Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [224]
Behind them there was the deafening blast of a big gun, one of Hill’s, a pointless blind shot toward the Federal lines. Then came the answer, several bright flashes, and around them limbs shattered, dirt flew up, and both sides turned quiet, nervous fingers wrapped on tight triggers, waiting for some movement, some telltale sound.
Jackson felt the chill of the night, the damp sweat in his uniform, reached behind the saddle for the black rubber overcoat, pulled it quietly over his shoulders, and they kept moving, into solid dark broken by small pieces of moonlight. Behind him the staff drew up, closer. A burst of fire came from the Federal troops, a short volley from a line of muskets exploded in the woods from the right, then he heard a low voice behind him, and a hand touched his shoulder.
It was Lieutenant Morrison, Anna’s younger brother. Morrison said, in an anxious whisper, “Sir . . . we are beyond our lines. This is no place for you, sir.”
Jackson stopped the horse, raised his hand, halting the group. He understood now, it could not go the way he had hoped. It would have to be in the morning.
“You are correct. We will return to the road.”
He turned the horse, began to move quickly now, and the others followed. Now, below them, close in the thick brush, a man’s voice. “Halt! Who is that?” and another voice, a sharp command, “It’s cavalry! Fire!”
There was a quick sheet of flame, and behind him, Jackson heard the cry of horses and men falling.
One of the aides rode toward the troops, shouted, “No, stop firing . . . you’re firing on your own men!”
Then came a strong hard voice, the voice of a veteran who has seen cunning and deceit, and who understands that his men are the front of the line, and that before them is only the enemy. “It is a lie! Pour it to them!”
The second volley was better aimed, the moonlight silhouetting the men on horseback. Jackson spun around, tried to reach the shelter of trees beyond the trail, and he felt a hard tug at his hand, a hard, hot punch in his shoulder. The horse lunged, terrified, began to run away from the noise, jumped and jerked, and now it was Morrison, beside him, grabbing the reins that Jackson had dropped. He felt himself sliding, tried to reach for the saddle, could not grab with his hand, slid down the side of the horse and fell hard to the cold ground.
There was more yelling now. Horsemen were coming toward them on the trail. It was Hill and his staff, and Hill yelled toward his lines, said, “Hold your fire. These are your men here!”
His staff rode quickly toward the line of rifles. Hill came forward, saw the bodies scattered beside dying horses, and he dropped down from the horse, moved through the dark, said, “Oh God . . . what have they done?”
He saw one more man on the ground, and another man kneeling and Hill said, “Who is this?” He saw the face of young Morrison then, and Morrison was crying.
Hill moved around. A small piece of moonlight crossed Jackson’s face. “Oh . . . God . . . General . . . are you hurt?”
“I am afraid so, I am hit in the shoulder . . . and . . . here.” He raised his right hand, turned it in the faint light, tried to see it, to see where the pain began.
Now there were more shots, from above the trail. The Federal lines were moving forward, and Hill turned to one of the aides, said, “Get an ambulance . . . a litter! We need a litter!”
The aide hesitated, stared at the blood flowing from Jackson’s shoulder, soaking into his uniform, said, “Oh my God . . .”
“Move!”
The aide looked at Hill, then turned and was gone.
“We must leave here, General. Can you walk?”
Others had gathered, and a tourniquet was wrapped high around