When at last they reached the town square and the tall white cupola of the city hall loomed up, she made her thanks, climbed down from the wagon and watched the country woman drive off. Looking around carefully to see that she was not observed, she pinched her cheeks to give them color and bit her lips until they stung to make them red. She adjusted the bonnet and smoothed back her hair and looked about the square. The two-story red-brick city hall had survived the burning of the city. But it looked forlorn and unkempt under the gray sky. Surrounding the building completely and covering the square of land of which it was the center were row after row of army huts, dingy and mud splashed. Yankee soldiers loitered everywhere and Scarlett looked at them uncertainly, some of her courage deserting her. How would she go about finding Rhett in this enemy camp?
She looked down the street toward the firehouse and saw that the wide arched doors were closed and heavily barred and two sentries passed and repassed on each side of the building. Rhett was in there. But what should she say to the Yankee soldiers? And what would they say to her? She squared her shoulders. If she hadn’t been afraid to kill one Yankee, she shouldn’t fear merely talking to another.
She picked her way precariously across the stepping stones of the muddy street and walked forward until a sentry, his blue overcoat buttoned high against the wind, stopped her.
“What is it, Ma’m?” His voice had a strange mid-Western twang but it was polite and respectful.
“I want to see a man in there—he is a prisoner.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the sentry, scratching his head. “They are mighty particular about visitors and—” He stopped and peered into her face sharply. “Lord, lady! Don’t you cry! You go over to post headquarters and ask the officers. They’ll let you see him, I bet.”
Scarlett, who had no intention of crying, beamed at him. He turned to another sentry who was slowly pacing his beat: “Yee-ah, Bill. Come’eer.”
The second sentry, a large man muffled in a blue overcoat from which villainous black whiskers burst, came through the mud toward them.
“You take this lady to headquarters.”
Scarlett thanked him and followed the sentry.
“Mind you don’t turn your ankle on those stepping stones,” said the soldier, taking her arm. “And you’d better hist up your skirts a little to keep them out of the mud.”
The voice issuing from the whiskers had the same nasal twang but was kind and pleasant and his hand was firm and respectful. Why, Yankees weren’t bad at all!
“It’s a mighty cold day for a lady to be out in,” said her escort. “Have you come a fer piece?”
“Oh, yes, from clear across the other side of town,” she said, warming to the kindness in his voice.
“This ain’t no weather for a lady to be out in,” said the soldier reprovingly, “with all this la grippe in the air. Here’s Post Command, lady— What’s the matter?”
“This house—this house is your headquarters?” Scarlett looked up at the lovely old dwelling facing on the square and could have cried. She had been to so many parties in this house during the war. It had been a gay beautiful place and now—there was a large United States flag floating over it.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing—only—only—I used to know the people who lived here.”
“Well, that’s too bad. I guess they wouldn’t know it themselves if they saw it, for it shore is torn up on the inside. Now, you go on in, Ma’m, and ask for the captain.”
She went up the steps, caressing the broken white banisters, and pushed open the front door. The hall was dark and as cold as a vault and a shivering sentry was leaning against the closed folding doors of what had been, in better days, the dining room.
“I want to see the captain,” she said.
He pulled back the doors and she entered the room, her heart beating rapidly, her face flushing with embarrassment and excitement. There was a close stuffy smell in the room, compounded of the smoking fire, tobacco fames, leather, damp woolen uniforms and unwashed bodies. She had a confused impression of bare walls with torn wallpaper, rows of blue overcoats and slouch hats hung on nails, a roaring fire, a long table covered with papers and a group of officers in blue uniforms with brass buttons.
She gulped once and found her voice. She mustn’t let these Yankees know she was afraid. She must look and be her prettiest and most unconcerned self. “The captain?”
“I’m one captain,” said a fat man whose tunic was unbuttoned.
“I want to see a prisoner, Captain Rhett Butler.”
“Butler again? He’s popular, that man,” laughed the captain, taking a chewed cigar from his mouth. “You a relative, Ma’m?”
“Yes—his—his sister.”
He laughed again.
“He’s got a lot of sisters, one of them here yesterday.”
Scarlett flushed. One of those creatures Rhett consorted with, probably that Watling woman. And these Yankees thought she was another one. It was unendurable. Not even for Tara would she stay here another minute and be insulted. She turned to the door and reached angrily for the knob but another officer was by her side quickly. He was clean shaven and young and had merry, kind eyes.
“Just a minute, Ma’m. Won’t you sit down here by the fire where it’s warm? I’ll go see what I can do about it. What is your name? He refused to see the—lady who called yesterday.”