Chapter 18
For the first time since the war began, Atlanta could hear the sound ofbattle. In the early morning hours before the noises of the town awoke, the cannon at Kennesaw Mountain could be heard faintly, far away, a low dim booming that might have passed for summer thunder.Occasionally it was loud enough to be heard even above the rattle of traffic at noon.People tried not to listen to it, tried to talk, to laugh, to carry on their business, just as though the Yankees were not there, twenty-two miles away, but always no matter what occupied their hands, all were listening, listening, their hearts leaping suddenlya hundred times a day.Was the booming louder?Or did they only think it was louder?Would General Johnston hold them this time?Would he?
Panic lay just beneath the surface. Nerves which had been stretched tighter and tighter each.day of the retreat began to reach the breaking point.No one spoke of fears.That subject was taboo, but strained nerves found expression in loud criticism of the General.Public feeling was at fever heat.Sherman was at the very doors of Atlanta.Another retreat might bring the Confederates into the town.
Give us a general who won't retreat!Give us a man who will stand and fight!
With the far-off rumbling of cannon in their ears, the state militia,“Joe Brown's Pets,”and the Home Guard marched out of Atlanta, to defend the bridges and ferries of the Chattahoochee River at Johnston's back. It was a gray, overcast day and, as they marched through Five Points and out the Marietta road, a fine rain began to fall.The whole town had turned out to see them off and they stood, close packed, under the wooden awnings of the stores on Peachtree Street and tried to cheer.
Scarlett and Maybelle Merriwether Picard had been given permission to leave the hospital and watch the men go out, because Uncle Henry Hamilton and Grandpa Merriwether were in the Home Guard, and they stood with Mrs. Meade, pressing in the crowd, tiptoeing to get a better view.Scarlett, though filled with the universal Southern desire to believe only the pleasantest and most reassuring things about the progress of the fighting, felt cold as she watched the motley ranks go by.Surely, things must be in a desperate pass if this rabble of bombproofers, old men and little boys were being called out!To be sure there were young and ablebodied men in the passing lines, tricked out in the bright uniforms of socially select militia units, plumes waving, sashes dancing.But there were so many old men and young boys, and the sight of them made her heart contract with pity and with fear.There were graybeards older than her father trying to step jauntily along in the needle-fine rain to the rhythm of the fife and drum corps.Grandpa Merriwether, with Mrs.Merriwether's best plaid shawl laid across his shoulders to keep out the rain, was in the first rank and he saluted the girls with a grin.They waved theirhandkerchiefs and cried gay good-bys to him;but Maybelle, gripping Scarlett's arm, whispered:“Oh, the poor old darling!A real good rainstorm will just about finish him!His lumbago—”
Uncle Henry Hamilton marched in the rank behind Grandpa Merriwether, the collar of his long black coat turned, up about his ears, two Mexican War pistols in his belt and a small carpetbag in his hand. Beside him marched his black valet who was nearly as old as Uncle Henry, with an open umbrella held over them both.Shoulder to shoulder with their elders came the young boys, none of them looking over sixteen.Many of them had run away from school to join the army, and here and there were clumps of them in the cadet uniforms of military academies, the black cock feathers on their tight gray caps wet with rain, the clean white canvas straps crossing their chests sodden.Phil Meade was among them, proudly wearing his dead brother's saber and horse pistols, his hat bravely pinned up on one side.Mrs.Meade managed to smile and wave until he had passed and then she leaned her head on the back of Scarlett's shoulder for a moment as though her strength had suddenly left her.
Many of the men were totally unarmed, for the Confederacy had neither rifles nor ammunition to issue to them. These men hoped to equip themselves from killed and captured Yankees.Many carried bowie knives in their boots and bore in their hands long thick poles with ironpointed tips known as“Joe Brown pikes.”The lucky ones had old flintlock muskets slung over their shoulders and powder horns at their belts.
Johnston had lost around ten thousand men in his retreat. He needed ten thousand more fresh troops.“And this,”thought Scarlett frightened,“is what he is getting!”
As the artillery rumbled by, splashing mud into the watching crowds, a negro on a mule, riding close to a cannon caught her eye. He was a young, saddle-colored negro with a serious face, and when Scarlett saw him she cried:“It's Mose!Ashley's Mose!Whatever is he doing here?”She fought her way through the crowd to the curb and called:“Mose!Stop!”
The boy seeing her, drew rein, smiled delightedly and started to dismount. A soaking sergeant, riding behind him, called:“Stay on that mule, boy, or I'll light a fire under you!We got to git to the mountain some time.”
Uncertainly, Mose looked from the sergeant to Scarlett and she, splashing through the mud, close to the passing wheels, caught at Mose's stirrup strap.
“Oh, just a minute, Sergeant!Don't get down, Mose. What on earth are you doing here?”
“Ah's off ter de war, agin, Miss Scarlett. Dis time wid Ole Mist'John‘stead ob Mist'Ashley.”
“Mr. Wilkes!”Scarlett was stunned.Mr.Wilkes was nearly seventy.“Where is he?”
“Back wid de las'cannon, Miss Scarlett. Back dar!”
“Sorry, lady. Move on, boy!”
