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| Rhett The unofficial Sequel to Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind By Stephen Wayne Hampton |
Acknowledgments: In December of 1992 I received a Christmas
present that I really wanted, a copy of "Scarlett" the sequel to Margaret
Mitchell's "Gone With The Wind." I devoured the book in forty-eight
hours. For two days and nights I slept and ate very little. Luckily I was off
from work (driving for UPS) and I drank a lot of coffee, sipped a little
bourbon, and smoked too many cigars (irritating my wife immensely) while
I lived in Alexandra Ripley's saga of my favorite fictional Characters.
When I finished the tale, at about three AM, I angrily threw the hardback
volume against the wall of my den. It landed flat against the wall making a
rather loud boom before falling to the floor. I sat there in my recliner
red-eyed, weary and disgusted.
When my wife appeared in the door way with an agitated, questioning
look on her sleepy face, I pointed to the book on the floor and angrily
stated,
"That crap is all wrong."
My wife did not respond but stared at me quizzically with raised
eyebrows. I continued to rant,
"Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler will always feel at home at
Tara, she will always belong to Tara, the rich red Georgia earth is in her
blood, that's who she is, in every fiber of her being she is a child of
Georgia, and a Southerner... And so is Rhett Butler!
Way down deep in the very essence of their souls, in the very core of their
beings, they belong to the South...and they always will... Scarlett would
not for ever leave the South and neither would Rhett."
She yawned and stretched, before saying, a little sarcastically,
"If they are as crazy as you are, there is no telling what they would do."
She turned and started down the hall towards the bedroom, and I followed
her continuing to rant,
"Even if she went crazy, Scarlett would always return to Tara ... and be
at home when she got there and Rhett will always go where she goes ... or
die trying."
She stopped, threw both her hands up, as if to say God help me, turned
around with a sigh of exasperation and spoke to me as if I was an
obstinate little boy,
"Honey, if you don't like that book, write one for yourself."
I thought about it for a moment, yawned and scratched the two day
stubble on my face and said,
"That is exactly what I'll do ... and I'll call my book... Rhett."
She responded in a matter of fact way,
"That's nice. But before you get started, go take a shower and get some
sleep ... you stink like a cigar."
That was eleven years ago. I pray that God will let me live long enough to
finish Rhett.
This writing is a work of fiction and any resemblance of any character
herein to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
This work is dedicated to the memory of Margaret Mitchell.
Stephen Wayne Hampton Sr.
present that I really wanted, a copy of "Scarlett" the sequel to Margaret
Mitchell's "Gone With The Wind." I devoured the book in forty-eight
hours. For two days and nights I slept and ate very little. Luckily I was off
from work (driving for UPS) and I drank a lot of coffee, sipped a little
bourbon, and smoked too many cigars (irritating my wife immensely) while
I lived in Alexandra Ripley's saga of my favorite fictional Characters.
When I finished the tale, at about three AM, I angrily threw the hardback
volume against the wall of my den. It landed flat against the wall making a
rather loud boom before falling to the floor. I sat there in my recliner
red-eyed, weary and disgusted.
When my wife appeared in the door way with an agitated, questioning
look on her sleepy face, I pointed to the book on the floor and angrily
stated,
"That crap is all wrong."
My wife did not respond but stared at me quizzically with raised
eyebrows. I continued to rant,
"Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler will always feel at home at
Tara, she will always belong to Tara, the rich red Georgia earth is in her
blood, that's who she is, in every fiber of her being she is a child of
Georgia, and a Southerner... And so is Rhett Butler!
Way down deep in the very essence of their souls, in the very core of their
beings, they belong to the South...and they always will... Scarlett would
not for ever leave the South and neither would Rhett."
She yawned and stretched, before saying, a little sarcastically,
"If they are as crazy as you are, there is no telling what they would do."
She turned and started down the hall towards the bedroom, and I followed
her continuing to rant,
"Even if she went crazy, Scarlett would always return to Tara ... and be
at home when she got there and Rhett will always go where she goes ... or
die trying."
She stopped, threw both her hands up, as if to say God help me, turned
around with a sigh of exasperation and spoke to me as if I was an
obstinate little boy,
"Honey, if you don't like that book, write one for yourself."
