Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [11]
“Doctor, thank you.” Jackson stood abruptly, and White leaned back in his chair, saw the look he had come to know as Jackson’s own, the face that says, It is time to move on, to take the next step.
SHE STOOD high on the small porch, above the hard dirt street, watched him slap at the horse. The carriage lurched, then began to roll slowly away.
He saw the look, the dull pain, and tried to make her smile, waved foolishly, exaggeratedly, then stood up precariously. Now she laughed, softly, and shook her head. He sat back down on the small wooden seat, pulled at the horse, and the carriage stopped.
“It will be soon. Really.”
She nodded. “I know, Thomas. It is a good thing. . . .”
“You can come along . . . still. . . .”
“No. This is for you. I will be fine. The garden needs tending.”
He turned to the horse, nodded quietly, thought, Yes, the garden . . . that will also please God. He looked at Anna again, thought, There will be comfort for you as well. She waved now, the smile faded, and she began to back away, into the house, and he knew it was time to go.
He drove the horse with a long whip, bounced along, holding straps of worn soft leather in his hand. There were high hills and thick woods, then a farmhouse, orchards, vast fields of ripening corn. He rode down the Shenandoah Valley, northward, through the most beautiful land he had ever seen, the treasured land of home. He would gaze, marveling at a farmer’s good work, the neat rows that covered the countryside, and then in the distance the high mountains, the Blue Ridge, the Alleghenies. He rode with purpose, the passion of the good mission. He did not feel the painful bouncing, did not fight the dust. It was bright, and warm, and perfect, and he stopped only to rest the horse. After many hours and many miles, he reined up, saw a small wooden sign with crude letters, HAWK’S NEST.
He stepped down from the carriage, looked for . . . something, not sure what. He saw no people, a few small wooden buildings, one of old brick, a general store, a broken sign hanging loosely over the door. He walked stiffly over, working the kinks out of his legs, patting his chest and pants, freeing the dust.
The store was dark, with one small, dirty window. It did not appear to be open for business, but behind a dust-covered counter sat an old man, deep wrinkles in dark, weathered skin. He slept on the floor, propped up against a sack of flour. Jackson leaned over the counter, studied the strange old face, the etchings of long hard experience. The old man let out a muffled noise, a small snore, twitched a wiry shoulder, and Jackson thought, Let him be, and began to turn away. But the weight of his boots sent a loud squeak from the worn wooden planks of the floor, and the old man suddenly woke, snapped to, looked at Jackson with the fear of a wounded animal.
“Who are you . . . what . . . ohhh.” The old man grabbed his head, looked away in obvious pain, then back at Jackson, the fear now annoyance.
“What can I do for you, there, stranger? Pardon me for not getting up . . . bad leg. Bad most everything else too. Damned apple cider . . . A word to you, friend. Don’t mix good corn whiskey with bad apple cider.”
He closed his eyes, groaned again, one hand on top of his head, holding it in place. Jackson stood quietly, wanted to leave, but this was the only person he had seen.
“Pardon my interruption, sir. I am Major Thomas Jackson, of Lexington. My mother is buried here, around this place. I am trying to find her grave.”
“Your mother?” The old man squinted up at Jackson’s face, tried to recognize him, didn’t. “What’s her name? When was the funeral? Indians get her?”
Jackson thought, Indians?
“Her name was Julia Neale Jackson Woodson. She died in 1831.”
“Twenty . . . uh . . . twenty . . . some-odd years ago?” The old man laughed, wiped his nose. “You just now find out about it?”
Jackson did not smile, did not want to explain, had not expected difficulty finding the gravesite.
“Is there a cemetery here,