Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [211]
Jackson said, “Please go there at once, Mr. Lacy. Find us someone who can tell me how I might proceed.”
Lee smiled, said, “Then we have decided, General, that this mission will be yours.” He nodded, smiled to himself. “I would not have it any other way.”
IT WAS surprisingly cool—a damp mist blew through the trees. The meeting was over, the men who had a job to do were out on the road. Pendleton was adding wood to the fire, stirring it with a small stick, and Jackson was searching the ground, began to kick at some pine straw, pushing it together, forming a bed. He coughed, a loud, raspy sound.
Pendleton turned, said, “General, you sound like you might have an affliction. Are you feeling all right?”
Jackson nodded, cleared his throat, realized he felt very weak, tired, and it was very late. “We will rise early, Major. The men must be up and moving quickly. General Lee will be expecting to see me well before dawn.” He coughed again, rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, felt a slight pain, and sat down on the pine straw.
Pendleton was watching him. “General, please . . . take this . . . here,” he said, and he removed the black rubber overcoat, moved over toward Jackson, held the coat out.
Jackson looked up, shook his head. “No, Major. Do not discomfort yourself on my account. This night will pass quickly.”
Pendleton began to pull at the coat, separating the long lower flap from the topcoat, a series of small metal snaps.
“At least, sir, take the bottom part. I will not need more than this.”
Jackson saw the young face, genuine concern, and he nodded. “All right. Thank you . . . bless you, Major. Now, let us get some sleep.”
He lay flat on the straw, felt something hard, realized he had not removed his sword. He sat up, unbuckled it, then turned and reached out toward a tall pine, leaned the sword upright against the trunk of the tree. He saw Pendleton, lying still now near the fire, and he said a prayer, a quick thought for the boy. Above, the wind blew the thick mist down through the trees, a sharp, cold breeze. Jackson fought against a cough, stood, walked quietly to where Pendleton lay, heard the faint, steady breathing of the tired young man. He draped Pendleton’s coat over the young man’s legs and moved back toward his own bed. Jackson stretched out on the damp straw, another small cough, and he rolled over, lay on his side, the side that did not hurt. Now a new breeze came through the tops of the pines, a hard whisper, swirling toward the sleeping soldiers. The sword, held by the glow of the faint firelight, was lifted by the voice of the wind, suddenly slid away, dropped down hard on the straw-covered ground.
Saturday, May 2, 1863
HE WAS a boy, but he had spent his young life in these woods, had seen the brush thicken into a vast tangle, covering the old trails, and so he had made new ones, had explored the creeks and climbed the hills. Now he would guide the army, the army he was too young to join. He would lead them away from the eyes of the Yankees.
Jackson had been up for a while, had barely slept at all, and now he was on his horse, moving slowly among his troops, the troops that would soon be on the march.
Lee was still asleep as Jackson eased toward the pine grove and dismounted. In the faint light he could see one of the staff, working on the fire. He walked through the grove, and the young man watched him, nodded, said nothing. Jackson eased closer to the dark form on the ground, paused, watched the slow breathing, then said, “General Lee?”
There was motion, and Lee’s bare head peeked from under a blanket.
“What? Time? Oh . . . thank you, General. Be right with you.”
Jackson backed away, moved toward the boxes. The map was there now, spread out by the young aide, and the man went quietly back to the fire.
Lee, in the firelight now, putting on his coat, looked up at thick darkness, said, “General, your Mr. Lacy came to me . . . late . . . earlier this morning. He told me there is another road, a road that will take you well below the