I thought about it for a moment, yawned and scratched the two day
stubble on my face and said,
"That is exactly what I'll do ... and I'll call my book... Rhett."
She responded in a matter of fact way,
"That's nice. But before you get started, go take a shower and get some
sleep ... you stink like a cigar."
That was eleven years ago. I pray that God will let me live long enough to
finish Rhett.
This writing is a work of fiction and any resemblance of any character
herein to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
This work is dedicated to the memory of Margaret Mitchell.
Stephen Wayne Hampton Sr.
1.
The cotton looked flung and scattered, a millennium of trashy discarded
powder puffs, clinging to woody stalks and weedy edges of the late
October fields. A variegated blanket of dirty white, rotten green, and
rusty brown lay in folds across rolling hills, between emerald green piney
woods, covering the rich, red Georgia earth - as if to keep it warm.
In the pre-dawn darkness, unseasonably cold and vicious air crept in from
the north and west. A Heavy dew and dampness of the night turned into
hoarfrost covering the fields of cotton. The brown grass of the yard and
all the roofs of little houses, barns and out buildings on the plantation
glistened. A warm and bright sun was rising in a vividly blue and clear
sky. The frost was beginning to melt, and diamond dewdrops were
sparkling in sunlight, shimmering on a multitude of spider webs in the
cotton fields.
It was the proverbial,
“Frosty Dixie Morn”.
Rhett Butler stood alone on the veranda of the big house at Tara -
staring across the cotton fields. He was in a foul mood. He took the butt
of a hand-rolled Cuban cigar out of his mouth, contemplated the rancid
damp end he was unconsciously chewing, and threw the offensive thing
into the grass.
“Damned bitter cigar!”
As he continued to gaze across the cotton fields, he continued to curse.
“Dammed cotton! Damn this farm! Damn that Scar…”
Rhett’s damming was interrupted by a familiar voice. A voice heavy
with accent and gentle sarcasm,
“Why Captain Butler, how you do carry on! Is everything and everybody
in Georgia, to be damned this fine October morning?”
The voice sounded so real, and close, that he was somewhat startled.
However, he did not look around because the person of that voice was
dead, and he did not believe in ghosts or spirits of any kind. Rhett Butler
did not, and would not, believe in anything that he could not see, touch,
taste or smell. Nevertheless, ironically, the sound of that voice had a
soothing effect on his spirit. He leaned against a marbled column as
bittersweet memories began to vie for his conscience attention. He
quickly suppressed those thoughts,
“Damned the past.”
However, his sarcastic pirate’s grin wrinkled the corner of his mouth and
his dark eyes sparkled. At fifty years of age, most women agreed, he was
still a handsome and viral man. Those scars and lines that showed gave
him a rugged, substantial look. Those scars unseen gave his eyes that
worldly look of confidence most women find comforting - even if they do
not want to admit it.
He responded to that ghostly voice from the past with his own gentle
sarcasm, saying aloud,
“Well, my dear Miss Melanie, some things just need to be dammed.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a fresh Cuban. He
ceremoniously cut and lit the aromatic tobacco. Taking a long drag, he
enjoyed the warm smoke, before exhaling a large vaporous cloud into the
cold morning air. Once again, he contemplated the cotton, trying to
forget the most persistent ghosts of his past.
“What is over and done, is over and done, period, end of story.”
That was Rhett’s motto. Many times mottos, easy to say, are difficult to
keep.
A stranger standing there could not see the things a native easily sees in
the cotton - blood, sweat, and tears. No stranger could see the love and
hate, hope and despair of countless generations of people, The ghosts of
men and women, black and white and creamy (all shades of color) high
born, lowborn, and out born, Men and women, cads and harlots, bimbos
and bastards, strong and weak, ignorant and proud – at times, blessedly
stupid, Rich and poor masters and slaves, demigods and dirt-men - and
very human soul who ever made a living off king cotton.
No stranger can even imagine or begin to understand what a native
knows in his guts and keeps in the very cracks of his bones, cotton is a
little less than God is - but higher than angels.
There is nothing in this world like cotton - never will be. Cotton builds
empires, and destroys them. Cotton is warmth, love, and the soft easy
laughter of well-fed and educated people. Cotton is cold bitter disparity,
embedded hatred, mournful groans of hunger and the whailings of
unrighteousness and cruel ignorance. Cotton is wealth and prestigious
life, poverty and deplorable death.
