Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [27]
The wagon rolled on slowly, approaching the scaffold, and Jackson watched with a tense gripping in his gut. The first chilling days of December had arrived without incident, but to the experienced officers, the wild rumors had become troublesome; the cadets could be easily spooked. There was talk of a vast number of Negroes, arming, heading in a crazed mass toward the town to free their leader. It was said that the Federal Army had abandoned the area, had assumed the worst and fled, leaving these boys to fight off a revolution.
Jackson knew of rumors, had heard a continuous stream of them in Mexico, knew they followed an army like flies. He did not believe there was a revolution, that there would be a fight here. But if there was . . . he glanced at the polished brass of his big gun. The townspeople spread out, people scrambling for the good view. Then they began to quiet, a great weight pressing down upon them all, any sense of celebration pushed away by the presence of the troops, these quiet boys with guns.
The wagon passed close to Jackson, turned, and stopped at the scaffold. He tried to see Brown’s face, to get a close look at the eyes. How different this was from war, he thought, to wait for death slowly, to know with total certainty it was coming, would not catch you in the heat of action, snatching you suddenly from your duty, but was there in front of you, and you approached it with slow, steady steps. He felt an odd respect for that, watched Brown move deliberately from the wagon up the wooden stairs. As he reached the platform, Brown smiled, made a comment to the sheriff, and said something to Colonel Smith, who stood somberly to one side. Jackson looked up at the few men now on the platform, saw no minister, no man of God, and he was surprised, could not understand that, the rejection of God. Jackson thought, He seems . . . cheerful, does not show any sign of fear, is not appealing for mercy. . . .
Now Colonel Smith gave a quiet order to the sheriff, who said something to Brown, then placed a white cap over Brown’s head, covering the smiling face. The crowd now began to move, the slow pulse of expectation, and Jackson heard the anxious muffled voices. It would be very soon.
Colonel Smith then read from a document, and Jackson could not hear the words, knew it was the death warrant, the governor’s order. Then Smith motioned to the sheriff, a brief nod, and the sheriff leaned toward the colonel, made certain, and Jackson saw the sheriff’s hand, the simple instrument of death, saw the blade flash, cutting the rope. The trapdoor, the floor beneath Brown’s feet, opened with a clatter that startled the crowd, made them all jump in one sharp beat. Brown’s body dropped down quickly, then caught, and Jackson heard the small sound, the rope tightening, and Brown’s arms jerked up, bending at the elbows, small twitches in the stillness, and then down again, and then no motion. The body hung with a stillness that froze all who saw it. There was a light breeze, and the body began slowly to turn, to spin, and Jackson looked down and said a prayer. Dear God, let this man pass over and be with You, even if he did not ask . . . did not understand . . . he is Your own.
Then he heard a voice, a mad scream from the crowd, “Burn in Hell!” and others followed, hard shouts and small cries for damnation.
He looked back to Brown’s lifeless body, thought, Perhaps it is meant for him to pass below, into the fires of Hell. Jackson clenched his fists. He could not bear that, could not believe that men could be judged to be so wicked, and that others would be so eager to condemn their brothers to a flaming eternal death.
6. HANCOCK
September 1860
THEY RODE in single file, twelve of them, dressed in the bright colors of the Spanish army, or what they knew of that army, so far away. Wide red sashes were wrapped around their waists, and their hats sprouted long thick plumes, plucked long ago from birds no one here had ever seen. They rode slowly,