Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [246]
Anna bent over, held the baby out, set her down on the bed. The baby made a small noise, and Jackson’s eyes opened and he stared up, far away. McGuire moved closer, thought, He could make a sudden move, but then he saw something in Jackson’s face, and Jackson’s eyes turned to the side, and now they were clear and sharp, and he looked at Anna, then turned, saw the small blanket and the moving hands, and closed his eyes, smiled, said, “My sweet daughter . . . my little Julia . . .”
Anna reached out, sat the baby up, and the small hands began to wave, the high sounds came again. McGuire moved closer, stood at the foot of the bed, felt something now, in the room, looked around, the plain simple walls, and the room was suddenly alive, the dreary darkness fading, the sun suddenly flowing in, clearing out the dark spaces.
McGuire looked back to the bed, watched them both, heard the sounds, Jackson’s hard, short breaths, and the sweet small sounds from the smiling child.
Jackson began to drift away again, his eyes turning dimly toward the ceiling, and Anna picked up the little girl, glanced at McGuire and nodded, a quiet thank-you. He looked at the child, thought, She was right, it can only do some good . . . a small piece of life to break through the darkness of this terrible place.
The group filed back outside, and soldiers began to move toward them, expectantly, waiting for some word. Smith waved them back, silently, and Anna carried the child back to the big house.
McGuire did not go with them. He moved to the small, hard couch, sat in the growing shadows, watched Jackson breathing. Minutes passed, and he heard the door again, did not stand, saw Anna alone. She looked at him, said, “Dr. Morrison tells me that it will be over soon, that it is certain. Is that so?”
He nodded, resigned.
“Does he know?”
McGuire shook his head, said, “I have not told him.”
“Then I will. He must know. He must be prepared. He must know it is the Sabbath, it will comfort him.”
He looked toward the bed, said nothing, understood now, for the first time, that his job was truly done, that he was no different now from the rest of them, the soldiers outside, the chaplains, praying for miracles, and the newspapermen, gathering slowly in the distance. There was nothing to do now but wait.
He could still smell the baby, the scent was still beside him, and he tried to see her again, tried to focus, but there was nothing, only a soft white, the glow of sunshine through the thick woods. The sounds began to come back, the fight now distant, but the low thunder still reached him, and he thought, No, I am too far away, they have gone ahead . . . too fast. He stared now at the river, his army was far across, and around him there was no one, a quiet calm, and he caught the baby’s scent again, and he saw something, out in the river, a figure, a woman, and he wanted to say . . . no, it’s dangerous, the fighting . . . but now the sounds had gone, the army was far away, and he watched the woman, drifting across the surface of the water, moving slowly toward him. He stood motionless, waited, and now he knew her. It was his mother, young, the face as it had been, before, without the pain, the illness, the woman who laughed and played with him. He stared, tried to speak, but there was no sound, and she smiled, moved closer still, and now he reached out, and she shook her head, no, not yet. Suddenly he was very small, and they were at the swing, and he was pushing his baby sister, and his mother was laughing, a sweet sound like soft music, and he turned to her, and she said something, playful scolding, that’s enough, it’s time to go. He turned now, and the swing and his sister were gone, and he was not a child, saw now, the uniform, his hand, the bandage, the empty sleeve, and she was leading him out of the woods, out to the water. He saw the trees beyond, filled now with a soft light, large wide oaks, a carpet of soft leaves, and she held her arms up to him, spoke to him, faint,