Cotton built the south, destroyed the south, and built it again.
Generations of people (all kinds of people) live, love, hate and die, they
come and they go but the cotton remains. Wool is rough, flax is trashy,
and cotton is king.
“Cotton and arrogance.”
Rhett grumbled,
“All we ever had - all we still have. If it was up to me, I would burn the
fields. Better than selling at a loss.
Edison invented the light bulb a year ago, illuminated the country, and
the world, while the south is still the economic bastard of civilization.
Damn Yankees are always inventing something.” He chuckled and
grinned cynically,
“Then they convince us all that we can not live without their new and
wondrous contrivance. They sure know how to make money – and
punish the South.”
Rhett was not worried about money. He was just as rich as the richest
Hampton ever was. However, Tara’s acres of cotton were a glorious
white waste, and it sickened him.
“If Scarlett was in her right mind, I could convince her to grow some
good tobacco. That would be smart.”
Unfortunately, Scarlett was not, had not been for months - in her right
mind.
Will Benteen was doing his best to run the plantation. A one-horse
farmer, a cracker from Florida before the war, Will confided in Rhett,
“Forty acres an a mule - mor’ nuff for any cracker.”
Rhett grinned knowingly,
“That’s right. But, you married up in the world, my good man, and that
means more responsibility.”
Will did not resent the truth. He smiled easily and looked him straight in
the eye,
“Ya no I’d just a soon be poor.”
Rhett studied his weather worn, honest face. There was not a hint of
hypocrisy in those washed out grey eyes. He sighed and chuckled,
“I know - but - Scarlett O’Hara will not allow anyone, kin to her, to be
poor. You did marry her favorite sister.”
His sarcastic grin broadened at that comment - they both laughed.
Suellen and Scarlett fought like cats.
In both appearance and personality, Rhett and Will were as different as
night and day. However, their brutal honesty was the same. Many
resented that trait in Rhett but easily accepted it in Will – actually
seeking his advice. Very few people had the courage to ask Rhett for
anything. He had a way of nicely cutting the crap and exposing the truth
– unpleasant for the average person.
No stranger standing there could see any of what Rhett saw in the cotton
fields, no indeed. He did not really think about it. Did not have to think
about it, all of that (and things unexplainable) were in his blood, his guts,
and in the very marrow of his bones. In very fiber of his being, Rhett
Butler was a true southerner.
Every true Southerner knows Cotton and the South are spiritually,
physically (and in the Southern mind) mentally joined forever. God
brought cotton and the South together - and no man can ever put them
asunder. From springtime to harvest, from season to season, until the
end of time, cotton and the good earth, and the people upon it – will
remain.
Rhett heard a soft step behind him on the veranda and he smelled
Scarlett’s favorite perfume. He turned around with his most charming
smile - A smile that melted the hearts of weaker women. He found
himself looking into cold, determined, emerald green eyes. Beautiful
eyes - starring him down over the barrel of a 45-caliber Colt pistol - his
very own pistol. He continued to smile, as his guts were churning and his
mind was racing. He was in very real danger. The pistol was loaded, he
knew because he had just cleaned and checked it earlier that morning,
and he had locked it away, or he thought he had. He slipped his had into
his pocket. His keys were gone.
When he placed his hand in his pocket, she responded by cocking the
pistol and speaking in a calm icy voice,
“What ever you do sir, do not take your hand out of your pocket, unless
you are ready to die.”
She was not three short steps away, just out of his reach. However,
even out to twenty paces, she was a dammed good shot with a pistol. He
knew that very well. Inwardly, Rhett was cursing himself for being a
careless fool, but he kept smiling and spoke to her in his most reassuring
and charming way,
“My dear Mrs. Butler, you would not want to shoot an innocent man.”
As she held her aim dead on his heart, she replied,
“I have never in my life met an innocent man. I know men, most all are
the same, needing, demanding, groping. But you Yankees have a smell
about you. A smell I don’t care for, like hate, and fear, and death.”
