Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [122]
“There, boy, whoa . . . calm down.” And now Taylor looked toward the soldier, saw others moving up with him, muskets raised, yelled out in an angry burst, “You damned fool, this is General Lee!”
The men put their guns down, saw now that the horsemen in the black raincoats were not Yankees. A sergeant emerged from the men, came closer, saw Lee and said, “Oh, my God . . . oh, my God.”
They helped the general up, and he found his feet, his hands loosening from the straps. The officers were quickly around him and he was held under the arms, carried to the trunk of a fallen tree, sat down on soggy wood. Now he looked at his hands, felt the pain twisting through his hands and arms like fire. He heard someone call out, and from the woods men began to gather. He heard someone yell for a surgeon, and he stared at his hands, thought, this is bad . . . and it is very very painful.
A man was pushed through the crowd of soldiers, and Taylor brought the man forward, said, “General, this is a doctor.”
Lee looked at the man, saw an older face, gray beard, felt some comfort in that, and the man said, “Dear me, General, what have you done to yourself?”
Lee rested his elbows on his legs, and the doctor put his hand under the elbow, lifted it gently.
“You have a broken bone in your hand, General,” the doctor said. “I can set that . . . and the other one. . . .” He lifted the other arm, bent down, looking it over. “Nothing broken, it seems, but quite a sprain.” He looked at Lee’s face, and Lee was staring down, was trying not to look at his hands. The doctor said, “General, you are in a great deal of pain. Let me get you something—”
“No,” Lee said, shaking his head. “You cannot drug me, Doctor. Not now. I will be all right.”
“Whatever you say, General. But I do have to set that bone. You will feel better if you at least drink something. I have some whiskey, here, always carry it. Just a small swig—”
“Thank you, Doctor, no. Just do what you can.”
The doctor handled the arms carefully, and Lee stared ahead, past the men, who were now being scattered, sent away by his staff. The pain in the right hand, the hand with the broken bone, was not nearly as bad as the other, and he wondered at that: bending is worse than breaking, he mused, I would not have thought that . . . but . . . either way . . .
He tried to focus on other things, Pope, the battle, but the pain was enormous, and he felt as if the one arm was on fire. Now there were bandages and splints, the doctor working quickly. Taylor stood behind, looking over the doctor’s shoulder, and said, “It’s all right . . . it’s all right,” and Lee knew Taylor was convincing himself.
He turned, tried to see the young face, said, “Yes, Major, I will be fine.” But his voice shook, betraying the effect of the pain, and he thought, Of course, this is punishment . . . God’s way of saying every victory has a price. Yesterday was . . . too easy. It must never be too easy.
The doctor finished his work, and the staff lifted him up, helped him to a wagon, an ambulance that had been brought up. He was helped aboard, sat on a thin mattress, and the driver saw his face, recognized him, snatched his hat from his head and held it against his chest as he began to cry, “Oh Lord, what has happened to General Lee?”
There was an embarrassed pause, and Lee looked at the man, surprised at the outburst. “Soldier,” he said calmly, “I have been inconvenienced, that’s all. It is a small price for the inconvenience we have given General Pope.”
POPE CONTINUED to pull back, and his troops filed now into the massive fortifications near Washington. Lee did not pursue, there was too much strength. McClellan’s army was united with Pope’s, and for now they were safe. Lee knew there would be no fighting for a while, that it would take a fresh start of some kind, a new Federal