Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [193]
HE WAS on his cot, staring into a glow of light, the reflection of the sun on the canvas. He saw Taylor, and Walker, and now he saw more, realized the tent was full of people, and there was a doctor . . . the man who had set his injured hands. He tried to turn his head, felt the pain in his throat, froze into stillness.
The doctor said, “Hello, General. Welcome back. We were a bit concerned, I must say.”
He said nothing, looked at Taylor, saw teary-eyed relief, then tried to turn, and again the pain stopped him cold.
“Easy, now, General. No need to move about.”
“What . . . ?”
Taylor bent over him, said in a hushed tone, “We thought you had left us, General. You collapsed . . . we brought you to your tent. The doctor says you’ll be all right. Just rest. If you need anything . . .”
There was a sound outside the tent, a voice, yelling. “He’s awake. He’s all right!” and now there was more noise, the sounds of cheering, and Lee listened, did not move, looked at the doctor, a question.
The doctor said, “General, if I may have a private word?”
Lee looked at Taylor, who turned, spoke to the others. “Out! Leave the general alone now. We must leave him.”
The men began to file out, and the tent seemed suddenly cavernous, hollow. The doctor sat down on the stool, said, “General, I believe you have a problem with your heart. You seem better now . . . actually, you seem in perfect health. But sometimes it can sneak up on you. The best advice I can give you is take it a bit easier.”
Lee spoke quietly, testing his voice. “Doctor, there is an army out there. They are not likely to allow me much of a rest.”
“General Lee, I can only offer that you will not serve our cause well if you are flat on your back. The best way for you to get back on your feet, or onto your horse, is to rest now. Your young Mr. Taylor seems to be quite capable of managing this headquarters.”
Lee stared at the canvas, nodded slightly. “Doctor, can we do anything to keep this matter somewhat . . . private?”
The doctor laughed, said, “Actually, no.”
Lee smiled. “No, I suppose not.”
The news that he was not seriously ill spread through the army with the same speed and energy that propels word of a great victory. The troops began to find ways to pass by his headquarters more often now, and gifts began to flow into the camp, from the town and from the countryside. He did not stay on his cot long, and within a few days even Taylor could see no difference, none of the tormenting signs of age. Lee began to ride again, to move among the troops, to ride down the broad hill, through the guns and the fields of flowers, staring hard at the hills across the river.
41. JACKSON
April 1863
HE STARED down at the paper, held the pencil tightly, frowned. There were no words. Abruptly, he stood up and walked around the small table, a quick search for inspiration, then sat back down, stared again at the blank page. He tried to recall the battle, could see it all, the smoke and the men, could hear the violent sounds. But . . . he could not write it down, the simple explanation of what happened.
He had gone too long without tackling this job, the painful and annoying paperwork of command. Lee had insisted. There was a lull in the fighting, the army was still in winter quarters, and there would be no better time. But Jackson was not a writer.
He stood again, thought,