Her nostrils flared as she spoke, as if she could smell him as well as she
could see him. Her eyes never blinked, and her hand remained steady as
she held the pistol aimed at his chest,
“I love the smell of a man, one who comes up out of the field with the
honest dirt and sweat of life and work upon him. I love the smell of a
man, tobacco, leather and perhaps a little bourbon mingled with the lusty
essence of a man. (She paused - remembering - then continued with
venom) I love the smell of a man, but I cannot stand the stench of a
chicken stealing Yankee. You Yankees have been here before. There is
nothing left to steal, so just keep your hand in your pocket, turn around
and march down those steps and off this place – NOW!
Rhett made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He reached out with
his free hand and spoke to her kindly and calmly with what he hoped
sounded like reassuring authority,
“Scarlett, darling - let’s just have that gu…”
The loud crack of the pistol firing interrupted him. The bullet chipped a
piece of marbled facade from the column that he was standing near and
the sharp edge of the fragmented stone whacked Rhett on the side of the
neck just behind and bellow his right ear leaving a nasty gash that begin
to bleed immediately. He grabbed the wound with his free hand and
cursed aloud. The spent shell ricocheted off the column and whined
across the front yard toward the cotton field, and the jagged, bloody
chunk of facade fell at Rhett’s feet. He did not take his other hand out of
his pocket and he remained silent as he eyed his crazy wife,
“She is worse than her Father ever was. His insanity made him passive,
rather harmless. This woman is completely unpredictable and obviously
dangerous. But what a woman she is.”
He new very well, that she could have killed or maimed him for life. She
hit exactly where she aimed. Even in her state of insane hatred, she had
chosen to fire a warning. Close enough to do damage; much more
damage than he knew at the time as a sharp one-inch sliver of the stone
had pierced the right side of his throat just blow his jawbone. The point
of that projectile was lodged in an arterial vein. He was very much in
danger of bleeding to death.
Scarlett repeated her demand.
“Perhaps you did not hear me. I told you to leave. I suggest you do so
quickly.”
Rhett backed slowly across the porch, keeping his eyes on her grim face
- that look he had seen before – murderous.
She never wavered but held the pistol dead on his heart, inching forward
as he moved backwards. When he reached the top of the steps, he
reached down slowly, griped the wrought iron railing with his bloody
hand, and began to back down. Removing his hand from the side of his
neck released the pressure he was unconsciously applying to that sliver
of stone stuck in his flesh, pricking that vein, and he began to bleed
profusely. He was beginning to be lightheaded, he was loosing a lot of
blood and he could feel the hot stickiness down the side of his neck. He
was fighting to stay up.
When he reached the bottom, she was at the top, staring him down with
those cool green eyes, the pistol still on target.
Her hair was dark and flowing with only the slightest hint of gray around
her temples.
She wore a dark green velvet housecoat with ermine collar; one he had
bought for her in New York - because she had liked it so much. He
remembered how she had looked then, when she wrapped it around
herself laughing like a schoolgirl, telling him how much she loved him,
that he spent too much money on her - but she did need it to keep her
warm in those cold Yankee hotels that he insisted on staying in.
He could not recall her ever looking more beautiful than she did now,
standing there with his own pistol pointed at him. He saw her bare feet
and he wondered if she was naked under the housecoat. The cold
morning air did not make her shake at all.
A commotion of hurrying people poured out of the house, but Scarlett did
not seem to notice. She was focused, and very determined.
Will Benteen was the first to arrive, limping rather quickly on his peg leg
through the open front door. He crossed the porch thumping and
exclaiming in his south-cracker twang,
“What’en tar-nation ya’ll shoot’en at Miss Scarlett?”
When he got to the edge of the porch and saw the bleeding Rhett Butler,
he froze and stared - speechless.
Suellen arrived next. When she saw the blood she drew a gasping breath,
and true to her nature, she let out a scream that surely would wake
everyone within a mile, who had not heard the pistol shot.
The scream brought Scarlett around to the real world. She looked with
disdain at Suellen, who was white faced with horror - staring stupidly at
the revolver in Scarlett’s hand. Scarlett looked at the pistol - trying to
remember. Why did she have it in her hand? She looked at Will who was
looking at her with a mixture of pity, disbelief and concern in his washed
out gray eyes. Pity would have normally angered Scarlett. She seemed
confused - then a look of remembrance came upon her face as she looked
unflinchingly into Will’s eyes and said, rather calmly,
“I’ve done committed murder…”
To be continued...
