Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [25]
“Not healthy, not at all,” he said aloud.
These days his health seemed to come and go, the pains in his side, his poor vision. He had taken trips to the hot springs and water spas over the summer, but it was Anna who worried him. She had still not recovered from the baby’s death, and he missed her quick energy, her playfulness. She had taken the water treatments with him, had seen the same doctors, but seemed to be no better.
He stood stiffly, put his hands on his hips, made dirty handprints on his cotton trousers, looked out over the garden. Surely, this will please God, he thought, an offering, the labor of new life. He bent down, rubbed his fingers along a short green stem, prickly and rough. These are Your children too, he thought.
Townspeople had passed by throughout the day, small carriages and lone riders, and at midday he had seen the stage to Staunton. There were friendly greetings, and he had acknowledged them, returned waves. There was space behind his home, a fine spot for a small garden, but it was not enough, and so he had bought this piece of plain land, barely outside the expanding boundary of the town, a flat field hugged by the rolling hills, and people would stop just to admire, to point and wave at the major, this odd professor who so thoroughly groomed his small farm.
He looked again at the clouds, the dark movement, thought of home, the good smells of supper, wiped his hands on an old rag and began to step past the neat rows, toward the main road, when he heard a shout.
“Major! Major Jackson!”
It was a cadet. Jackson could see the uniform bouncing on the back of a horse, riding wildly toward him from the town. The boy was waving one arm, then had to use it to steady himself, then waved again. Jackson thought, Not a very good rider, something we should work on . . .
“Major Jackson, sir!” The boy reined up, jumped from the saddle, stumbled sideways and landed in a heap of gray and white. The horse did not stop, ran on a short way, contemptuous.
The boy gathered himself, grimaced, felt a knee, then stood at attention and saluted. Jackson returned it, though, as the boy quickly noted, his ragged farming clothes did not present him as any kind of officer.
Jackson waited for the boy to catch his breath, then said, “You all right, cadet? Nasty fall.”
“Yes, sir. Not my horse, sir, had to grab the closest one, and well . . . Sir, I have been instructed by the commandant, by Colonel Smith himself, sir, to request in the strongest terms that you report to the colonel as soon as is possible, sir.”
Jackson straightened, wiped his hands again. “Now? Is there some problem?”
“Sir, I have only heard reports that we have been called to duty, sir. By the governor.”
“The governor? Well, all right, then. You return to Colonel Smith, report that I am right behind you. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The boy walked gingerly toward the horse and took the reins. The horse allowed him to mount, and with a quick yelp from the boy, it turned and carried its rider toward the town.
Jackson started down the road at a quick pace. His house was on the way to the institute, and it would not take him long to dress. Behind him, in the west, the thick clouds rolled forward, the unstoppable flow of the coming storm.
IT WAS dark when Jackson arrived at the commandant’s office. There were other officers there, small quiet talk, anxious whispers. Jackson closed the heavy door behind him, stood in the entranceway, nodded to the others, saw both dress and casual uniforms, a hasty assembly.
From down the hallway there was a voice. Cadets moved quickly by, saluting the officers. Jackson watched the young faces, tried to recall the names, as Colonel Smith stepped noisily into the room.
“Gentlemen, as you were. Sorry to call you out like this, evening meal and all, I know . . . but we have received some orders, a rather important assignment. Allow me to read it.”