Spring plowing was at its height and the cotton and garden seed Pork had brought from Macon was being put into the ground. Pork had been almost worthless since the trip, so proud was he of returning safely with his wagon-load of dress goods, seed, fowls, hams, side meat and meal. Over and over, he told the story of, his many narrow escapes, of the bypaths and country lanes he had taken on his return to Tara, the unfrequented roads, the old trails, the bridle paths. He had been five weeks on the road, agonizing weeks for Scarlett. But she did not upbraid him on his return, for she was happy that he had made the trip successfully and pleased that he brought back so much of the money she had given him. She had a shrewd suspicion that the reason he had so much money left over was that he had not bought the fowls or most of the food. Pork would have taken shame to himself had he spent her money when there were unguarded hen coops along the road and smokehouses handy.
Now that they had a little food, everyone at Tara was busy trying to restore some semblance of naturalness to life. There was work for every pair of hands, too much work, never-ending work. The withered stalks of last year’s cotton had to be removed to make way for this year’s seeds and the balky horse, unaccustomed to the plow, dragged unwillingly through the fields. Weeds had to be pulled from the garden and the seeds planted, firewood had to be cut, a beginning had to be made toward replacing the pens and the miles and miles of fences so casually burned by the Yankees. The snares Pork set for rabbits had to be visited twice a day and the fishlines in the river rebaited. There were beds to be made and floors to be swept, food to be cooked and dishes washed, hogs and chickens to be fed and eggs gathered. The cow had to be milked and pastured near the swamp and someone had to watch her all day for fear the Yankees or Frank Kennedy’s men would return and take her. Even little Wade had his duties. Every morning he went out importantly with a basket to pick up twigs and chips to start the fires with.
It was the Fontaine boys, the first of the County men home from the war, who brought the news of the surrender. Alex, who still had boots, was walking and Tony, barefooted, was riding on the bare back of a mule. Tony always managed to get the best of things in that family. They were swarthier than ever from four years’ exposure to sun and storm, thinner, more wiry, and the wild black beards they brought back from the war made them seem like strangers.
On their way to Mimosa and eager for home, they only stopped a moment at Tara to kiss the girls and give them news of the surrender. It was all over, they said, all finished, and they did not seem to care much or want to talk about it. All they wanted to know was whether Mimosa had been burned. On the way south from Atlanta, they had passed chimney after chimney where the homes of friends had stood and it seemed almost too much to hope that their own house had been spared. They sighed with relief at the welcome news and laughed, slapping their thighs when Scarlett told them of Sally’s wild ride and how neatly she had cleared their hedge.
“She’s a spunky girl,” said Tony, “and it’s rotten luck for her, Joe getting killed. You all got any chewing tobacco, Scarlett?”
“Nothing but rabbit tobacco. Pa smokes it in a corn cob.”
“I haven’t fallen that low yet,” said Tony, “but I’ll probably come to it.”
“Is Dimity Munroe all right?” asked Alex, eagerly but a little embarrassed, and Scarlett recalled vaguely that he had been sweet on Sally’s younger sister.
“Oh, yes. She’s living with her aunt over in Fayetteville now. You know their house in Lovejoy was burned. And the rest of her folks are in Macon.”
“What he means is—has Dimity married some brave colonel in the Home Guard?” jeered Tony, and Alex turned furious eyes upon him.
“Of course, she isn’t married,” said Scarlett, amused.
“Maybe it would be better if she had,” said Alex gloomily. “How the hell—I beg your pardon, Scarlett. But how can a man ask a girl to marry him when his darkies are all freed and his, stock gone and he hasn’t got a cent in his pockets?”
“You know that wouldn’t bother Dimity,” said Scarlett. She could afford to be loyal to Dimity and say nice things about her, for Alex Fontaine had never been one of her own beaux.
“Hell’s afire— Well, I beg your pardon again. I’ll have to quit swearing or Grandma will sure tan my hide. I’m not asking any girl to marry a pauper. It mightn’t bother her but it would bother me.”
While Scarlett talked to the boys on the front porch, Melanie, Suellen and Carreen slipped silently into the house as soon as they heard the news of the surrender. After the boys had gone, cutting across the back fields of Tara toward home, Scarlett went inside and heard the girls sobbing together on the sofa in Ellen’s little office. It was all over, the bright beautiful dream they had loved and hoped for, the Cause which had taken their friends, lovers, husbands and beggared their families. The Cause they had thought could never fall had fallen forever.
But for Scarlett, there were no tears. In the first moment when she heard the news she thought: Thank God! Now the cow won’t be stolen. Now the horse is safe. Now we can take the silver out of the well and everybody can have a knife and fork. Now I won’t be afraid to drive round the country looking for something to eat.
What a relief! Never again would she start in fear at the sound of hooves. Never again would she wake in the dark nights, holding her breath to listen, wondering if it were reality or only a dream that she heard in the yard the rattle of bits, the stamping of hooves and the harsh crying of orders by the Yankees. And, best of all, Tara was safe! Now her worst nightmare would never come true. Now she would never have to stand on the lawn and see smoke billowing from the beloved house and hear the roar of flames as the roof fell in.
