The muddy Flint River,running silently between walls of pine and water oak covered with tangled vines,wrapped about Gerald's new land like a curving arm and embraced it on two sides.To Gerald,standing on the small knoll where the house had been,this tall barrier of green was as visible and pleasing an evidence of ownership as though it were a fence that he himself had built to mark his own.He stood on the blackened foundation stones of the burned building,looked down the long avenue of trees leading toward the road and swore lustily,with a joy too deep for thankful prayer.These twin lines of somber trees were his,his the abandoned lawn,waist high in weeds under white-starred young magnolia trees.The uncultivated fields,studded with tiny pines and underbrush,that stretched their rolling red-clay surface away into the distance on four sides belonged to Gerald O'Hara—were his because he had an unbefuddled Irish head and the courage to stake everything on a hand of cards.
Gerald closed his eyes and,in the stillness of the unworked acres,he felt that he had come home.Here under his feet would rise a house of whitewashed brick.Across the road would be new rail fences,inclosing fat cattle and blooded horses,and the red earth that rolled down the hillside to the rich river bottom land would gleam white as eiderdown in the sun—cotton,acres and acres of cotton!The fortunes of the O'Haras would rise again.
With his own small stake,what he could borrow from his unenthusiastic brothers and a neat sum from mortgaging the land,Gerald bought his first field hands and came to Tara to live in bachelor solitude in the four-room overseer's house,till such a time as the white walls of Tara should rise.
He cleared the fields and planted cotton and borrowed more money from James and Andrew to buy more slaves.The O'Haras were a clannish tribe,clinging to one another in prosperity as well as in adversity,not for any overweening family affection but because they had learned through grim years that to survive a family must present an unbroken front to the world.They lent Gerald the money and,in the years that followed,the money came back to them with interest.Gradually the plantation widened out,as Gerald bought more acres lying near him,and in time the white house became a reality instead of a dream.
It was built by slave labor,a clumsy sprawling building that crowned the rise of ground overlooking the green incline of pasture land running down to the river;and it pleased Gerald greatly,for,even when new,it wore a look of mellowed years.The old oaks,which had seen Indians pass under their limbs,hugged the house closely with their great trunks and towered their branches over the roof in dense shade.The lawn,reclaimed from weeds,grew thick with clover and Bermuda grass,and Gerald saw to it that it was well kept.From the avenue of cedars to the row of white cabins in the slave quarters,there was an air of solidness,of stability and permanence about Tara；and whenever Gerald galloped around the bend in the road and saw his own roof rising through green branches,his heart swelled with pride as though each sight of it were the first sight.
He had done it all,little,hard-headed,blustering Gerald.
Gerald was on excellent terms with all his neighbors in the County,except the MacIntoshes whose land adjoined his on the left and the Slatterys whose meager three acres stretched on his right along the swamp bottoms between the river and John Wilkes'plantation.
The MacIntoshes were Scotch-Irish and Orangemen and,had they possessed all the saintly qualities of the Catholic calendar,this ancestry would have damned them forever in Gerald's eyes.True,they had lived in Georgia for seventy years and,before that,had spent a generation in the Carolinas：but the first of the family who set foot on American shores had come from Ulster,and that was enough for Gerald.
They were a close-mouthed and stiff-necked family,who kept strictly to themselves and intermarried with their Carolina relatives,and Gerald was not alone in disliking them,for the County people were neighborly and sociable and none too tolerant of anyone lacking in those same qualities.Rumors of Abolitionist sympathies did not enhance the popularity of the MacIntoshes.Old Angus had never manumitted a single slave and had never committed the unpardonable social breach of selling some of his negroes to
passing slave traders en route to the cane fields of Louisiana,but the rumors persisted.
“He's an Abolitionist,no doubt,”observed Gerald to John Wilkes.“But,in an Orangeman,when a principle comes up against Scotch tightness,the principle fares ill.”
The Slatterys were another affair.Being poor white,they were not even accorded the grudging respect that Angus MacIntosh's dour independence wrung from neighboring families.Old Slattery,who clung persistently to his few acres,in spite of repeated offers from Gerald and John Wilkes,was shiftless and whining.His wife was a snarly-haired woman,sickly and washed-out of appearance,the mother of a brood of sullen and rabbity-looking children—a brood which was increased regularly every year.Tom Slattery owned no slaves,and he and his two oldest boys spasmodically worked their few acres of cotton,while the wife and younger children tended what was supposed to be a vegetable garden.But,somehow,the cotton always failed,and the garden,due to Mrs.Slattery's constant childbearing,seldom furnished enough to feed her flock.
