Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [12]
“I don’t reckon there is, son, um . . . Major, you say? Woodson? You in the army? Indian fighter?”
“It’s Jackson, my mother married again just before she died. I’m Virginia Militia. I’m a professor at VMI.”
“VMI—what’s that? A professor?” The old man was obviously disappointed. “I’m an old Indian fighter myself, Texas, the cavalry. Back then, well, we had it really rough, not like these boys today. You see them fancy repeating revolvers? Well, Major . . . Jackson, I don’t know no one with any of them names around here. Check with the lieutenant outside, we have our troops stationed here, all good men, good Indian fighters. Just come back from Texas, you know, cavalry. Watch that cornfield over there, they sneak up every now and again. Arrow flew in here just . . . well, there, over there. Dang near got me too. Stay down here, the floor, safe.” The old man made a cracked wheeze, coughed.
Jackson followed the man’s gesture, saw no arrow, began to understand.
“Thank you, sir. The . . . the lieutenant seems to be off duty. Can you tell me where I might find someone who can tell me more?”
“Yep, check with old McLean . . . yep, McLean, he’s around the town most of the time. Old guy, older than me even, hee. Gray head. Jake it is, Jacob McLean.”
The old man coughed again, kept talking. “You bring a regiment with you? I heard drums last night, they’re planning something, I tell you that. I stay here, on the floor.”
Jackson nodded, turned, and stepped gratefully back into the sunlight. Across the road, away from the few buildings, was a huge cornfield, stretching to the hills beyond. He walked to the edge of the field, thought, Maybe a farmhouse, saw no one, and a voice behind him said, “You, hey, you there! You aim to steal some corn?”
Jackson turned, saw an old man, bent, gray, with a crooked cane. The man was well dressed, dark wool suit, looked out of place.
“Sir, I’m trying to find some information . . . a man named McLean. I’m looking for—”
“Well, you found him, son. I seen you come outta the store, there. You been talking to Jasper?”
“I didn’t get his name,” Jackson said. “He told me to watch for Indians.”
The old man laughed, shook his head. “Yep, old Jasper brought all those Indians home with him from Texas. Brought a good love of the strong spirits too. There’s a lot of that around here. If these people ain’t shootin’ at their neighbors, they’re drinking themselves crazy. We had to take his gun away, his old musket. He was prone to takin’ a pot-shot over that countertop every now and again. Doubt he’d ever hit anything, but it weren’t good for the mood of the town.”
The man began to laugh, stopped, eyed Jackson again. “We don’t see many newcomers around here. Not a place many people happen on . . . visitors usually stay to the east of here, on the big road.”
Jackson began to feel the frustration, wondered if everyone here did nothing but talk, felt a warmth creeping up the back of his neck.
“Sir, if you please, I am looking for the grave of my mother. Julia Neale Jackson Woodson, died near here many years ago.”
The smile slowly left the old face, and Jackson saw clear eyes looking him over, studying him.
“Julia was your mother?”
“Yes, sir. My name—”
“You’re Tom. Her youngest boy. I remember you, see it in your eyes.”
Jackson felt a rush of relief. “Yes, yes, did you know her? Do you know where she is buried? I’m here to see her . . . to see her grave. I haven’t been back here since . . . since then.”
“I reckon I oughta know. I helped dig the grave.” The old man turned, pointed his cane down a rough trail. “Down this way, a mile or so, by the river.”
“The river?” Jackson didn’t recall water.
The old man turned, looked at him. “I reckon it has been a while since you been here, eh, son? The New River, at the end of this road here. Not much of a river actually. Dries up now and again. But a nice spot for a grave. As I recall, she picked it out herself.”
Jackson looked down the dim road, branches hung low across, barely room for a carriage to pass.
“Would you mind showing me . . . taking