The cotton looked flung and scattered, a millennium of trashy discarded
powder puffs, clinging to woody stalks and weedy edges of the late
October fields. A variegated blanket of dirty white, rotten green, and
rusty brown lay in folds across rolling hills, between emerald green piney
woods, covering the rich, red Georgia earth - as if to keep it warm.
In the pre-dawn darkness, unseasonably cold and vicious air crept in from
the north and west. A Heavy dew and dampness of the night turned into
hoarfrost covering the fields of cotton. The brown grass of the yard and
all the roofs of little houses, barns and out buildings on the plantation
glistened. A warm and bright sun was rising in a vividly blue and clear
sky. The frost was beginning to melt, and diamond dewdrops were
sparkling in sunlight, shimmering on a multitude of spider webs in the
cotton fields.
It was the proverbial,
“Frosty Dixie Morn”.
Rhett Butler stood alone on the veranda of the big house at Tara -
staring across the cotton fields. He was in a foul mood. He took the butt
of a hand-rolled Cuban cigar out of his mouth, contemplated the rancid
damp end he was unconsciously chewing, and threw the offensive thing
into the grass.
“Damned bitter cigar!”
As he continued to gaze across the cotton fields, he continued to curse.
“Dammed cotton! Damn this farm! Damn that Scar…”
Rhett’s damming was interrupted by a familiar voice. A voice heavy
with accent and gentle sarcasm,
“Why Captain Butler, how you do carry on! Is everything and everybody
in Georgia, to be damned this fine October morning?”
The voice sounded so real, and close, that he was somewhat startled.
However, he did not look around because the person of that voice was
dead, and he did not believe in ghosts or spirits of any kind. Rhett Butler
did not, and would not, believe in anything that he could not see, touch,
taste or smell. Nevertheless, ironically, the sound of that voice had a
soothing effect on his spirit. He leaned against a marbled column as
bittersweet memories began to vie for his conscience attention. He
quickly suppressed those thoughts,
“Damned the past.”
However, his sarcastic pirate’s grin wrinkled the corner of his mouth and
his dark eyes sparkled. At fifty years of age, most women agreed, he was
still a handsome and viral man. Those scars and lines that showed gave
him a rugged, substantial look. Those scars unseen gave his eyes that
worldly look of confidence most women find comforting - even if they do
not want to admit it.
He responded to that ghostly voice from the past with his own gentle
sarcasm, saying aloud,
“Well, my dear Miss Melanie, some things just need to be dammed.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a fresh Cuban. He
ceremoniously cut and lit the aromatic tobacco. Taking a long drag, he
enjoyed the warm smoke, before exhaling a large vaporous cloud into the
cold morning air. Once again, he contemplated the cotton, trying to
forget the most persistent ghosts of his past.
“What is over and done, is over and done, period, end of story.”
That was Rhett’s motto. Many times mottos, easy to say, are difficult to
keep.
A stranger standing there could not see the things a native easily sees in
the cotton - blood, sweat, and tears. No stranger could see the love and
hate, hope and despair of countless generations of people, The ghosts of
men and women, black and white and creamy (all shades of color) high
born, lowborn, and out born, Men and women, cads and harlots, bimbos
and bastards, strong and weak, ignorant and proud – at times, blessedly
stupid, Rich and poor masters and slaves, demigods and dirt-men - and
very human soul who ever made a living off king cotton.
No stranger can even imagine or begin to understand what a native
knows in his guts and keeps in the very cracks of his bones, cotton is a
little less than God is - but higher than angels.
There is nothing in this world like cotton - never will be. Cotton builds
empires, and destroys them. Cotton is warmth, love, and the soft easy
laughter of well-fed and educated people. Cotton is cold bitter disparity,
embedded hatred, mournful groans of hunger and the whailings of
unrighteousness and cruel ignorance. Cotton is wealth and prestigious
life, poverty and deplorable death.
Cotton built the south, destroyed the south, and built it again.
Generations of people (all kinds of people) live, love, hate and die, they
come and they go but the cotton remains. Wool is rough, flax is trashy,
and cotton is king.
