飘

　the　tall　chimneys　wrapped　in　smoke；　the　roof　crashing　in　flame。
　“I　can’t　leave　you；”　she　thought　and　her　teeth　chattered　with　fear。　“I　can’t　leave　you。　Pa　wouldn’t　leave　you。　He　told　them　they’d　have　to　burn　you　over　his　head。　Then；　they’ll　burn　you　over　my　head　for　I　can’t　leave　you　either。　You’re　all　I’ve　got　left。”
　With　the　decision；　some　of　her　fear　fell　away　and　there　remained　only　a　congealed　feeling　in　her　breast；　as　if　all　hope　and　fear　had　frozen。　As　she　stood　there；　she　heard　from　the　avenue　the　sound　of　many　horses’　feet；　the　jingle　of　bridle　bits　and　sabers　rattling　in　scabbards　and　a　harsh　voice　crying　a　command：　“Dismount！”　Swiftly　she　bent　to　the　child　beside　her　and　her　voice　was　urgent　but　oddly　gentle。
　“Turn　me　loose；　Wade；　honey！　You　run　down　the　stairs　quick　and　through　the　back　yard　toward　the　swamp。　Mammy　will　be　there　and　Aunt　Melly。　Run　quickly；　darling；　and　don’t　be　afraid。”
　At　the　change　in　her　tone；　the　boy　looked　up　and　Scarlett　was　appalled　at　the　look　in　his　eyes；　like　a　baby　rabbit　in　a　trap。
　“Oh；　Mother　of　God！”　she　prayed。　“Don’t　let　him　have　a　convulsion！　Not—not　before　the　Yankees。　They　mustn’t　know　we　are　afraid。”　And；　as　the　child　only　gripped　her　skirt　the　tighter；　she　said　clearly：　“Be　a　little　man；　Wade。　They’re　only　a　passel　of　damn　Yankees！”
　And　she　went　down　the　steps　to　meet　them。
　
　Sherman　was　marching　through　Georgia；　from　Atlanta　to　the　sea。　Behind　him　lay　the　smoking　ruins　of　Atlanta　to　which　the　torch　had　been　set　as　the　blue　army　tramped　out。　Before　him　lay　three　hundred　miles　of　territory　virtually　undefended　save　by　a　few　state　militia　and　the　old　men　and　young　boys　of　the　Home　Guard。
　Here　lay　the　fertile　state；　dotted　with　plantations；　sheltering　the　women　and　children；　the　very　old　and　the　negroes。　In　a　swath　eighty　miles　wide　the　Yankees　were　looting　and　burning。　There　were　hundreds　of　homes　in　flames；　hundreds　of　homes　resounding　with　their　footsteps。　But；　to　Scarlett；　watching　the　bluecoats　pour　into　the　front　hall；　it　was　not　a　countrywide　affair。　It　was　entirely　personal；　a　malicious　action　aimed　directly　at　her　and　hers。
　She　stood　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs；　the　baby　in　her　arms；　Wade　pressed　tightly　against　her；　his　head　hidden　in　her　skirts　as　the　Yankees　swarmed　through　the　house；　pushing　roughly　past　her　up　the　stairs；　dragging　furniture　onto　the　front　porch；　running　bayonets　and　knives　into　upholstery　and　digging　inside　for　concealed　valuables。　Upstairs　they　were　ripping　open　mattresses　and　feather　beds　until　the　air　in　the　hall　was　thick　with　feathers　that　floated　softly　down　on　her　head。　Impotent　rage　quelled　what　little　fear　was　left　in　her　heart　as　she　stood　helpless　while　they　plundered　and　stole　and　ruined。
　The　sergeant　in　charge　was　a　bow…legged；　grizzled　little　man　with　a　large　wad　of　tobacco　in　his　cheek。　He　reached　Scarlett　before　any　of　his　men　and；　spitting　freely　on　the　floor　and　her　skirts；　said　briefly：
　“Lemme　have　what　you　got　in　yore　hand；　lady。”
