Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [225]
They began to move quickly down the trail. He tried to run, felt the hands holding him up, saw others coming up the trail toward them, carrying a litter.
He stared at the soft, dirty cloth, thought, No, I will walk, heard a familiar voice, Captain Smith, and tried to see the young man’s face. But the hands pulled him down, laid him down, and now he was on his back.
Smith leaned close to his face, said, “General, are you in pain? Can I give you something? Here . . . take this, it will help.”
He put a small bottle to Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson thought, No, I don’t need anything. The liquid wet his tongue, burned his throat, and he wanted to say no, but the liquid burned down deep, the warmth spreading through him. Then Smith took the bottle away, and Jackson smiled at him.
“Mr. Smith, I should have a word with you about this. . . .” He felt himself rising, lifted up, could not see Smith’s face now, only the tops of the trees, the moonlight, small specks of light, the stars. He tried to feel the pain, could not, knew it was not just the whiskey, thought, Thank You. He tried to lift his head, but the litter was bouncing, and he remembered . . . Hill . . . fresh troops. We should not have stopped.
There was a sudden roar of fire, a new burst of light. Federal cannons were firing blindly into the rebel positions, and now the men dropped down, lay flat. Overhead, limbs and small branches flew into pieces, wood and dirt rained over them. A body was suddenly across his, and now he saw Smith’s face, close, shielding him from the debris. He wanted to speak, to say something to the young man, tell him thank you, but there was no voice, and he knew he was now very very weak. I will die here, tonight, he thought. He tried to see God, to ask why . . . this place? But his mind was foggy, swimming, he could no longer see the trees.
The shelling stopped, and they rose in unison, picked up the litter, and four men held the corners as they again moved toward the road. Now, musket fire, more Federal troops, and there was a small, sharp crack, lead against bone, and one of the men suddenly grunted and crumpled, dropping the litter. Jackson rolled off to the side, landed hard, felt a sharp pain in his side, slicing through him. He was suddenly alert again, tried to twist, to roll off the pain, his mind screaming inside, Make it stop, and the hands were on him again, and he was mercifully on his back and they were moving again.
They reached the road, and now more soldiers were around them, the lines of his men. Hill was suddenly moving quickly, saw an officer, a captain, the man questioning, and Hill said, “Tell your men nothing. It is a wounded Confederate officer.” The man looked past him, tried to see, and Hill heard horses, the ambulance, and he pushed the man aside.
The man went over to the litter, looked down into the face of Jackson, suddenly dropped to his knees, said, “No, oh dear God, no...”
Jackson heard the man, but his mind was now moving far away, and he turned his head, could see beyond the trees, the rising red glow of the fast-moving fires. He looked to the man again, tried to see, but the face was framed by the wall of red, and Jackson stared hard, eyes wide, saw the flames now moving toward him, laughing and dancing, and he looked back to the face, wanted to say . . . to ask . . . would talk . . . must talk to God, but now the face went away, and there was only the fire, the pain burning him from inside, and he was too weak to stop it, to fight it, and his mind finally gave in, and he drifted further away now, beyond the fire, felt the strong hands lifting him again, and he slept, believing that it was God’s hands, and He was lifting him toward Heaven.
THE LITTER was up and in the ambulance, and Hill looked at Smith, said, “Where will you—”
“Dr. McGuire is at Dowdall’s. We have sent word. I will keep you informed, General.”
Hill nodded, turned, saw his aides and moved toward his horse. He knew it was his responsibility