Yes, she was sick of the hospital, the foul smells, the lice, the aching, unwashed bodies. If there had ever been any novelty and romance about nursing, that had worn off a year ago.Besides, these men wounded in the retreat were not so attractive as the earlier ones had been.They didn't show the slightest interest in her and they had very little to say beyond:“How's the fightin'goin'?What's Old Joe doin’now?Mighty clever fellow, Old Joe.”She didn't think Old Joe a mighty clever fellow.All he had done was let the Yankees penetrate eighty-eight miles into Georgia.No, they were not an attractive lot.Moreover, many of them were dying, dying swiftly, silently, having little strength left to combat the blood poisoning, gangrene, typhoid and pneumonia which had set in before they could reach Atlanta and a doctor.
The day was hot and the flies came in the open window in swarms, fat lazy flies that broke the spirits of the men as pain could not. The tide of smells and pain rose and rose about her.Perspiration soaked through her freshly starched dress as she followed Dr.Meade about, a basin in her hand.
Oh, the nausea of standing by the doctor, trying not to vomit when his bright knife cut into mortifying flesh!And oh, the horror of hearing the screams from the operating ward where amputations were going on!And the sick, helpless sense of pity at the sight of tense, white faces of mangled men waiting for the doctor to get to them, men whose ears were filled with screams, men waiting for the dreadful words:“I'm sorry, my boy, but that hand will have to come off. Yes, yes, I know;but look, see those red streaks?It'll have to come off.”
Chloroform was so scarce now it was used only for the worst amputations and opium was a precious thing, used only to ease the dying out of life, not the living out of pain. There was no quinine and no iodine at all.Yes, Scarlett was sick of it all, and that morning she wished that she, like Melanie, had the excuse of pregnancy to offer.That was about the only excuse that was socially acceptable for not nursing these days.
When noon came, she put off her apron and sneaked away from the hospital while Mrs. Merriwether was busy writing a letter for a gangling, illiterate mountaineer.Scarlett felt that she could stand it no longer.It was an imposition on her and she knew that when the wounded came in on the noontrain there would be enough work to keep her busy until nightfall—and probably without anything to eat.
She went hastily up the two short blocks to Peachtree Street, breathing the unfouled air in as deep gulps as her tightly laced corset would permit. She was standing on the corner, uncertain as to what she would do next, ashamed to go home to Aunt Pitty's but determined not to go back to the hospital, when Rhett Butler drove by.
“You look like the ragpicker's child,”he observed, his eyes taking in the mended lavender calico, streaked with perspiration and splotched here and there with water which had slopped from the basin. Scarlett was furious with embarrassment and indignation.Why did he always notice women's clothing and why was he so rude as to remark upon her present untidiness?
“I don't want to hear a word out of you. You get out and help me in and drive me somewhere where nobody will see me.I won't go back to the hospital if they hang me!My goodness, I didn't start this war and I don't see any reason why I should be worked to death and—”
“A traitor to Our Glorious Cause!”
“The pot's calling the kettle black. You help me in.I don't care where you were going.You're going to take me riding now.”
He swung himself out of the carriage to the ground and she suddenly thought how nice it was to see a man who was whole, who was not minus eyes or limbs, or white with pain or yellow with malaria, and who looked well fed and healthy. He was so well dressed too.His coat and trousers were actually of the same material and they fitted him, instead of hanging in folds or being almost too tight for movement.And they were new, not ragged, with dirty bare flesh and hairy legs showing through.He looked as if he had not a care in the world and that in itself was startling these days, when other men wore such worried, preoccupied, grim looks.His brown face was bland and his mouth, red lipped, clear cut as a woman's, frankly sensual, smiled carelessly as he lifted her into the carriage.
The muscles of his big body rippled against his well-tailored clothes, as he got in beside her, and, as always, the sense of his great physical power struck her like a blow. She watched the swell of his powerful shoulders against thecloth with a fascination that was disturbing, a little frightening.His body seemed so tough and hard, as tough and hard as his keen mind.His was such an easy, graceful strength, lazy as a panther stretching in the sun, alert as a panther to spring and strike.
“You little fraud,”he said, clucking to the horse.“You dance all night with the soldiers and give them roses and ribbons and tell them how you'd die for the Cause, and when it comes to bandaging a few wounds and picking off a few lice, you decamp hastily.”
“Can't you talk about something else and drive faster?It would be just my luck for Grandpa Merriwether to come out of his store and see me and tell old lady—I mean, Mrs. Merriwether.”
He touched up the mare with the whip and she trotted briskly across Five Points and across the railroad tracks that cut the town in two. The train bearing the wounded had already come in and the litter bearers were working swiftly in the hot sun, transferring wounded into ambulances and covered ordnance wagons.Scarlett had no qualm of conscience as she watched them but only a feeling of vast relief that she had made her escape.
“I'm just sick and tired of that old hospital,”she said, settling her billowing skirts and tying her bonnet bow more firmly under her chin.“And every day more and more wounded come in. It's all General Johnston's fault.If he'd just stood up to the Yankees at Dalton, they'd have—”