　She　had　forgotten　the　trinkets　she　had　intended　to　hide　and；　with　a　sneer　which　she　hoped　was　as　eloquent　as　that　pictured　on　Grandma　Robillard’s　face；　she　flung　the　articles　to　the　floor　and　almost　enjoyed　the　rapacious　scramble　that　ensued。
　“I’ll　trouble　you　for　thet　ring　and　them　earbobs。”
　Scarlett　tucked　the　baby　more　securely　under　her　arm　so　that　he　hung　face　downward；　crimson　and　screaming；　and　removed　the　garnet　earrings　which　had　been　Gerald’s　wedding　present　to　Ellen。　Then　she　stripped　off　the　large　sapphire　solitaire　which　Charles　had　given　her　as　an　engagement　ring。
　“Don’t　throw　um。　Hand　um　to　me；”　said　the　sergeant；　putting　out　his　hands。　“Them　bastards　got　enough　already。　What　else　have　you　got？”　His　eyes　went　over　her　basque　sharply。
　For　a　moment　Scarlett　went　faint；　already　feeling　rough　hands　thrusting　themselves　into　her　bosom；　fumbling　at　her　garters。
　“That　is　all；　but　I　suppose　it　is　customary　to　strip　your　victims？”
　“Oh；　I’ll　take　your　word；”　said　the　sergeant　good　naturedly；　spitting　again　as　he　turned　away。　Scarlett　righted　the　baby　and　tried　to　soothe　him；　holding　her　hand　over　the　place　on　the　diaper　where　the　wallet　was　hidden；　thanking　God　that　Melanie　had　a　baby　and　that　baby　had　a　diaper。
　Upstairs　she　could　hear　heavy　boots　trampling；　the　protesting　screech　of　furniture　pulled　across　the　floor；　the　crashing　of　china　and　mirrors；　the　curses　when　nothing　of　value　appeared。　From　the　yard　came　loud　cries：　“Head　um　off！　Don’t　let　um　get　away！”　and　the　despairing　squawks　of　the　hens　and　quacking　and　honking　of　the　ducks　and　geese。　A　pang　went　through　her　as　she　heard　an　agonized　squealing　which　was　suddenly　stilled　by　a　pistol　shot　and　she　knew　that　the　sow　was　dead。　Damn　Prissy！　She　had　run　off　and　left　her。　If　only　the　shoats　were　safe！　If　only　the　family　had　gotten　safely　to　the　swamp！　But　there　was　no　way　of　knowing。
　She　stood　quietly　in　the　hall　while　the　soldiers　boiled　about　her；　shouting　and　cursing。　Wade’s　fingers　were　in　her　skirt　in　a　terrified　grip。　She　could　feel　his　body　shaking　as　he　pressed　against　her　but　she　could　not　bring　herself　to　speak　reassuringly　to　him。　She　could　not　bring　herself　to　utter　any　word　to　the　Yankees；　either　of　pleading；　protest　or　anger。　She　could　only　thank　God　that　her　knees　still　had　the　strength　to　support　her；　that　her　neck　was　still　strong　enough　to　hold　her　head　high。　But　when　a　squad　of　bearded　men　came　lumbering　down　the　steps；　laden　with　an　assortment　of　stolen　articles　and　she　saw　Charles’　sword　in　the　hands　of　one；　she　did　cry　out。
　That　sword　was　Wade’s。　It　had　been　his　father’s　and　his　grandfather’s　sword　and　Scarlett　had　given　it　to　the　little　boy　on　his　last　birthday。　They　had　made　quite　a　ceremony　of　it　and　Melanie　had　cried；　cried　with　tears　of　pride　and　sorrowful　memory；　and　kissed　him　and　said　he　must　grow　up　to　be　a　brave　soldier　like　his　father　and　his　grandfather。　Wade　was　very　proud　of　it　and　often　climbed　upon　the　table　beneath　where　it　hung　to　pat　it。　Scarlett　could　endure　seeing　her　own　possessions　going　out　of　the　house　in　hateful　alien　hands　but　not　this—not　her　little　boy’s　pride。　Wade；　peering　from　the　protection　of　her　skirts　at　the　sound　of　her　cry；　found　speech　and　courage　in　a　mighty　sob。　Stretching　out　one　hand　he　cried：
