Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [196]
“Certainly, General. She is not feeling well today. There seems to be some illness in this house. All the children have come down with a fever. Please, come in.”
He followed her into the house, he felt the heavy layer of quiet, and lightened his steps, self-conscious of his boots on the hard floor. She led him into a small parlor, and he saw Mrs. Corbin, Jane’s mother, bending over a small blanket. She turned, looked at him, smiled weakly, and he went to the little girl, saw the blond hair spread over a small white pillow.
“Well, now, what is this? How can I play with my friend if she insists on staying in bed?”
He waited for the laugh, the small giggle, but she only smiled up at him, held up a hand and tried to reach his short beard. He saw the look in her eyes, suddenly straightened, said to Mrs. Corbin, “I will have my doctor, Dr. McGuire, attend to her. I will send him immediately.” She nodded, grateful, and he backed away, saying, “I must return to my men. I will send Dr. McGuire.”
Then he turned and marched from the house.
THEY WERE camped now in a large field, in sight of the broad plain where Jackson had held his lines against Meade. The staff filed from the small mess tent, had enjoyed the unusual and rare gift of a smoked ham sent to the headquarters from a local farmer, who clearly had a talent for hiding his bounty. Jackson was last out of the tent. He rubbed his stomach, listened to the casual talk from the others, how long they would be in this spot, the warmth of the spring weather. He thought of writing a letter, had received a new note from Anna detailing the joys of his tiny daughter, and he began to form his words, maybe a prayer, but heard the sound of horses. There were two riders out on the road. It was Pendleton . . . and Hunter McGuire.
McGuire was not much older than the young staff officer, had come to Jackson’s staff from Winchester, a choice made mainly because he was well known among the others. He was a well-educated man, even by medical standards, had received formal training at the University of Pennsylvania. By now he had built a solid reputation for medicine, advised many of the older surgeons, and no one doubted he was the best man Jackson could have chosen for the job. Jackson had an instinctive respect for the neat and efficient young man, and as Pendleton and McGuire walked toward him, there was something in the doctor’s face that turned Jackson cold. He did not move, waited. Pendleton saluted, and Jackson did not look at him, kept his eyes on McGuire.
The doctor glanced down at the ground, said in a low voice, “It was scarlet fever. The children are all right. I gave them some . . . they will be fine. Except . . . I am terribly sorry, General. The little girl . . . Jane . . . did not survive. She has died, sir.”
Jackson stared at him, did not speak, fixed his eyes on McGuire’s face, and McGuire turned away, could not look back at the sharp glare of Jackson’s eyes. Abruptly, Jackson stepped away, marched out between the tents, out into the field. Pendleton began to follow him, the others as well, but they slowed, stayed back, watched as he moved away through the thick green grass. Then suddenly he sat, on a short stump, put his head in his hands and began to sob.
Pendleton stayed a short distance away, felt McGuire’s hand on his arm. “What is it?” Pendleton said. “He’s never cried before . . . not for all the blood and all the death. There was something about that little girl. . . .”
McGuire nodded quietly, said, “A general cannot cry for his men. They cannot even cry for each other now. This army has cried all its tears.”
“But he has not.”
They stood, and around them troops gathered, curious. They saw Jackson now, and no one spoke. They watched in silence as Jackson poured out his grief, and they did not move, stayed quietly around him as the dark night filled the field.
42. CHAMBERLAIN
April 1863
THERE WAS no other explanation: