Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [17]
I need to come up here more often, he thought, the hills, the great wide silence. Give it time.
Fannie had been reluctant to marry him, had worried about his career, their ability to raise a family. But Fannie was already happier, and there would be more children. He smiled at that, thought, A son, I would truly love to have a son, to bring him up here, show him this world, maybe even teach him to hunt, if he wants to. He might be better at it than I am.
He felt a cold wetness coming up through his pants, the melting dampness from the icy stump, but he did not move, sat still for a while longer, felt a great weariness, the need to go back. He looked down at the musket, cradled in his arms, looked along the dull metal of the barrel, saw rust spots, small brown circles, thought, Better work on that, I will certainly get the blame. He straightened his back, began to reach his arms up, a long stretch, and in the thick silence he heard a noise, a slight crunch of snow. He turned quietly, saw movement a few yards away, behind a tree, and then a deer emerged, a few short steps, and was clear of the tree.
Its head was down, searching along the ground, prodding small openings in the snow, for some small piece of brown grass, and Chamberlain saw he was huge, antlers wide and tall and heavy, and a thick neck, a chest like a brown barrel, larger than any deer he had ever seen, and the deer eased along, did not yet see him, and he brought the gun slowly up to his shoulder, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, slowly, slowly, and the hammer clicked lightly into position. The deer raised its head, froze, looking at him, and he sighted down the barrel, placed the small metal bead on the animal’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. There was a loud snap, and the gun did not fire. Chamberlain had leaned forward, anticipating the heavy recoil from the old gun, nearly fell off the stump, and there was a quick flash of the white tail and the deer was instantly gone.
He stood up, his heart pounding heavily, thought of running after the deer, another chance, but knew it was pointless. He looked at the gun, said aloud, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and he started walking, began to move back through the woods, toward the trail.
They will never believe me, he thought, and laughed nervously, stopped, felt his hands shaking. An icy chill ran down his legs, and he knew it wasn’t just the cold; he had never felt like this before. He had never enjoyed shooting anything, but this had been pure instinct, without thought—he had never wanted to kill something so badly in his life, and now it shook him, frightened him. He started walking again, quickly followed his own tracks back toward the trail, smelled the smoke again. He reached the trail, began a quick stumbling descent to the house. Far above, drifting down through the tops of the tall trees, it began to snow.
4. LEE
November 1859
AT LAST the house was quiet. He had tried to do some work, sat at the desk in the old man’s study, but the girls seemed especially playful that morning. Young Robert, Jr. had been their victim, and the joyous cries had echoed through the vast rooms like the sound of bells. Lee hadn’t stopped them, would not interfere, had just sat back in the old chair and listened with a quiet smile. It was Monday morning, and the schools were calling, and Lee wondered if the chance of getting out, of spending time away from the grim house was having an effect.
Mary was still upstairs, and Lee knew she was still in bed. The nights were difficult, the pains kept her awake for long hours, and Lee could do nothing to soothe her, to stop the pain.
Now the children and the happy sounds were gone, outside and away, and once again the house was still. Lee picked up a sheet of paper, ran his finger down a long list of materials, the lumber and hardware still needed for repairing the house.
Of all the tasks he was facing, the repairs came slowest. The fall harvest was completed, and there was more time, and so he