　“Mine！”
　“You　can’t　take　that！”　said　Scarlett　swiftly；　holding　out　her　hand　too。
　“I　can’t；　hey？”　said　the　little　soldier　who　held　it；　grinning　impudently　at　her。　“Well；　I　can！　It’s　a　Rebel　sword！”
　“It’s—it’s　not。　It’s　a　Mexican　War　sword。　You　can’t　take　it。　It’s　my　little　boy’s。　It　was　his　grandfather’s！　Oh；　Captain；”　she　cried；　turning　to　the　sergeant；　“please　make　him　give　it　to　me！”
　The　sergeant；　pleased　at　his　promotion；　stepped　forward。
　“Lemme　see　thet　sword；　Bub；”　he　said。　Reluctantly；　the　little　trooper　handed　it　to　him。　“It’s　got　a　solid…gold　hilt；”　he　said。
　The　sergeant　turned　it　in　his　hand；　held　the　hilt　up　to　the　sunlight　to　read　the　engraved　inscription。
　“　‘To　Colonel　William　R。　Hamilton；’　”　he　deciphered。　“　‘From　His　Staff。　For　Gallantry。　Buena　Vista。　1847。’　”
　“Ho；　lady；”　he　said；　“I　was　at　Buena　Vista　myself。”
　“Indeed；”　said　Scarlett　icily。
　“Was　I？　Thet　was　hot　fightin’；　lemme　tell　you。　I　ain’t　seen　such　hot　fightin’　in　this　war　as　we　seen　in　thet　one。　So　this　sword　was　this　little　tyke’s　grandaddy’s？”
　“Yes。”
　“Well；　he　can　have　it；”　said　the　sergeant；　who　was　satisfied　enough　with　the　jewelry　and　trinkets　tied　up　in　his　handkerchief。
　“But　it’s　got　a　solid…gold　hilt；”　insisted　the　little　trooper。
　“We’ll　leave　her　thet　to　remember　us　by；”　grinned　the　sergeant。
　Scarlett　took　the　sword；　not　even　saying　“Thank　you。”　Why　should　she　thank　these　thieves　for　returning　her　own　property　to　her？　She　held　the　sword　against　her　while　the　little　cavalryman　argued　and　wrangled　with　the　sergeant。
　“By　God；　I’ll　give　these　damn　Rebels　something　to　remember　me　by；”　shouted　the　private　finally　when　the　sergeant；　losing　his　good　nature；　told　him　to　go　to　hell　and　not　talk　back。　The　little　man　went　charging　toward　the　back　of　the　house　and　Scarlett　breathed　more　easily。　They　had　said　nothing　about　burning　the　house。　They　hadn’t　told　her　to　leave　so　they　could　fire　it。　Perhaps—perhaps—　The　men　came　rambling　into　the　hall　from　the　upstairs　and　the　out　of　doors。
　“Anything？”　questioned　the　sergeant。
　“One　hog　and　a　few　chickens　and　ducks。”
　“Some　corn　and　a　few　yams　and　beans。　That　wildcat　we　saw　on　the　horse　must　have　given　the　alarm；　all　right。”
　“Regular　Paul　Revere；　eh？”
　“Well；　there　ain’t　much　here；　Sarge。　You　got　the　pickin’s。　Let’s　move　on　before　the　whole　country　gets　the　news　we’re　comin’。”
　“Didja　dig　under　the　smokehouse？　They　generally　buries　things　there。”
　“Ain’t　no　smokehouse。”
　“Didja　dig　in　the　nigger　cabins？”
　“Nothin’　but　cotton　in　the　cabins。　We　set　fire　to　it。”
　For　a　brief　instant　Scarlett　saw　the　long　hot　days　in　the　cotton　field；　felt　again　the　terrible　ache　in　her　back；　the　raw　bruised　flesh　of　her　shoulders。　All　for　nothing。　The　cotton　was　gone。
　“You　ain’t　got　much；　for　a　fac’；　have　you；　lady？”
　“Your