Crossing (51 page)

McGuire attended him as best he could in the jolting ambulance. It was close to eleven o’clock before they reached the Second Corps field hospital. Dr. Harvey Black, the chief surgeon, had heard the grievous news of Jackson’s injury, and he had arranged for a special tent to be set up for him and had it warmed. They carried Jackson in and settled him on a comfortable cot, covered with warm blankets. Slowly he regained some color, and his short, painful breaths eased. Two other doctors were in attendance.

Dr. McGuire told him, “We must examine you, General.”

Jackson nodded stiffly. It was obvious that he was controlling the pain with his iron will, though Dr. McGuire had given him whiskey and morphia.

McGuire continued, “We will give you chloroform so that you will have no pain. These gentlemen will help me. We might find bones badly broken, General, so that the only course might be amputation.” McGuire paused then asked quietly, “If that is our conclusion, do you want us to go on with the operation?”

Jackson’s voice was weak, but the answer was firm. “Certainly, McGuire. Do for me whatever you think best.”

One of the doctors spread a soothing salve over Jackson’s face to protect his skin from the acrid chemical. Then he folded a cloth into a cone over his face and dropped chloroform onto it, the heavy, bitter odor permeating the room. The general breathed deeply several times and murmured, “What an infinite blessing. Blessing. Blessing … Bless …”

The minié ball was just under the skin of his right hand, and McGuire removed it. He rolled it in his palm and sighed. “A smooth-bore Springfield. Our troops.”

It was indeed necessary to amputate Jackson’s left arm. The skilled surgeons, each of whom had performed this operation hundreds of times in the past two years of war, accomplished it in record time.

The general woke up a couple of times but slept the rest of the night peacefully.

The next day was Sunday, May 3. It was a pleasant, sweetly clear day. All of the fruit trees were blooming—apple, pear, cherry, and peach. Their delicate scents floated on the still air.

General Jackson’s faithful chaplain, Reverend B. T. Lacy, led a small funeral procession of a few of Jackson’s aides and staff officers to his family estate nearby, Ellwood. Yancy trailed behind, exhausted because he had not been able to sleep for worry about the general.

The solemn procession went to the Lacy family burial plot, where a very small grave had been dug. Reverend Lacy and the men said the Lord’s Prayer. And then they reverently interred Stonewall Jackson’s crushed arm.

The Sabbath was always a good day for the general. He awoke and ate a light breakfast and was cheerful. He sent Yancy with a dispatch for General Lee, just a few lines about his wound and the victorious attack the previous night. He visited with Reverend Lacy and told him that he had thought he was on the point of death when he had fallen on the litter, had prayed, and had immediately felt the peace of the Lord enter him, and he still knew that peace. Lieutenant Smith, another of Jackson’s young aides, came in with some reports of the ongoing battle, and Jackson received them intelligently.

Yancy rode as if he were being chased to General Lee’s headquarters. He didn’t want to be away from General Jackson for even a minute. General Lee read Jackson’s few scrawled lines, his handsome face grave. Then he quickly wrote a note and gave it to Yancy to take back to the general. Again Yancy pushed Midnight to his fastest gallop, a ride so smooth it was almost dreamy when he stretched out so elegantly.

Yancy brushed by the aides and officers gathered outside the tent and went in to Jackson. After all, he was the general’s courier, and he had the right to deliver his dispatches to him. “General Lee sent this, sir,” he said.

Jackson said, “Please read it to me, Lieutenant Tremayne.” Yancy read:

Jackson looked embarrassed. Turning slightly away, he said in a choked voice, “General Lee is very kind. But he should give the praise to God.”

That night Jackson slept peacefully without waking up and awoke Monday morning feeling well, and he ate well.

Early on, Dr. McGuire had a note from General Lee advising him to move the general to the rear. The Federals were threatening to cross the Rappahannock at a ford nearby, and they might drive in the direction of the field hospital.

Jackson blithely said, “If the enemy does come, I will not fear them. I have always been kind to their wounded, and I’m sure they would be kind to me.”

The doctors were still discussing whether it would do more harm than good to move Jackson, when they received another note from General Lee that evening. It was peremptory in tone, which was unusual for the courteous general. He
ordered
them to move Jackson.

The next day they put General Jackson in an ambulance, and Yancy packed up his bedroll in preparation for leaving. Captain Wilbourn was returning to the front, and he came to speak to Yancy as he was saddling Midnight. Yancy came to attention and saluted.

“I know that you and Mrs. Jackson are friends, and General Jackson does seem to have a closer relationship to you than to the other aides,” Captain Wilbourn said. “But, Lieutenant Tremayne, do you not feel that you should return to duty?”

“Sir, I am on duty,” Yancy answered, staring straight ahead. “I am General Stonewall Jackson’s courier.”

