Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [194]
Yes, he thought, I will tell them: Pendleton . . . Smith. They can do this. I will read what they recall, and if it seems accurate, I will sign it. He nodded, pleased with himself, his aggravation resolved. He thought of lemonade then, realized he had a great thirst, knew the women in the house would always accommodate him. He looked around the tent, spotted the wide black felt hat that Anna had sent him, reached for it, and heard a small sound outside. He stopped, silent, peered toward the flaps, saw a small movement along the bottom and smiled, then moved quietly closer to the sound with slow, light steps. He could hear the sound again, the small giggle, and through the flaps came a small pink hand, then more, the tiny face, a beaming smile. Jackson knelt down, surprised the little girl with a quick grab, pulled her up and into the tent, and she burst into loud and happy laughter. He held the child up above him, toward the top of the tent, and the surprise passed. She was smiling now, reached for the hat on his head, and he set her down.
“No, child, you cannot have my hat. It might be a bit large. . . .” He removed it, saw the strip of gold braid that wound around the hat, pulled, and it came loose in his hand. He tossed the hat aside, wrapped the gold braid around the girl’s head and tied it up around the fine golden hair.
“Well, now,” he said, “I believe that suits a young girl better than an old soldier.”
She laughed again, touching the braid.
“Now, I was just about to go for some lemonade. I would very much like the company of one beautiful five-year-old girl.”
She nodded, smiling brightly, and he led her out of the tent. He picked her up and set her gently down on his shoulders, her oversized dress bunching up, covering his face, and he stumbled about. “Oh no, I cannot see,” he said. “How shall we find the house?” She began the high sweet giggles again, and he staggered unevenly across the yard, went up to the porch and into the house.
In the yard, near the other tents, Jackson’s aides had watched the scene, and Pendleton said, “No soldier, on either side, who has ever shared the field with Stonewall would ever believe what we have just seen.”
The others laughed, heads were shaking, and the group began to disperse, attending to their own duties. Pendleton went toward Jackson’s tent, held a handful of new reports, ducked inside, looked for a place to set them down and then saw the blank paper on the table. He understood Jackson’s difficulty with battle reports. There were small dots—a dozen pencil marks where Jackson had tried to begin writing. Pendleton sat down in Jackson’s chair, thought of what he’d just seen out in the yard. Around the fires, at dinner, Jackson would sit quietly while the staff joked and kidded, and when he would laugh, it was sudden and awkward, and Pendleton thought, He laughs like a man who doesn’t know how. Yet, out there, with the little girl, he had been as open and free as a child himself, nothing reserved, no shy withdrawal. Pendleton picked up the pencil, began to write:
The Official Report from the Second Corps, Lieutenant General Thomas J. Jackson Commanding: The Battle of Fredericksburg . . .
THEY WERE camped on the vast grounds of Moss Neck, a plantation spread out a few miles below the plains of Fredericksburg. It was the home of Richard Corbin, his wife and child, and his larger family, some of them refugees from other places, places now consumed by the war. Corbin himself was away, assigned to duty with the army, and so the women commanded the household, and the little girl, five-year-old Jane, commanded