Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [242]
“Is it all right, Doctor?”
McGuire moved away from the bed, said, “Certainly, Captain Smith, please come in. The general is doing quite well today.”
Smith moved toward the bed, bent down to one knee, said, “General? You feeling better?”
Jackson looked at the young face, the sad eyes, said, “Don’t concern yourself about me, Mr. Smith. I am in God’s care now. But . . . tell me . . . how are we faring . . . ?”
“The fight? Oh, General, the enemy is gone, across the river. We’ve secured the high ground around Chancellorsville . . . and along the river. General Stuart did well by you, sir. And the Stonewall Brigade . . . right in the middle of it, sir. They were fighting for Stonewall, I heard that all day.”
Jackson nodded, smiled, thought, Why must they do that? “Captain, I would appreciate it if you would not refer to me that way. There is too much of the self-seeking . . . the name Stonewall belongs to the men who earned it, the men who fought at Manassas. God would not be pleased if I carried a label I do not deserve.”
Smith looked down, stared at the floor, smiled to himself. This man would never be known as anything but Stonewall.
“Sir, the men . . . they honored you . . . a good fight. They all think of you, sir.”
“The men . . . Captain, many years from now those men will be able to recall this war with the unique pride of the soldier, something no one will ever take away. They will be proud to say they served in the Stonewall Brigade. But they did not serve me . . . they served God.”
Smith nodded. “Yes, sir.” There was a silent pause, and Smith stood up, said, “General, I have the ball. Dr. McGuire allowed me to keep the musket ball he took from your hand, sir. It is a round smoothbore, sir. It has to be one of ours.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes. I heard . . . they thought I was asleep. Pendleton . . . I heard them talking. It could not be helped. There is no blame in war. God understands, we must all forgive.”
“Yes, sir . . . it was the Eighteenth North Carolina—”
Jackson lifted the bandaged hand. “No . . . it was the war. We will not place blame. Tell them . . . do not be sad . . . they were doing their duty.”
He began to feel weak, the alertness fading, and he turned, stared at the blank wall. Smith watched him, said, “Sir . . . ? Are you all right?” He stepped back, went to the door, called across to the other room, “Doctor? The general—”
McGuire moved past him, went to the bed, said, “General? Are you getting tired? We can leave you now. You should be resting . . . let the strength return.”
Jackson looked at him, saw the dark heavy eyes, said, “I’m fine, Doctor. Tired. I should rest now. Tell me, Doctor, when was the last time you slept?”
McGuire smiled. “I’m not certain. We should all be concerned with . . . less duty and more care for ourselves. Captain, would you mind leaving us for a while?”
“Not at all, sir.” Smith bent down again, one knee on the floor. “I’m right outside, General.”
Jackson looked at him, tried to focus, but the fog was flowing through his brain again, and now the strength was gone, and he felt himself rising, drifting out . . .
. . . he heard the shots, the fresh volley, heard the hard slap of lead, splitting the skull of the man beside him, and the man crumpled, dropped in a solid mass, and the litter turned, spilling him, and he hit the ground hard, on his side, and the pain tore through him, burning, the hot hard stab of the bayonet, and now he was staring up into the dark, could not see the treetops . . . and now saw the shadows, the window, thought, I’m still in the bed, the clean white room. But the searing blast of pain did not fade, was still there. He reached over, tried to feel it with his left arm, the hand not bandaged, felt the hand move across his body. He tried to touch the hurt and could not, tried to probe with the fingers, could feel them moving, and he held the hand up to his face, but there was nothing there, no dark shape. Now he was awake, his mind clearing, and he knew there was no hand