The old dog fox's muzzle was scarred and he favored a forefoot, as if he'd lost toes in a trap.
Little Meg cried out, "She's so pretty!”
"She is, sweetheart," her uncle said. "That fellow thinks she's pretty, too.”
"Is he her husband, Uncle Rhett?”
"He wants to be," her mother said. "See, Meg, he's courting.”
The child knelt below the rail to see better. "Does she like him, too?”
"She's pretending she doesn't know he's alive," her uncle Rhett said.
A skinny, half-immersed driftwood log next attracted the vixen. One end was ashore and the river plucked at the other. She trotted gaily down its length. The dog fox hesitated. The vixen turned at the end of the log and sat grinning at him.
Reluctantly, the dog fox stepped onto the driftwood and tiptoed toward her.
His added weight was too much for the log's hold on the bank and it launched, turning in the swift current. The purely disgusted expression on the dog fox's face made Meg laugh.
Peals of childish laughter pursued the star-crossed lovers down the river to the sea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Bastard
Tazewell Watling pressed his forefinger under his nose so he wouldn't sneeze. Swirling yellow-brown smoke drooped over the earth, draining livelier colors from the sunset. The light penetrating this pall was the color of dirty linen and the sun was a pale silver disk on the horizon. Burning coke, sulfur, white-hot iron, ammonia, and less identifiable stinks cluttered the air.
Through Alabama and western Georgia, the train had traveled a single track. Now that track divided and divided again and the train overtook a freight on the left, then a string of flatcars. A self-important yard engine huffed at them, squealing, veering, passing so close, Taz might have reached out his window and touched it.
"First time to Atlanta, boy?" The Confederate corporal beside Taz hawked on the floor.
"I am from New Orleans," Taz said with a boy's flimsy hauteur.
"Over there, that's the rolling mill where they make plate for our ironclads.
I got a brother works there. Lucky bastard's exempted from the army.
Over there's J. W. Dance revolvers and them brick smokestacks — no, those un's over there — that's the naval gun factory. Four railroads roll into this town, son — four altogether different railroads!" He jabbed an elbow into the boy's side. "What you think about that!”
How could Taz find his mother in this smoky cauldron? Factories fronted the tracks; houses faced away from it. A few dwellings were brick, but most were dingy clapboard. Cows, pigs, and chickens grazed in half-acre pastures. The houses huddled closer together as the train rolled into the city. Broad streets seemed to snap open and shut. Taz saw three- and four-story brick and stone businesses and warehouses, and countless carriages and wagons.
Was that woman on the corner Belle Watling? That face in the landau, was she his mother? Tazewell Watling's oldest memory was night in the cavernous dormitory of New Orleans' Asylum for Orphan Boys: children coughing and whimpering for their mothers. Taz lay on a rush pallet with other children pressed against him, and the dampness on his thigh was where one of the younger boys had wet himself.
Taz was hungry and afraid but would not cry. Boys who cried disappeared into the infirmary, where they died, and were buried in the asylum's verdant, lovingly tended cemetery. Most of the orphans were Irish and the nuns were French Sisters of Charity who took their vows of poverty so seriously, they starved themselves. Embracing hunger as a virtue, the Good Sisters were imperfectly sympathetic to hungry children.
Yet, when the Mardi Gras Krewes paraded down Royal Street, these same self-abasing sisters waved gaily from their balcony to catch the strings of bright, worthless beads drunken mummers tossed to them.
The Sisters of Charity said Taz's mother was a fallen woman condemned to the fires of hell. A good Catholic boy like Taz would never see his mother in heaven.
Taz believed them — and he did not believe them. In his child's heart, night fears gave way to mornings when miracles might happen.
Four years ago, Rhett Butler had been such a miracle. Scrubbed until his skin glowed, the boy had been summoned to the Mother Superior's office to meet a big smiling stranger. A cup of the Mother Superior's weak tea stood untouched at the man's elbow. In a place that reeked of carbolic and lye soap, the stranger smelled of good cigars, bourbon, and pomade. "I am your guardian, Tazewell Watling," Rhett Butler told him. "A guardian's not as good as a father, perhaps, but I'll have to do.”
The next day, in his new suit, Tazewell Watling was delivered to the Jesuit School of the Catholic Society for Religious and Literary Education, attached to the enormous Jesuit church. There, Taz was enrolled, shown his bed (which he was forbidden to lie upon in the daytime) and the peg where he was to hang his coat.
His mother, whose visits to the asylum had been sporadic, now visited regularly. Belle wore prettier dresses and seemed happier. Tazewell believed Mr. Butler was his mother's miracle, too.
When Taz started at the Jesuit School, his reading was poor, his spelling impossible, and he had no mathematics. The Jesuits would remedy these deficiencies.
At the Asylum for Orphan Boys, only a few boys knew their fathers, and none of these elusive creatures ever visited. Tazewell Watling loved and needed his mother; he hadn't even imagined a father.
But at the Jesuit school, Tazewell Watling learned fathers were necessities.
As an older boy, Jules Nore, patiently explained, "We boys are educated to become gentlemen. You, Watling, cannot be a gentleman." Jules Nore frowned and corrected his overgenerous appraisaclass="underline" "You can't be anything without a father. Bastards like you, Tazewell Watling, are meant to serve gentlemen, open our carriage doors, clean the mud from our boots...”
For this appraisal, Taz bloodied Jules's nose. When Jules's friends piled on, Taz gave a good account of himself.
A bastard can't ever be anything!
As they rolled into the Atlanta railyard, another train drew alongside.
Like theirs, it overflowed with Confederate soldiers, some standing between cars, others on the tops of the cars. Cheers volleyed from one train to the other. In Taz's car, one soldier struck up a banjo and another tootled a mouth organ, though they weren't playing the same tune.
Side by side, the trains raced toward the huge open-ended brick Car Shed, which they penetrated with bells clanging and brakes shrieking. The sun vanished and cinders, unable to escape through the Car Shed's roof, clattered like buckshot onto the tops of the cars.
"This is it, boy." The corporal hefted his haversack. "The bustlingest town in the Confederacy. You can find anything you want in Atlanta." He winked. "Might find some things you'd be better off without.”
Across the filthy brick platform, a hospital train was disgorging soldiers wounded at the Fredricksburg fight. Men supported one another or hobbled along on crutches. Negro litter bearers carried the severely wounded.
Behind the cluster of ambulances at the end of the platform, Peachtree Street was stalled carriages, angry teamsters and riders taking to the sidewalks as pedestrians cursed them.
Taz intercepted a well-dressed civilian, "Sir, can you direct me to Belle Watling's establishment?”
The gentleman eyed Taz up and down. "I will not. You look to be a decent young lad who cannot possibly have business at" — he twisted his mouth around the name — "Chapeau Rouge.”
"You're acquainted with Chapeau Rouge, sir?" Taz asked pertly.
"Insolent whelp!”
Atlanta was colder than New Orleans and Taz could see his breath.
The soldier Taz accosted was more helpful. "Boy, just walk on down Decatur Street. When it gets right lively, you's 'bout where you want to be.”