Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [56]
From the hallway, Julia quietly walked in, sat softly by her father, looked at Jackson. “Major, my father has been through . . . well, you know. It is not right for him to spend the rest of his life fighting a war. He has given all he should have to give, all God ever expected him to give.”
Jackson nodded, did not see things the way the old man did, did not see the blessings of God on Mr. Lincoln’s war, but he was not prepared to argue with the old man. If he could not be of comfort, could not say the right words, he would have to just say nothing and let them go.
“When will you be leaving?”
Julia looked at her father, and the old man took her hand, smiled weakly at her, turned to Jackson.
“She’s going with me, you know. So much like her mother . . . I suppose this old man needs to be looked after.”
Julia said, “We’ll be leaving this week, Major. We have some family waiting for us. The sooner, the better, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jackson heard more voices outside, louder now, saw Julia look toward the front windows, saw the fear, and he stood.
“Doctor, we all must do what we believe God wants us to do. I have prayed for this country, I have prayed that God would stop this, would end all this talk of war, of this rebellion. . . .”
He paused, suddenly realized this would be the last time, that the old man would never come back. But he could not let it go, could not let the old man leave without understanding why he himself would stay. He knelt down on one knee, close to the old man.
“I have spoken to the church, to Dr. White. Many others . . . We have tried, we have prayed and asked all good Christians to pray, that this might not go any further. How can a nation founded on the principles of the Almighty allow this . . . destruction? I have no answer to that . . . except that we do not make the war. The God-loving people of this country are not making this war. The people up there . . . Mr. Lincoln . . . this is their . . . they are . . .”
He stopped. The old man’s eyes were not looking at him, he did not hear him, and Julia looked at him pleading no, not this, not now, and Jackson understood, he could not make this fight with the old man. He stood up, held out a hand to Julia, and she rose.
The old man said, “What, you leaving, Major? Well, my my . . . there it is, I suppose. . . .” He tried to stand, struggled, and Jackson leaned to help him, lifted him under the arm.
The old man straightened himself, looked at Jackson, stared straight into his eyes and spoke very slowly, deliberately, “Major, I will only say . . . you are wrong. God will damn all those who fight to destroy this country.”
“Father, please!” Julia said, and looked at Jackson. “He doesn’t mean that . . . really, Major. You must understand. They have taken his school from him. It’s all he has left. You must understand.”
Jackson nodded, put out a hand, let it hang in the air toward the old man, a last gesture. The old man looked at the hand, then looked at Jackson’s face, a part of his family still, and he took the hand, gave it a weak shake, let go, turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Jackson watched him go, did not speak, and gave a short prayer: God please watch over him, he has always been Your good servant. Then he turned to Julia, who was crying silent tears. He wanted to say the right thing, to heal the hurt, but it was not there, there were no more words, and so he turned away and went to the front door.
The students began to cheer him when he stepped out, and a young voice called out, “Did you straighten him out, Major?” and others joined in.
Jackson stopped at the edge of the porch, looked at a small sea of youth, said, “There is nothing for you to do here. Go back, join your friends at your celebration.”
He stepped down through the small crowd, and they followed him. He made his way toward the open green, where the larger crowd still cheered the new flag, and now more people