“Cotton and arrogance.”
Rhett grumbled,
“All we ever had - all we still have. If it was up to me, I would burn the
fields. Better than selling at a loss.
Edison invented the light bulb a year ago, illuminated the country, and
the world, while the south is still the economic bastard of civilization.
Damn Yankees are always inventing something.” He chuckled and
grinned cynically,
“Then they convince us all that we can not live without their new and
wondrous contrivance. They sure know how to make money – and
punish the South.”
Rhett was not worried about money. He was just as rich as the richest
Hampton ever was. However, Tara’s acres of cotton were a glorious
white waste, and it sickened him.
“If Scarlett was in her right mind, I could convince her to grow some
good tobacco. That would be smart.”
Unfortunately, Scarlett was not, had not been for months - in her right
mind.
Will Benteen was doing his best to run the plantation. A one-horse
farmer, a cracker from Florida before the war, Will confided in Rhett,
“Forty acres an a mule - mor’ nuff for any cracker.”
Rhett grinned knowingly,
“That’s right. But, you married up in the world, my good man, and that
means more responsibility.”
Will did not resent the truth. He smiled easily and looked him straight in
the eye,
“Ya no I’d just a soon be poor.”
Rhett studied his weather worn, honest face. There was not a hint of
hypocrisy in those washed out grey eyes. He sighed and chuckled,
“I know - but - Scarlett O’Hara will not allow anyone, kin to her, to be
poor. You did marry her favorite sister.”
His sarcastic grin broadened at that comment - they both laughed.
Suellen and Scarlett fought like cats.
In both appearance and personality, Rhett and Will were as different as
night and day. However, their brutal honesty was the same. Many
resented that trait in Rhett but easily accepted it in Will – actually
seeking his advice. Very few people had the courage to ask Rhett for
anything. He had a way of nicely cutting the crap and exposing the truth
– unpleasant for the average person.
No stranger standing there could see any of what Rhett saw in the cotton
fields, no indeed. He did not really think about it. Did not have to think
about it, all of that (and things unexplainable) were in his blood, his guts,
and in the very marrow of his bones. In very fiber of his being, Rhett
Butler was a true southerner.
Every true Southerner knows Cotton and the South are spiritually,
physically (and in the Southern mind) mentally joined forever. God
brought cotton and the South together - and no man can ever put them
asunder. From springtime to harvest, from season to season, until the
end of time, cotton and the good earth, and the people upon it – will
remain.
Rhett heard a soft step behind him on the veranda and he smelled
Scarlett’s favorite perfume. He turned around with his most charming
smile - A smile that melted the hearts of weaker women. He found
himself looking into cold, determined, emerald green eyes. Beautiful
eyes - starring him down over the barrel of a 45-caliber Colt pistol - his
very own pistol. He continued to smile, as his guts were churning and his
mind was racing. He was in very real danger. The pistol was loaded, he
knew because he had just cleaned and checked it earlier that morning,
and he had locked it away, or he thought he had. He slipped his had into
his pocket. His keys were gone.
When he placed his hand in his pocket, she responded by cocking the
pistol and speaking in a calm icy voice,
“What ever you do sir, do not take your hand out of your pocket, unless
you are ready to die.”
She was not three short steps away, just out of his reach. However,
even out to twenty paces, she was a dammed good shot with a pistol. He
knew that very well. Inwardly, Rhett was cursing himself for being a
careless fool, but he kept smiling and spoke to her in his most reassuring
and charming way,
“My dear Mrs. Butler, you would not want to shoot an innocent man.”
As she held her aim dead on his heart, she replied,
“I have never in my life met an innocent man. I know men, most all are
the same, needing, demanding, groping. But you Yankees have a smell
about you. A smell I don’t care for, like hate, and fear, and death.”
Her nostrils flared as she spoke, as if she could smell him as well as she
could see him. Her eyes never blinked, and her hand remained steady as
she held the pistol aimed at his chest,
“I love the smell of a man, one who comes up out of the field with the
honest dirt and sweat of life and work upon him. I love the smell of a
man, tobacco, leather and perhaps a little bourbon mingled with the lusty
essence of a man. (She paused - remembering - then continued with
venom) I love the smell of a man, but I cannot stand the stench of a
chicken stealing Yankee. You Yankees have been here before. There is
nothing left to steal, so just keep your hand in your pocket, turn around
and march down those steps and off this place – NOW!
