Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [9]
He glanced up, saw the sharp point, the small cross at the top of the distant steeple, lowered his eyes again. Looking down the dirt street, he moved quickly now, with purpose, thinking, I will not be late.
The little girl had been only a month old, a small piece of pure light, and Jackson had thought, This is our reward, God is pleased and has allowed us to feel this joy. But this baby too did not live, was suddenly gone, and he felt the loss as if a piece of him had been torn away. Blessedly, Anna had survived, and no, there would be no pain, God had shown him something important, a lesson he must not forget. And so, while Anna had grieved, and her health had suffered, Jackson had gone back to his classroom.
He had often struggled with the notion of God, was not raised with any strict adherence to one church, but the gradual ending of the war in Mexico had taken something from him. When the duty that had driven him with such pure energy was drifting away, his real search began. He even considered becoming a Catholic then, defying the prejudice that many of the soldiers held. He learned Spanish and spoke often with local priests. But there was something about the papacy he found uncomfortable. He had difficulty accepting that authority, preferring to pursue instead a more personal service to God. In the peacetime army his duty was stripped down to mundane and pointless tasks, and so his religion had given him a new purpose, another place where his duty was clear. If he could not serve the army, he would serve God, and his enemies would be any temptations, any distractions, from that course.
He was in the street now, away from the campus. Cresting a short hill, he glanced at the high steeple. He felt excited, thinking of Dr. William White, the Presbyterian minister who had given him a comfortable home for his young religion, a man who did not insert himself into Jackson’s worship, who understood that God was to be found well beyond the walls of White’s own church.
Jackson did not look at the people along the street, did not feel the eyes watching him, staring at the sharp uniform, the crisp white pants, the blue jacket, brass buttons tight to the neck. He did not feel them staring as he reached into his pocket, felt for the hard round ball, pulled it free and shifted the book to his other arm. He reached into another pocket for a small knife, and then, with a quick slice, cut the ball in half and abruptly stuffed one piece, dripping and sticky, into his mouth. It was a lemon.
It was another experience from Mexico—the variety of strange and exotic foods. He had discovered lemons, tasted the sour tartness with the enthusiasm of a child, allowed himself one small piece of pleasure. He felt some guilt even for that, but knew, unlike many of the others, he had kept his path straight, that God had perhaps given him this small gift, this one small treat. Now, as the sharp ribbon of juice filled him, he thought of the baby. The pain tore through him, and he stopped, closed his eyes, said quietly, “No . . .”
Now he saw the people, their eyes, and he nodded, touched the brim of his cap, and continued his walk toward the church.
HE STARED down, between his knees, thought of words, how to begin. Dr. White sat behind the old desk, a thin man, slightly bent, waiting, patient.
“I am in something of a turmoil, Doctor.