Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [227]
Jackson said, “Doctor, I have absolute faith in your abilities. You must do what is necessary.”
McGuire nodded slowly, said, “We have chloroform . . . it will make this much easier for you.” Jackson shook his head, and McGuire said, “No argument this time, General. You will not please God if you endure pain needlessly. This is not a test of courage.”
Jackson smiled, knew that McGuire understood him well. He closed his eyes, a brief prayer, Forgive me . . . but I must follow orders. He looked again at McGuire, and now the smiles were gone. McGuire said something to one of the other men, and there was a hand above him, and a white cloth, and Jackson closed his eyes, felt the soft cotton against his face, took a long, deep breath.
His mind began to spin, a swirl of light, and above him, far away, he heard music, faint, soft. Then it grew, swelled into a loud and glorious march, deep and rhythmic, the smooth and regular cadence of soldiers on the move, men who could do anything. . . .
51. STUART
Sunday, May 3, 1863
HE SAW Rodes first, rode up quickly toward the larger tent. Then the others came, Colston, Harry Heth, and more, men he did not know.
He had ridden alone, left his men up at Ely’s Ford, a crossing that was now dangerous because it offered the Federal Army a clear route behind their new position, the ground they had won by the collapse of the Federal flank. Late in the day, Jackson had sent him up to prevent anyone from coming that way, if there was a Federal commander who recognized the opportunity. They were surprised to find the ford already occupied by a large force of Federal cavalry, Averill’s brigade, and Stuart knew he did not have the manpower to drive them away. But this night, there was much edginess, and it would only take a good, solid surprise to hold them back, keep them nervously dug into one spot.
But the attack had begun without him. A. P. Hill’s courier had reached him with the message, and he did not wait, gave Von Borcke the job: strike fast, retreat, then strike once more.
He had pushed the horse hard, reached the turnpike at a fast gallop, pulled up now at the new headquarters, near Dowdall’s, close to the former center of Howard’s position, but now well behind their own lines.
He did not bow, did not sweep the ground with the ridiculous hat, looked hard at the men waiting for him, saw the eyes of confident soldiers who know they need direction.
There were salutes, and they let him pass by, followed him into the tent. It was warm, from the dull heat of an oil lamp. He saw a small table, a wood chair, sat and motioned to small seats spread around the tent. They followed, quiet now, looking at him, waiting.
“Do we know if General Jackson is alive?”
Rodes looked at the others, spoke up. “He is seriously wounded, his arm . . . not sure where he is now, but we have not heard more since he was taken from the field.”
“General Hill was with him.” Heth stood now, tall, nervous. “General Hill was wounded shortly after . . . not seriously, but he cannot walk. He has appointed me. . . . As senior brigade commander, I have assumed command of his division. If you do not object, sir.”
Stuart motioned. “Please, General Heth, please sit. This is a difficult time for us all. We must pause, say a prayer for General Jackson, and keep our heads cool. Yes, I quite agree with General Hill. Unless General Lee requests otherwise, you are now in command of Hill’s division.”
Heth sat down again, all knees and elbows, stared at the ground, said, “General, have you been informed who it was . . . how General Jackson was wounded?”
“Is it important? Our concern is with his recovery and his return to the field. Revenge cannot be—”
“Sir, it was our own troops. General Lane . . . it was the Eighteenth North Carolina.”
Stuart stared at him, absorbed, said, “My God . . . are you certain?”
Heth nodded, still looked down. After