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bsp;Chapter 1 8
           or the first time since the war began, Atlanta could hear the
           sound of battle. 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 oc-
cupied their hands, all were listening, listening, their hearts leaping
suddenly a 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. Pub-
lic 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 permis-
sion 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 de-
sire 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 wav-
ing, 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 a-
long 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 their handkerchiefs 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 Mer-
riwether, 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 shoul-
der 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 man-
aged 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 e-
quip 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 Scarier
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 sev-
enty. "Where is he?"
      "Back wid de las' cannon, Miss Scarlett. Back dar!"
      "Sorry, lady. Move on, boy!"
      Scarlett stood for a moment, ankle deep in mud as the guns
lurched by. "Oh, no!" she thought. "It can't be. He's too old. And he
doesn't like war any more than Ashley did!" She retreated back a few
paces toward the curb and scanned each face that passed. Then, as the
last cannon and limber chest came groaning and splashing up, she saw
him, slender, erect, his long silver hair upon his neck, riding easily
upon a little strawberry mare that picked her way as daintily through
the mud holes as a lady in a satin dress. Why -- that mare was Nellie!
Mrs. Tarleton's Nellie! Beatrice Tarleton's treasured darling!
      When he saw her standing in the mud, Mr. Wilkes drew rein with
a smile of pleasure and, dismounting, came toward her.
      "I had hoped to see you, Scarlett. I was charged with so many
messages from your people. But there was no time. We just got in this
morning and they are rushing us out immediately, as you see."
      "Oh, Mr. Wilkes," she cried desperately, holding his hand. "Don't
go! Why must you go?"