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well； in order to protect his rear。 He had lost a third of his men in that fight and the remainder slogged tiredly through the rain across the country toward the Chattahoochee River。 The Confederates could expect no more reinforcements； whereas the railroad； which the Yankees now held from Tennessee south to the battle line； brought Sherman fresh troops and supplies daily。 So the gray lines went back through the muddy fields； back toward Atlanta。
With the loss of the supposedly unconquerable position； a fresh wave of terror swept the town。 For twenty…five wild； happy days； everyone had assured everyone else that this could not possibly happen。 And now it had happened！ But surely the General would hold the Yankees on the opposite bank of the river。 Though God knows the river was close enough； only seven miles away！
But Sherman flanked them again； crossing the stream above them； and the weary gray files were forced to hurry across the yellow water and throw themselves again between the invaders and Atlanta。 They dug in hastily in shallow pits to the north of the town in the valley of Peachtree Creek。 Atlanta was in agony and panic。
Fight and fall back！ Fight and fall back！ And every retreat was bringing the Yankees closer to the town。 Peachtree Creek was only five miles away！ What was the General thinking about？
The cries of “Give us a man who will stand and fight！” penetrated even to Richmond。 Richmond knew that if Atlanta was lost； the war was lost； and after the army had crossed the Chattahoochee； General Johnston was removed from command。 General Hood； one of his corps commanders； took over the army； and the town breathed a little easier。 Hood wouldn’t retreat。 Not that tall Kentuckian； with his flowing beard and flashing eye！ He had the reputation of a bulldog。 He’d drive the Yankees back from the creek； yes； back across the river and on up the road every step of the way back to Dalton。 But the army cried： “Give us back Old Joe！” for they had been with Old Joe all the weary miles from Dalton and they knew； as the civilians could not know； the odds that had opposed them。
Sherman did not wait for Hood to get himself in readiness to attack。 On the day after the change in command； the Yankee general struck swiftly at the little town of Decatur； six miles beyond Atlanta； captured it and cut the railroad there。 This was the railroad connecting Atlanta with Augusta； with Charleston； and Wilmington and with Virginia。 Sherman had dealt the Confederacy a crippling blow。 The time had come for action！ Atlanta screamed for action！
Then； on a July afternoon of steaming heat； Atlanta had its wish。 General Hood did more than stand and fight。 He assaulted the Yankees fiercely at Peachtree Creek； hurling his men from their rifle pits against the blue lines where Sherman’s men outnumbered him more than two to one。
Frightened； praying that Hood’s attack would drive the Yankees back； everyone listened to the sound of booming cannon and the crackling of thousands of rifles which； though five miles away from the center of town； were so loud as to seem almost in the next block。 They could hear the rumblings of the batteries； see the smoke which rolled like low…hanging clouds above the trees； but for hours no one knew how the battle was going。
By late afternoon the first news came； but it was uncertain； contradictory； frightening； brought as it was by men wounded in the early hours of the battle。 These men began straggling in； singly and in groups； the less seriously wounded supporting those who limped and staggered。 Soon a steady stream of them was established； making their painful way into town toward the hospitals； their faces black as negroes’ from powder stains； dust and sweat； their wounds unbandaged； blood drying； flies swarming about them。
Aunt Pitty’s was one of the first houses which the wounded reached as they struggled in from the north of the town； and one after another； they tottered to the gate； sank down on the green lawn and croaked：
“Water！”
All that burning afternoon； Aunt Pitty and her family； black and white； stood in the sun with buckets of water and bandages； ladling drinks； binding wounds until the bandages gave out and even the torn sheets and towels were exhausted。 Aunt Pitty completely forgot that the sight of blood always made her faint and she worked until her little feet in their too small shoes swelled and would no longer support her。 Even Melanie； now great with child； forgot her modesty and worked feverishly side by side with Prissy； Cookie and Scarlett； her face as tense as any of the wounded。 When at last she fainted； there was no place to lay her except on the kitchen table； as every bed； chair and sofa in the house was filled with wounded。
Forgotten in the tumult； little Wade crouched behind the banisters on the front porch； peering out onto the lawn like a caged； frightened rabbit； his eyes wide with terror； sucking his thumb and hiccoughing。 Once Scarlett saw him and cried sharply： “Go play in the back yard； Wade Hampton！” but he was too terrified； too fascinated by the mad scene before him to obey。
The lawn was covered with prostrate men； too tired to walk farther； too weak from wounds to move。 These Uncle Peter loaded into the carriage and drove to the hospital； making trip after trip until the old horse was lathered。 Mrs。 Meade and Mrs。 Merriwether sent their carriages and they； too； drove off； springs sagging beneath the weight of the wounded。
Later； in the long； hot summer twilight； the ambulances came rumbling down the road from the battle field and commissary wagons； covered with muddy canvas。 Then farm wagons； ox carts and even private carriages commandeered by the medical corps。 They passed Aunt Pitty’s house； jolting over the bumpy road； packed with wounded and dying men； dripping blood into the red dust。 At the sight of the women with buckets and dippers； the conveyances halted and the chorus went up in cries； in whispers：
“Water！”
Scarlett held wobbling heads that parched lips might drink； poured buckets of water over dusty； feverish bodies and into open wounds that the men might enjoy a brief moment’s relief。 She tiptoed to hand dippers to ambulance drivers and of each she questioned； her heart in her throat： “What news？ What news？”
From all came back the answer： “Don’t know fer sartin； lady。 It’s too soon to tell。”
Night came and it was sultry。 No air moved and the flaring pine knots the negroes held made the air hotter。 Dust clogged Scarlett’s nostrils and dried her lips。 Her lavender calico dress； so freshly clean and starched that morning； was streaked with blood； dirt and sweat。 This； then； was what Ashley had meant when he wrote that war was not glory but dirt and misery。
Fatigue gave an unreal； nightmarish cast to the whole scene。 It couldn’t be real—or it was real； then the world had gone mad。 If not； why should she be standing here in Aunt Pitty’s peaceful front yard； amid wavering lights； pouring water over dying beaux？ For so many of them were her beaux and they tried to smile when they saw her。 There were so many men jolting down this dark； dusty road whom she knew so well； so many men dying here before her eyes； mosquitoes and gnats swarming their bloody faces； men with whom she had danced and laughed； for whom she had played music and sung songs； teased； comforted and loved—a little。
She found Carey Ashburn on the bottom layer of wounded in an ox cart； barely alive from a bullet wound in his head。 But she could not extricate him without disturbing six other wounded men； so she let him go on to the hospital。 Later she heard he had died before a doctor ever saw him and was buried somewhere； no one knew exactly。 So many men had been buried that month； in shallow； hastily dug graves at Oakland Cemetery。 Melanie felt it keenly that they had not been able to get a lock of Carey’s hair to send to his mother in Alabama。
As the hot night wore on and their backs were aching and their knees buckling from weariness； Scarlett and Pitty cried to man after man： “What news？ What news？”
And as the long hours dragged past； they had their answer； an answer that made them look whitely into each other’s eyes。
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