things in common, lice and dysentery. The Confederate soldier was so accustomed to his
verminous state he did not give it a thought and scratched unconcernedly even in the presence of ladies. As for dysentery--the "bloody flux" as the ladies delicately called it--it seemed to have spared no one from private to general. Four years of half-starvation, four years of rations which were coarse or green or half-putrefied, had done its work with them, and every soldier who stopped at Tara was either just recovering or was actively suffering from it.
"Dey ain' a soun' set of bowels in de whole Confedrut ahmy," observed Mammy darkly as she sweated over the fire, brewing a bitter concoction of blackberry roots which had been Ellen's sovereign remedy for such afflictions. "It's mah notion dat 'twarn't de Yankees whut beat our gempmum. Twuz dey own innards. Kain no gempmum fight wid his bowels tuhnin' ter water."
One and all, Mammy dosed them, never waiting to ask foolish questions about the state of
their organs and, one and all, they drank her doses meekly and with wry faces, remembering, perhaps, other stern black faces in far-off places and other inexorable black hands holding medicine spoons.
In the matter of "comp'ny" Mammy was equally adamant. No lice-ridden soldier should come into Tara. She marched them behind a clump of thick bushes, relieved them of their
uniforms, gave them a basin of water and strong lye soap to wash with and provided them with quilts and blankets to cover their nakedness, while she boiled their clothing in her huge wash pot.
It was useless for the girls to argue hotly that such conduct humiliated the soldiers. Mammy replied that the girls would be a sight more humiliated if they found lice upon themselves.
When the soldiers began arriving almost daily, Mammy protested against their being
allowed to use the bedrooms. Always she feared lest some louse had escaped her. Rather than argue the matter, Scarlett turned the parlor with its deep velvet rug into a dormitory. Mammy cried out equally loudly at the sacrilege of soldiers being permitted to sleep on Miss Ellen's rug but Scarlett was firm. They had to sleep somewhere. And, in the months after the surrender, the deep soft nap began to show signs of wear and finally the heavy warp and woof showed through in spots where heels had worn it and spurs dug carelessly.
Of each soldier, they asked eagerly of Ashley. Suellen, bridling, always asked news of
Mr. Kennedy. But none of the soldiers had ever heard of them nor were they inclined to talk about the missing. It was enough that they themselves were alive, and they did not care to think of the thousands in unmarked graves who would never come home.
The family tried to bolster Melanie's courage after each of these disappointments. Of
course, Ashley hadn't died in prison. Some Yankee chaplain would have written if this were true.
Of course, he was coming home but his prison was so far away. Why, goodness, it took days riding on a train to make the trip and if Ashley was walking, like these men … Why hadn't he written? Well, darling, you know what the mails are now--so uncertain and slipshod even where mail routes are re-established. But suppose--suppose he had died on the way home. Now,
Melanie, some Yankee woman would have surely written us about it! … Yankee women! Bah! …
Melly, there are some nice Yankee women. Oh, yes, there are! God couldn't make a whole
nation without having some nice women in it! Scarlett, you remember we did meet a nice Yankee woman at Saratoga that time--Scarlett, tell Melly about her!
"Nice, my foot!" replied Scarlett. "She asked me how many bloodhounds we kept to chase our darkies with! I agree with Melly. I never saw a nice Yankee, male or female. But don't cry, Melly! Ashley'll come home. It's a long walk and maybe--maybe he hasn't got any boots."
Then at the thought of Ashley barefooted, Scarlett could have cried. Let other soldiers
limp by in rags with their feet tied up in sacks and strips of carpet, but not Ashley. He should come home on a prancing horse, dressed in fine clothes and shining boots, a plume in his hat. It was the final degradation for her to think of Ashley reduced to the state of these other soldiers.
One afternoon in June when everyone at Tara was assembled on the back porch eagerly
watching Pork cut the first half-ripe watermelon of the season, they heard hooves on the gravel of the front drive. Prissy started languidly toward the front door, while those left behind argued hotly as to whether they should hide the melon or keep it for supper, should the caller at the door prove to be a soldier.
Melly and Carreen whispered that the soldier guest should have a share and Scarlett,