by Jeff Shaara
Mrs. Chandler nodded, said, “Yes, my dear, yes. You should talk to Dr. McGuire first.”
She stopped, turned, knew they were not going to tell her anything, and she said, “Please, take me to him.” The baby began to cry now, and she looked at the small face, thought, It has been a difficult trip. She looked at Mrs. Chandler.
Now, a girl moved closer, said, “Please, Mrs. Jackson, allow me to put the baby in bed. We have a place made up special, for both of you.”
Anna saw the eagerness, soft kindness. “I suppose . . . all right,” she said. “I will rest a bit.”
They led her into the house, up to her room, and she laid the baby down in a small bed. Her bags were there now, and she looked at the faces of the women again, and began to feel overwhelmed, the anticipation, the stress of the trip passing.
She sat wearily on the edge of the bed. “I must have a moment . . . please. Thank you for all your kindness.”
The girl was leaning over close to the baby, and Mrs. Chandler said, “Lucy, let us allow Mrs. Jackson to rest. Please, excuse us, Mrs. Jackson. . . .”
The woman nodded, a faint smile, and Anna looked to her bags, and the door closed softly behind her. She stood, felt a deep yawn rising in her, moved to the baby, sleeping again, and she smiled and said in a whisper, “Soon . . . we will be a family again . . . this will be over. . . .”
She moved toward the sunlight, a tall window, looked out over the thick green grass of the wide yard, saw troops, men with shovels, and they were digging hard, throwing dirt into a wide pile, and she felt a sudden cold shock. They are digging a grave. She tried to see, could not, her eyes thick with tears. She stayed at the window, thought, Why have they not told me? Behind her there was a soft knock at the door. She turned, angry now.
“Yes?”
The door opened, and she saw the face of the young doctor. He bowed slightly, said, “Hello, Mrs. Jackson, may I be allowed to come in? I would like to speak to you before you visit your husband.”
“Visit him?” Her voice was rising, tears running down her cheeks. She pointed toward the window. “So, am I allowed to visit my husband before he is buried?”
McGuire was puzzled, looked toward the window, said, “Buried? He . . . is not . . .” Now he saw the men, the shovels. “Oh my . . . no, no, Mrs. Jackson. That is not a grave. Well, it is . . . but, not, oh no. . . .”
She wiped her eyes, looked out, watched them working again. Now men jumped down into the hole, began to lift something, and she felt her stomach turn slowly, thought, What is happening? A long box appeared, was slowly lifted, and several other men moved closer, lifted it farther, away from the hole.
“Ma’am, that’s the body of General Paxton, Frank Paxton. He was killed during the fighting. His body is being moved, taken back to his home in Lexington.”
She stared down at the box, said, “Yes, I know Mr. Paxton . . . General Paxton. He is our neighbor. His wife . . . she cried when he left. I suppose she knew something like this would happen.” She was calm now, looked at McGuire, waited.
“Lieutenant Morrison . . . your brother has told you about your husband’s wounds. We removed his left arm, patched his right hand . . . it is healing well, I am very pleased. But . . . there is a new problem. I believe he now has pneumonia.”
She stared, felt the words, said slowly, “May I see him, Doctor?”
“Certainly. He is weak, I have given him medication, to help him sleep. He is in some pain. The medication makes him . . . drift away . . . in and out. He may not recognize you, but I am certain your presence would be most welcome.”
McGuire stood aside, and they moved downstairs together. Anna suddenly stopped, a familiar smell, saw the young girl and said, “Oh, Miss Chandler . . . Lucy . . . do I smell lemons . . . lemonade?”
The girl smiled, said, “Yes, ma’am. We received a box of lemons yesterday . . . a gift . . . someone from Florida. Mother is making lemonade for the soldiers. Would you like some?”
Anna smiled, said to McGuire, “Please, go on ahead, Doctor. I wish to prepare a surprise for my husband.”
SHE SAW her brother, and Captain Smith, and she walked toward them, carried the tray carefully, and now her brother moved to her quickly, said, “Anna . . . here, let me. Very kind—”
“No, Joseph, it is not for you, it is for Thomas. Before I see him . . . would you please see if he is awake, and offer him this glass? I would like it to be a surprise.”
