about the Yankees earning an honest penny selling out the Union? It won’t matter in a hundred years. The result will be the same. They know the Confederacy will be licked eventually, so why shouldn’t they cash in on it?”

“Licked-us?”

“Of course.”

“Will you please leave me-or will it be necessary for me to call my carriage and go home to get rid of you?”

“A red-hot little Rebel,” he said, with another sudden grin. He bowed and sauntered off, leaving her with her bosom heaving with impotent rage and indignation. There was disappointment burning in her that she could not quite analyze, the disappointment of a child seeing illusions crumble. How dared he take the glamor from the blockaders! And how dared he say the Confederacy would be licked! He should be shot for that-shot like a traitor. She looked about the hall at the familiar faces, so assured of success, so brave, so devoted, and somehow a cold little chill set in at her heart. Licked? These people-why, of course not! The very idea was impossible, disloyal.

“What were you two whispering about?” asked Melanie, turning to Scarlett as her customers drifted off. “I couldn’t help seeing that Mrs. Merriwether had her eye on you all the time and, dear, you know how she talks.”

“Oh, the man’s impossible-an ill-bred boor,” said Scarlett. “And as for old lady Merriwether, let her talk. I’m sick of acting like a ninny, just for her benefit.”

“Why, Scarlett!” cried Melanie, scandalized.

“Sh-sh,” said Scarlett. “Dr. Meade is going to make another announcement.”

The gathering quieted again as the doctor raised his voice, at first in thanks to the ladies who had so willingly given their jewelry.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to propose a surprise-an innovation that may shock some of you, but I ask you to remember that all this is done for the hospital and for the benefit of our boys lying there.”

Everyone edged forward, in anticipation, trying to imagine what the sedate doctor could propose that would be shocking.

“The dancing is about to begin and the first number will, of course, be a reel, followed by a waltz. The dances following, the polkas, the schottisches, the mazurkas, will be preceded by short reels. I know the gentle rivalry to lead the reels very well and so-” The doctor mopped his brow and cast a quizzical glance at the corner, where his wife sat among the chaperons. “Gentlemen, if you wish to lead a reel with the lady of your choice, you must bargain for her. I will be auctioneer and the proceeds will go to the hospital.”

Fans stopped in mid-swish and a ripple of excited murmuring ran through the hall. The chaperons’ corner was in tumult and Mrs. Meade, anxious to support her husband in an action of which she heartily disapproved, was at a disadvantage. Mrs. Elsing, Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Whiting were red with indignation. But suddenly the Home Guard gave a cheer and it was taken up by the other uniformed guests. The young girls clapped their hands and jumped excitedly.

“Don’t you think it’s-it’s just-just a little like a slave auction?” whispered Melanie, staring uncertainly at the embattled doctor who heretofore had been perfect in her eyes.

Scarlett said nothing but her eyes glittered and her heart contracted with a little pain. If only she were not a widow. If only she were Scarlett O’Hara again, out there on the floor in an apple-green dress with dark-green velvet ribbons dangling from her bosom and tuberoses in her black hair-she’d lead that reel. Yes, indeed! There’d be a dozen men battling for her and paying over money to the doctor. Oh, to have to sit here, a wallflower against her will and see Fanny or Maybelle lead the first reel as the belle of Atlanta!

Above the tumult sounded the voice of the little Zouave, his Creole accent very obvious: “Eef I may-twenty dollars for Mees Maybelle Merriwether.”

Maybelle collapsed with blushes against Fanny’s shoulder and the two girls hid their faces in each other’s necks and giggled, as other voices began calling other names, other amounts of money. Dr. Meade had begun to smile again, ignoring completely the indignant whispers that came from the Ladies’ Hospital Committee in the corner.