Rhett made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He reached out with
his free hand and spoke to her kindly and calmly with what he hoped
sounded like reassuring authority,
“Scarlett, darling - let’s just have that gu…”
The loud crack of the pistol firing interrupted him. The bullet chipped a
piece of marbled facade from the column that he was standing near and
the sharp edge of the fragmented stone whacked Rhett on the side of the
neck just behind and bellow his right ear leaving a nasty gash that begin
to bleed immediately. He grabbed the wound with his free hand and
cursed aloud. The spent shell ricocheted off the column and whined
across the front yard toward the cotton field, and the jagged, bloody
chunk of facade fell at Rhett’s feet. He did not take his other hand out of
his pocket and he remained silent as he eyed his crazy wife,
“She is worse than her Father ever was. His insanity made him passive,
rather harmless. This woman is completely unpredictable and obviously
dangerous. But what a woman she is.”
He new very well, that she could have killed or maimed him for life. She
hit exactly where she aimed. Even in her state of insane hatred, she had
chosen to fire a warning. Close enough to do damage; much more
damage than he knew at the time as a sharp one-inch sliver of the stone
had pierced the right side of his throat just blow his jawbone. The point
of that projectile was lodged in an arterial vein. He was very much in
danger of bleeding to death.
Scarlett repeated her demand.
“Perhaps you did not hear me. I told you to leave. I suggest you do so
quickly.”
Rhett backed slowly across the porch, keeping his eyes on her grim face
- that look he had seen before – murderous.
She never wavered but held the pistol dead on his heart, inching forward
as he moved backwards. When he reached the top of the steps, he
reached down slowly, griped the wrought iron railing with his bloody
hand, and began to back down. Removing his hand from the side of his
neck released the pressure he was unconsciously applying to that sliver
of stone stuck in his flesh, pricking that vein, and he began to bleed
profusely. He was beginning to be lightheaded, he was loosing a lot of
blood and he could feel the hot stickiness down the side of his neck. He
was fighting to stay up.
When he reached the bottom, she was at the top, staring him down with
those cool green eyes, the pistol still on target.
Her hair was dark and flowing with only the slightest hint of gray around
her temples.
She wore a dark green velvet housecoat with ermine collar; one he had
bought for her in New York - because she had liked it so much. He
remembered how she had looked then, when she wrapped it around
herself laughing like a schoolgirl, telling him how much she loved him,
that he spent too much money on her - but she did need it to keep her
warm in those cold Yankee hotels that he insisted on staying in.
He could not recall her ever looking more beautiful than she did now,
standing there with his own pistol pointed at him. He saw her bare feet
and he wondered if she was naked under the housecoat. The cold
morning air did not make her shake at all.
A commotion of hurrying people poured out of the house, but Scarlett did
not seem to notice. She was focused, and very determined.
Will Benteen was the first to arrive, limping rather quickly on his peg leg
through the open front door. He crossed the porch thumping and
exclaiming in his south-cracker twang,
“What’en tar-nation ya’ll shoot’en at Miss Scarlett?”
When he got to the edge of the porch and saw the bleeding Rhett Butler,
he froze and stared - speechless.
Suellen arrived next. When she saw the blood she drew a gasping breath,
and true to her nature, she let out a scream that surely would wake
everyone within a mile, who had not heard the pistol shot.
The scream brought Scarlett around to the real world. She looked with
disdain at Suellen, who was white faced with horror - staring stupidly at
the revolver in Scarlett’s hand. Scarlett looked at the pistol - trying to
remember. Why did she have it in her hand? She looked at Will who was
looking at her with a mixture of pity, disbelief and concern in his washed
out gray eyes. Pity would have normally angered Scarlett. She seemed
confused - then a look of remembrance came upon her face as she looked
unflinchingly into Will’s eyes and said, rather calmly,
“I’ve done committed murder…”
To be continued...
Copyright SunShine DixieLand Company 2003
Copyright SunShine DixieLand Company 2003
SunShine DixieLand Company