He smiled, said, “Of course. Captain Smith, may I take this inside . . . for the general?”
Smith bowed, nodded to Anna, tried to smile, said, “Please do, Lieutenant. I heard the general talking just a few minutes ago. He is awake.”
McGuire was beside the bed, saw the lieutenant come in, and the young man nodded, motioned to the glass. McGuire understood, said, “General, we have a treat for you, something you may have been missing.”
Jackson lifted his head, saw the glass, said, “Another of your medications? Very well, Doctor.”
“No . . . well, not mine, actually. But should do you some good.” He held the glass, lowered it to Jackson’s mouth.
Jackson took a short drink, then turned his head, said, “Ahhhgggg, it is so sweet. Too much sugar. Always the problem with my esposita’s—” He stopped, and McGuire was smiling, and Jackson saw Morrison now, and he said, “She is here.”
“Yes, General. Lieutenant, would you please escort Mrs. Jackson in?”
Morrison went out, and now McGuire backed away, waited, and the young lieutenant had his sister’s arm, led her into the room.
She stared down at the clear blue eyes, saw the weakness, something she had never seen, and suddenly she could not look at him, at the wounds. She dropped down, laid her head on his chest, held his right arm, careful not to touch the bandages. Behind her McGuire made a small noise, motioned, and the two men left the room.
He felt her, soft sobs, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her into him the way he always had, and he tried to feel the left arm, pull it over her. It would not move, and he began to cry now, softly, small tears falling onto the pillow, and he closed his eyes, said softly, “Esposita . . . esposita. . . .”
Sunday, May 10, 1863
… He was staring out at the river, and across, the enemy was lining the banks, preparing, long battle lines, and he felt the horse rear back, and he waved the sword, and now the guns began, a solid line of fire poured across the river, and his men moved forward, over and across the water, and the sounds rushed around him, the rebel yell, the steady roar of muskets, and the enemy faded back, away, the lines utterly destroyed. Now his men pushed on, into the far woods, and the yells continued, echoing, softer now, drifting back toward him. Around him, more lines, his men still coming up beside him, and he yelled out. . . .
“Order A. P. Hill . . . prepare for action! Pass the infantry to the front!”
McGuire heard the words, moved closer, listened. Jackson had not slept well, had burst into long streams of speech, nonsensical, gasping, and McGuire understood, the medications, the morphia, were no longer effective. He listened to the breathing, the short quick rhythm, worse now, worse each day.
He moved out, through the doorway, into the other room, where his equipment, the towels and bandages, lay in organized rows. He stopped, stared at the instruments, a black leather pouch laid open on the table, shining steel blades, tongs, small, pointed scissors. He folded the pouch, rolled it up, carefully tied it closed with the small attached ribbon.
He went to the window, looked out toward the big house, saw more troops, a whole company of men. There was no fight now, and the army was regrouping. Many of the men had come here without permission, and the officers did not question them. There were no bands playing now, no typical sounds of the camps, and each morning the men had been given a prayer service, led by Chaplain Lacy. But now Lacy was gone, had returned to the corps to lead services for the army, observing Jackson’s emphatic belief in the importance of the Sabbath.
He saw Anna now, coming down from the porch of the house. She carried a bundle, and he shook his head. No, he thought, this is not a good idea. She had insisted, said it could only help, and McGuire understood that he had no place to deny this, that it was for them, both of them, that even if Jackson was far away, did not know them, the mother would always be able to tell the child—he saw you before the end.
He moved to the door, and it was opened. He saw Smith and Anna’s cousin, Dr. Stephen Morrison, who had been Jackson’s personal physician before the war, and now Sandie Pendleton was there, from the corps headquarters. They all came in, quiet, and McGuire looked at the child, the small soft face, and the child smiled at him, waved its arms in a quick flurry of motion. He felt something deep, pulling at him, and they passed by him and continued into the room where Jackson lay.
The only sounds came from Jackson, high and quick and rasping, and no one spoke. The men stood close behind Anna, glanced at McGuire. They did not know what to expect, waited, would be there, unless . . . she asked them to leave.
