The siege went on through the hot days of July, thundering days following nights of
sullen, ominous stillness, and the town began to adjust itself. It was as though, the worst having happened, they had nothing more to fear. They had feared a siege and now they had a siege and, after all, it wasn't so bad. Life could and did go on almost as usual. They knew they were sitting on a volcano, but until that volcano erupted there was nothing they could do. So why worry now?
And probably it wouldn't erupt anyway. Just look how General Hood is holding the Yankees out of the city! And see how the cavalry is holding the railroad to Macon! Sherman will never take it!
But for all their apparent insouciance in the face of falling shells and shorter rations, for all their ignoring the Yankees, barely half a mile away, and for all their boundless confidence in the ragged line of gray men in the rifle pits, there pulsed, just below the skin of Atlanta, a wild uncertainty over what the next day would bring. Suspense, worry, sorrow, hunger and the torment of rising, falling, rising hope was wearing that skin thin.
Gradually, Scarlett drew courage from the brave faces of her friends and from the
merciful adjustment which nature makes when what cannot be cured must be endured. To be
sure, she still jumped at the sound of explosions but she did not run screaming to burrow her head under Melanie's pillow. She could now gulp and say weakly: "That was close, wasn't it?"
She was less frightened also because life had taken on the quality of a dream, a dream too terrible to be real. It wasn't possible that she, Scarlett O'Hara, should be in such a predicament, with the danger of death about her every hour, every minute. It wasn't possible that the quiet tenor of life could have changed so completely in so short a time.
It was unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned so tenderly blue could be profaned with cannon smoke that hung over the town like low thunder clouds, that warm
noontides filled with the piercing sweetness of massed honeysuckle and climbing roses could be
so fearful, as shells screamed into the streets, bursting like the crack of doom, throwing iron splinters hundreds of yards, blowing people and animals to bits.
Quiet, drowsy afternoon siestas had ceased to be, for though the clamor of battle might
lull from time to time, Peachtree Street was alive, and noisy at all hours, cannon and ambulances rumbling by, wounded stumbling in from the rifle pits, regiments hurrying past at double-quick, ordered from the ditches on one side of town to the defense of some hard-pressed earthworks on the other, and couriers dashing headlong down the street toward headquarters as though the fate of the Confederacy hung on them.
The hot nights brought a measure of quiet but it was a sinister quiet. When the night was still, it was too still--as though the tree frogs, katydids and sleepy mockingbirds were too frightened to raise their voices in the usual summer-night chorus. Now and again, the quiet was broken sharply by the crack-cracking of musket fire in the last line of defenses.
Often in the late night hours, when the lamps were out and Melanie asleep and deathly
silence pressed over the town, Scarlett, lying awake, heard the latch of the front gate click and soft urgent tappings on the front door.
Always, faceless soldiers stood on the dark porch and from the darkness many different
voices spoke to her. Sometimes a cultured voice came from the shadows: "Madam, my abject apologies for disturbing you, but could I have water for myself and my horse?" Sometimes it was the hard burring of a mountain voice, sometimes the odd nasals of the flat Wiregrass country to the far south, occasionally the lulling drawl of the Coast that caught at her heart, reminding her of Ellen's voice.
"Missy, I got a pardner here who I wuz aimin' ter git ter the horsepittle but looks like he ain't goin' ter last that fer. Kin you take him in?"
"Lady, I shore could do with some vittles. I'd shore relish a corn pone if it didn't deprive you none."
"Madam, forgive my intrusion but--could I spend the night on your porch? I saw the roses and smelled the honeysuckle and it was so much like home that I was emboldened--"
No, these nights were not real! They were a nightmare and the men were part of that
nightmare, men without bodies or faces, only tired voices speaking to her from the warm dark.
Draw water, serve food, lay pillows on the front porch, bind wounds, hold the dirty heads of the dying. No, this could not be happening to her!
Once, late in July, it was Uncle Henry Hamilton who came tapping in the night. Uncle
Henry was minus his umbrella and carpetbag now, and his fat stomach as well. The skin of his pink fat face hung down in loose folds like the dewlaps of a bulldog and his long white hair was indescribably dirty. He was almost barefoot, crawling with lice, and he was hungry, but his irascible spirit was unimpaired.