Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [151]
A month earlier Lee made the corps system in his army official. With the approval of President Davis, Longstreet and Jackson were promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General. Longstreet was still the senior, which Davis had heartily approved, since he had never been comfortable with Jackson’s independent spirit. Lee understood that Davis had to be convinced that Jackson was not a threat to Davis’s sensitive illusion that he held tight control over the army. Lee had insisted that Jackson was as important to the army as Longstreet, and he had finally defused Davis’s uneasiness.
Jackson received the news of the promotion without comment, saw no reason to change his routine. His staff had wanted to offer some celebration, but he would not have it.
He still carried the letter in his pocket, had ridden all day without telling anyone, did not want the congratulations, did not want God to see too much happiness. Now, as this day ended, they were approaching the hills of Fredericksburg. He ordered them into camp, resting the army within a short day’s march from Longstreet’s defensive lines.
After the evening supper, he returned to his tent, read the letter again, had waited all day for the quiet moment. He thought, I must answer, there will be time tonight. Tomorrow they would begin the deployment of the troops, spreading the divisions to the south of Longstreet’s strong solid line.
He rose from his small hard seat, stepped out into the camp, saw the campfire, and his staff noticed him, began to gather. He walked stiffly to the fire, raised his hand high over his head, stretching his back, feeling for the pain in his side. He looked at the faces, saw Pendleton, tilted his head, asking a silent question, and Pendleton nodded, bowed slightly, was quickly gone. The others watched, did not understand. Jackson held his hands up to the fire, absorbing the heat.
Captain Smith moved closer, said, “General, I have seen the deployment of General Longstreet’s troops. We are in a very strong position, sir.”
Jackson looked at him, said nothing, then looked past, saw Pendleton hurrying back toward the fire, carrying a small wooden box. Jackson waited, and Pendleton lifted the lid, revealing small yellow balls nesting in a soft bed of straw: lemons. Jackson reached for one, held it up in the firelight, pulled out his pocketknife and sliced it in half. Smith glanced at Pendleton, who replaced the lid on the box, slid away toward Jackson’s tent, placed the box inside the flaps, then returned to the fire. Smith watched Jackson stuff the half lemon into his mouth, looked again at Pendleton.
Pendleton said under his breath, “A gift . . . from Florida. They come all the time . . . from the same place. . . .”
Smith whispered, “Who . . . ?”
“Don’t know. I don’t ask.”
Jackson paid no attention, stared deep into the fire, bathing his throat with the tart juice.
Pendleton turned toward a noise, and now there were voices, and they saw the rider, the huge German, Von Borcke, from Stuart’s camp. He rode clumsily, his wide girth spilling over both sides of his straining horse, seemed ready to tumble to the ground with every step of his much pitied animal.
“Greetings, vat ho!”
Hands were extended, and Von Borcke looked past the men toward Jackson, who still stared into the fire.
“General, goot evening. I come . . . bringing you a present!”
Jackson’s head jerked up, suddenly aware, and he stared at the huge man with wonder. Heros Von Borcke was unlike any man in the army. He was still an officer in the Prussian Dragoons, had slipped through the Federal blockade at Charleston, had crossed the Atlantic with a strange obsession to fight with the rebel army, finally arriving in Richmond with much fanfare and a public plea to be allowed to fight.
It was Stuart