Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [245]
Jackson took a short drink, then turned his head, said, “Ahhhgggg, it is so sweet. Too much sugar. Always the problem with my esposita’s—” He stopped, and McGuire was smiling, and Jackson saw Morrison now, and he said, “She is here.”
“Yes, General. Lieutenant, would you please escort Mrs. Jackson in?”
Morrison went out, and now McGuire backed away, waited, and the young lieutenant had his sister’s arm, led her into the room.
She stared down at the clear blue eyes, saw the weakness, something she had never seen, and suddenly she could not look at him, at the wounds. She dropped down, laid her head on his chest, held his right arm, careful not to touch the bandages. Behind her McGuire made a small noise, motioned, and the two men left the room.
He felt her, soft sobs, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her into him the way he always had, and he tried to feel the left arm, pull it over her. It would not move, and he began to cry now, softly, small tears falling onto the pillow, and he closed his eyes, said softly, “Esposita . . . esposita. . . .”
Sunday, May 10, 1863
He was staring out at the river, and across, the enemy was lining the banks, preparing, long battle lines, and he felt the horse rear back, and he waved the sword, and now the guns began, a solid line of fire poured across the river, and his men moved forward, over and across the water, and the sounds rushed around him, the rebel yell, the steady roar of muskets, and the enemy faded back, away, the lines utterly destroyed. Now his men pushed on, into the far woods, and the yells continued, echoing, softer now, drifting back toward him. Around him, more lines, his men still coming up beside him, and he yelled out. . . .
“Order A. P. Hill . . . prepare for action! Pass the infantry to the front!”
McGuire heard the words, moved closer, listened. Jackson had not slept well, had burst into long streams of speech, nonsensical, gasping, and McGuire understood, the medications, the morphia, were no longer effective. He listened to the breathing, the short quick rhythm, worse now, worse each day.
He moved out, through the doorway, into the other room, where his equipment, the towels and bandages, lay in organized rows. He stopped, stared at the instruments, a black leather pouch laid open on the table, shining steel blades, tongs, small, pointed scissors. He folded the pouch, rolled it up, carefully tied it closed with the small attached ribbon.
He went to the window, looked out toward the big house, saw more troops, a whole company of men. There was no fight now, and the army was regrouping. Many of the men had come here without permission, and the officers did not question them. There were no bands playing now, no typical sounds of the camps, and each morning the men had been given a prayer service, led by Chaplain Lacy. But now Lacy was gone, had returned to the corps to lead services for the army, observing Jackson’s emphatic belief in the importance of the Sabbath.
He saw Anna now, coming down from the porch of the house. She carried a bundle, and he shook his head. No, he thought, this is not a good idea. She had insisted, said it could only help, and McGuire understood that he had no place to deny this, that it was for them, both of them, that even if Jackson was far away, did not know them, the mother would always be able to tell the child—he saw you before the end.
He moved to the door, and it was opened. He saw Smith and Anna’s cousin, Dr. Stephen Morrison, who had been Jackson’s personal physician before the war, and now Sandie Pendleton was there, from the corps headquarters. They all came in, quiet, and McGuire looked at the child, the small soft face, and the child smiled at him, waved its arms in a quick flurry of motion. He felt something deep, pulling at him, and they passed by him and continued into the room where Jackson lay.
The only sounds came from Jackson, high and quick and rasping, and no one spoke. The men stood close behind Anna, glanced at McGuire. They did not