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, soft words, It is time, He is waiting. In the trees, the light began to glow brighter, and he could feel her now, all around him, her warmth, her happiness, and there was no pain, no sickness, and he put his hand on his chest, no bandage now, suddenly felt the last hard breath, the last hard stab of pain, and the light from the trees began to wash over them and she spoke to him again, and he could hear her now, from deep inside, her voice filling him.
“Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.”
THEY ALL stared, heard the words, and now there was silence in the room. On a small mantel a clock was ticking, and McGuire looked at it, had not heard the sound before, saw: three-fifteen. Anna was sitting beside the bed, reached out, touched the bandaged hand, then leaned both arms onto the bed, put her head down. Pendleton stood behind her, looked at McGuire. The doctor nodded, and Pendleton eased away with quiet steps, left the room and went outside.
In the yard, men had gathered, most stood, with hats off, waiting, and now Pendleton stopped, looked at the faces of the men, and no one spoke. He said, “The general has died.”
The sounds began to flow across the open spaces, low and heavy, and men began to cry. Some collapsed to their knees. Now, Smith came out, said to Pendleton, “We must wire General Lee.”
Pendleton nodded, said nothing, and Smith waited, said, “I can take care of it . . . I’ll go to the station.”
Pendleton looked at him, put a hand on his shoulder, nodded, still did not speak, and Smith moved away, slowly, past the soft sounds of the men.
Anna sat up now, stood, and around her the others still said nothing, would wait for her. She looked around the small room, said, “Thank you . . . for all you did.”
Dr. Morrison moved closer, said, “May I escort you back to the house, to your room?”
“Thank you, Stephen.” She looked at her brother, standing at the foot of the bed, and the young lieutenant moved around, took her other arm, and she turned, a last look at her husband before they led her slowly from the room. McGuire waited, heard the outer door close, then moved closer to the bed and pulled the blanket up, over Jackson’s face.
Outside, Anna saw Tucker Lacy, climbing down from a carriage, and Lacy moved quickly, alongside them, said to Dr. Morrison, “I just heard . . . men, out on the road.” He looked at Anna, moved in front of her, said, “Take comfort, he is with God now.”
She looked at him, deep black eyes. “There is no comfort in this, Reverend. My husband is dead . . . my child has no father.”
Lacy held up his hand. “Seek comfort in God . . . He is there for you.”
“Is He, Reverend? All I have ever asked is that He give me back my husband . . . allow him to survive this war and come home to his family. There is nothing else I have ever wanted.”
Lacy lowered his head, said, “Please . . . rely on your faith, do not turn away. He will comfort you.”
“Will He? Would it not be of greater comfort if He did not allow this war to happen at all? How much comfort must He give . . . how many wives and children need His comfort now?”
Lacy lowered his head, and Dr. Morrison said, “Please, Anna, let us g
et some rest. This has been hard for all of us.”
She felt a sudden wave of weakness, slumped against him, and now both men held her and they moved past Lacy, who wanted to say more, raised the hand again, but she was gone now, up the steps, into the house.
McGuire was alone in the dreary room, sat down on the hard couch, stared at the bed, at the lifeless form. He heard the outer door open, and now Pendleton was there, stood in the doorway, looked at the bed, then moved to a corner of the room, sat on the floor and stared down between his knees.
“What will become of us now?”
McGuire looked at the young officer, said nothing, did not know what soldiers were supposed to do, it was not a question he could answer. He listened to the ticking of the clock, began to think about the arrangements, the casket, the memorials, the funeral, imagined a long procession through weeping crowds. . . .
Suddenly there was a new sound, from outside. He looked toward the window, and Pendleton raised his head, and the sound began to fill the room, loud and piercing. Outside, the soldiers had gathered close to the cottage, and through the tears their voices rose together in one high chorus—the rebel yell.
55. LEE
Sunday, May 10, 1863
HE HAD sent them away, Taylor, the others, reporters and well-wishers, was alone now in the tent. The desk was covered with paper, a hundred requests, promotions, supply, and he could not look at any of it, sat in the small, stiff chair and stared at the blank walls of the tent.
On the table was also a wire, from Jefferson Davis, requesting he come to Richmond, discuss the new strategy. He would go, of course, do it all again, knowing that soon Hooker would be gone and someone else would fall into the role, and the war would start up, all over again, as though none of it had happened before.
