Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [241]
54. JACKSON
Wednesday, May 6, 1863
DAYS BEFORE . . . he had lain awake, listening to the steady roar, the thunder of the big guns in the woods beyond the field hospital, and then muskets, waves of shooting, and sometimes, he thought, It had been very close. McGuire gave him something . . . he had wanted to ask, but his mind would cloud, thick fog, and the pain would be stopped. He could see McGuire’s face, calm, confident, and so he would not object, would accept the medication, the prick of the needle. It had been Sunday . . . the Sabbath. We should not have to do that . . . to fight on His day, he thought, but now he lay quietly, did not know what day it was . . . how long it had been.
The fog had cleared, gradually. He could see the room, saw something new, a white ceiling, remembered, We are no longer in the field. . . . His eyes followed a small crack in the plaster, a long curving line, and he stared at it for a long time. The voices and the men were around him, and then it was quiet. He did not know if he was awake or asleep, but then the thin line would grow, move closer, heavier . . . and he saw now it was a snake, blue and fat, and he watched it move and twist, injured, wounded, rolling madly, convulsing, and he saw men, soldiers, bayonets, and the snake would not die, kept twisting . . . and then he knew he was awake, because now the snake was gone, was just a long, thin crack in the plaster.
The hospital had been a dangerous place. The shifting flow of the battle had put it close to the shelling, and McGuire and Smith had made arrangements for him to be moved. Jed Hotchkiss and the engineers had led the way, cleared the small road of the refuse of the fighting, shattered trees and sharp holes, and the steady flow of men and wagons had stood to the side, men with hats in their hands, sad salutes and soft crying as the ambulance had passed.
McGuire had received permission directly from Lee to accompany Jackson away from the field. He had hesitated to ask, knew of the common practice of men of high rank, who often treated their army’s doctors as their personal physicians, the foolish exercise of privilege that left wounded soldiers unattended. But Lee had no hesitation, had ordered the move, knew that if Jackson was to recover, there was no one better than McGuire to guide him through it.
The Chandler house lay along the railroad line, below Fredericksburg, at Guiney’s Station. The war had made Guiney’s a busy place, and the Chandler plantation had suffered, as did all the rich farmlands of central Virginia. But for now it was safe and comfortable, and Jackson had agreed, remembered many kind invitations to make their home his headquarters. Now it would be his hospital.
They had brought him to a small building below the main house, a simple, square two-story structure, two rooms down and two up, and in one of the lower rooms, a bed had been placed, with fresh linens. He was carried there, could see out a tall, narrow window to the trees beyond and the bright warmth of the sun.
He was beginning to feel stronger, was awake more, less drugged sleep. McGuire set up the other downstairs room for his medical office, bandages and dressings, and he was completing his examination of Jackson’s wound, the surgery.
“Hmm . . . yes, General, very good. It is healing nicely. Is there any pain . . . here?”
Jackson felt the probe, the pressure in the shoulder. “No. No pain.”
McGuire stood, nodded. “All right, then, we’ll dress that again, and I’ll check it in the morning. How’s the hand?”
Jackson raised the clump of bandages, turned it, moved the fingers. “It seems fine, Doctor.”
“It was not bad, should heal completely . . . sore for a while, but you’ll have full movement in a week or two.”
Outside, there were horses, voices, and the outer