What a shame Aunt Pitty had no other gloves than the ones now on her fat hands! No
woman could really feel like a lady without gloves, but Scarlett had not had a pair since she left Atlanta. And the long months of hard work at Tara had roughened her hands until they were far from pretty. Well, it couldn't be helped. She'd take Aunt Pitty's little seal muff and hide her bare hands in it Scarlett felt that it gave her the final finishing touch of elegance. No one, looking at her now, would suspect that poverty and want were standing at her shoulder.
It was so important that Rhett should not suspect. He must not think that anything but
tender feelings were driving her.
She tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house while Cookie bawled on unconcernedly
in the kitchen. She hastened down Baker Street to avoid the all seeing eyes of the neighbors and sat down on a carriage block on Ivy Street in front of a burned house, to wait for some passing carriage or wagon which would give her a ride. The sun dipped in and out from behind hurrying
clouds, lighting the street with a false brightness which had no warmth in it, and the wind fluttered the lace of her pantalets. It was colder than she had expected and she wrapped Aunt Pitty's thin cloak about her and shivered impatiently. Just as she was preparing to start walking the long way across town to the Yankee encampment, a battered wagon appeared. In it was an old woman with a lip full of snuff and a weather-beaten face under a drab sunbonnet, driving a dawdling old mule. She was going in the direction of the city hall and she grudgingly gave Scarlett a ride. But it was obvious that the dress, bonnet and muff found no favor with her.
"She thinks I'm a hussy," thought Scarlett "And perhaps she's right at that!"
When at last they reached the town square and the tall white cupola of the city hall
loomed up, she made her thanks, climbed down from the wagon and watched the country woman drive off. Looking around carefully to see that she was not observed, she pinched her cheeks to give them color and bit her lips until they stung to make them red. She adjusted the bonnet and smoothed back her hair and looked about the square. The two-story red-brick city hall had survived the burning of the city. But it looked forlorn and unkempt under the gray sky.
Surrounding the building completely and covering the square of land of which it was the center were row after row of army huts, dingy and mud splashed. Yankee soldiers loitered everywhere and Scarlett looked at them uncertainly, some of her courage deserting her. How would she go about finding Rhett in this enemy camp?
She looked down the street toward the firehouse and saw that the wide arched doors were
closed and heavily barred and two sentries passed and repassed on each side of the building.
Rhett was in there. But what should she say to the Yankee soldiers? And what would they say to her? She squared her shoulders. If she hadn't been afraid to kill one Yankee, she shouldn't fear merely talking to another.
She picked her way precariously across the stepping stones of the muddy street and
walked forward until a sentry, his blue overcoat buttoned high against the wind, stopped her.
"What is it, Ma'm?" His voice had a strange mid-Western twang but it was polite and respectful.
"I want to see a man in there--he is a prisoner."
"Well, I don't know," said the sentry, scratching his head. "They are mighty particular about visitors and--"He stopped and peered into her face sharply. "Lord, lady! Don't you cry! You go over to post headquarters and ask the officers. They'll let you see him, I bet."
Scarlett, who had no intention of crying, beamed at him. He turned to another sentry who
was slowly pacing his beat: "Yee-ah, Bill. Come'eer."
The second sentry, a large man muffled in a blue overcoat from which villainous black
whiskers burst, came through the mud toward them.
"You take this lady to headquarters."
Scarlett thanked him and followed the sentry.
"Mind you don't turn your ankle on those stepping stones," said the soldier, taking her arm. "And you'd better hist up your skirts a little to keep them out of the mud."
The voice issuing from the whiskers had the same nasal twang but was kind and pleasant
and his hand was firm and respectful. Why, Yankees weren't bad at all!
"It's a mighty cold day for a lady to be out in," said her escort. "Have you come a fer piece?"
"Oh, yes, from clear across the other side of town," she said, warming to the kindness in his voice.
"This ain't no weather for a lady to be out in," said the soldier reprovingly, "with all this la grippe in the air. Here's Post Command, lady--What's the matter?"