Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [13]
“Well, no, I wouldn’t mind. Wouldn’t mind a’tall.”
Jackson led him toward the carriage, and the old man walked around to the far side, warily eyed the climb up.
Jackson mounted, reached out a hand to the old man, who struggled, grunted, then, with Jackson’s help, reached the seat. He looked at Jackson and studied him, but Jackson was looking toward the small road, the high grass. He slapped the horse with the leather straps.
The old man steadied himself against Jackson’s arm as the carriage rolled onto the old road, then said, “You don’t live around here . . . I’d know it. What you doing here, son? Why you come back here after so long? This is not a place people just happen by.”
Jackson drove the carriage, didn’t speak. They bumped along past thick clumps of bushes and tall trees, and Jackson felt the delicious coolness of the thick woods, realized he was sweating, anxious. He felt the old man’s hand, holding on to his arm, could not think of the right thing to say, the answer to the old man’s question.
“I came back here to see her. I miss her.”
The old man nodded, said, “I reckon we all miss somebody.”
The road became muddy, and Jackson knew the river was close. The old man put up a hand. Jackson stopped the horse.
“I believe . . . wait, no . . . there, over this way.” The old man pointed the way, and Jackson steered the carriage through the woods.
The carriage splashed through a thick muddy bog, the horse kicking black mud in the air, and then the road appeared again, a slight rise. They entered a clearing and Jackson could see flat ground, the edge of a small river, a small meadow of green grass, a huge oak tree, and across the meadow, on the far side, before the old man could point to it, the depression in the earth, the unmarked resting place of his mother.
Jackson reined the horse and stepped off the carriage, jumping down onto soft ground. His hands were sweating and he felt his heart pound.
The old man said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here. I ’spect you want to be alone anyhow.”
Jackson didn’t answer, walked softly, silently, toward the sunken grave. At the lower end, away from the river, he stopped, knelt, reached out a hand and touched the grassy ground. He ran his hand along the edge of the depression, felt the lush grass between his fingers, the cool moisture wetting his hands, and put a hand to his face, touched the wetness to his cheek. He sat now, closed his eyes. He thought of Dr. White, tried to pray, not to God, to her, but it would not come, he could not talk to her. He sat quietly, thought back, stared at the small sounds of flowing water, began to remember her, the strong arms, the soft voice.
His mind began to carry him, drifting through the sweet smells of her kitchen, the clear summer days and the snows of the winter. He could see his sister, just a baby, and began to feel what it was like, being the great protector of her tender helplessness. He saw the small bedroom, saw himself, just a young boy, seven, and his sister, older now, holding on to him, reaching up to grip his hand, and they were very quiet, staring at her in the bed . . . and now he was there, and it was real, and he saw the pain, the awful hurt in his mother’s dying face, and he leaned over, touched her face, held her now, felt her breath fading away, and she reached for him, wrapped him in her arms, and spoke, soft words, but he could not hear and he tried to answer, and she spoke again, the words coming in clear, quiet sounds, and now he heard, understood, he felt her warmth, her love, and he knew that God was there, and it was all right. . . . He began to pull away, remembered it all now, gently closed the dark and silent place, felt the dampness of the grass again, knew now that she sat with God and loved her children still.
3. CHAMBERLAIN
November 1859
IT WAS cold, very cold, and he felt the sting in his cheeks, a slight burning pain in the edges of his ears, the delicious feeling of being totally alive, every nerve, every part of you totally awake, every breath of the cold air filling