Captain Wilbourn stared at him for a moment, and then his stern face softened. “I see. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Engineers went ahead of the general’s train, grubbing up roots, removing logs and branches, digging up jutting rocks, and filling in sinkholes and ruts to make the ride in the spartan ambulance as smooth as possible. Reverend Lacy, Dr. McGuire, and Lieutenant Smith rode with him. Yancy rode behind, with Jim driving a cart that had General Jackson’s belongings in it.

The rule of the road was that the heavier vehicles had the right of way. When the ambulance driver tried to make teamsters pull aside, all he got for his trouble were harsh refusals. But when they were told that it was Stonewall Jackson being transported, they ran their wagons into the ditch, hopped out, and stood bareheaded, some of them in tears as the ambulance passed. From them the word passed quickly up the road that “Old Jack” was coming.

They also passed many men, veterans of Second Corps who were very lightly wounded and were walking to the field hospital. They shouted friendly messages to him, and many of them cried out that they wished they had been wounded instead of the general.

All along the road now hundreds of people gathered. Yancy searched their faces and saw in them the same reverence and sorrow that those who knew him well felt. Men stood with hats in hand; women bowed their heads and wept. Many people now came with gifts, whatever delicacies their meager farms could offer. Yancy and Jim collected pails of milk, cakes, pies, honey, dried fruits, bags of fried chicken, and fresh biscuits until the wagon was filled to overflowing. Jackson was endearingly surprised and grateful at the attention.

He was cheerful and bright most of the day, but in the afternoon he grew weak and nauseated. They stopped for a time and opened the ambulance doors for the general to get fresh air. And Dr. McGuire good-naturedly honored Jackson’s old favorite remedy for nausea—cold towels on the stomach. People stood by watching them but remained at a respectful distance. All Dr. McGuire had to do was to ask the nearest man, “Is there a well near here with cold water?”

Half a dozen men and women took off running. The first man that made it back, panting, his face red, had a bucket of icy cold water. When the others came back, they were so crestfallen that Yancy and Jim told them that they were a godsend, too, because all of the attendants were very thirsty and so were the horses. This seemed to cheer them up; it made them feel as if they, too, were helping their revered general.

It was twenty-seven miles to the Chandler farm, a family that Jackson knew slightly. They arrived at about eight o’clock that evening. The Chandlers had taken in many other wounded soldiers, including two that had the highly contagious disease erysipelas, so the Chandlers offered General Jackson their study. It was an outbuilding much like Jackson’s headquarters at Moss Neck Manor. It was a small plain building, cool and shady, nestled beneath three huge oak trees.

After they settled in, Jackson said he was very comfortable. He had tea and bread for supper. A spring thunderstorm broke, with the drowsy rhythm of rain on the roof, and Jackson slept.

Wednesday morning dawned a cool and freshly-washed morning. To Yancy’s surprise, Peyton rode up and greeted Yancy before he went in to deliver his dispatches. After their hellos, he asked, “How is he?”

Yancy answered, “Pretty good, I think. He seems to be in good spirits. And Jim told me that he’s talking about staying here just a few days, then moving to Ashland and resting there for a couple of days, and then home to Lexington to recover. Jim told him, And then you can come back and beat them Yankees better with one arm than they can do with two!’”

Peyton grinned, relaxing somewhat. “As he himself says, ‘Good, good.’ So listen, Yance, these dispatches I’ve got from General Stuart. He told me that I ought to give them to Dr. McGuire and that it would be best if the general didn’t hear. Do you want to go inside and fetch him?”

“Sure. In fact I know General Jackson is sleeping right now. Jim can stay with him while I get the doctor.” He went inside and came out with Dr. McGuire.

Reverend Lacy and Lieutenant Smith were seated outside the general’s bedroom when Yancy told the doctor that there were confidential dispatches for him, and Dr. McGuire had motioned them to come. Peyton handed him the envelope, and Dr. McGuire read it quickly then looked up. He didn’t dismiss Yancy and Peyton; he was not so strict as the officers, and he understood their particular friendship with Jackson.

“General Stuart says that he has received some reports that raiding Union cavalry may be in this district,” Dr. McGuire told them gravely. “He advises us that he can’t send a guard this far from the front.”

“I’ll ride around and do some reconnaisance,” Yancy instantly volunteered. “I’ll watch this afternoon and tonight.”

“If there’s a Yank around, Yancy will sniff him out,” Peyton said. “Indian, you know.”

Dr. McGuire grew thoughtful. “If by chance General Jackson is taken prisoner, I am determined to stay with him, to take care of him.”

Reverend Lacy said, “I, too, will stay.”

“And I,” Lieutenant Smith said.

Yancy said, “I go where Stonewall goes. I’m his courier, and it’s my duty to stay by his side.”

Peyton sighed. “How I wish I could stay with him, too. But without him, the commanders are sending dispatches all over this mess of a battlefield every five minutes it seems. I have to get back. Dr. McGuire, the men are starving for news of General Jackson. Yancy says he seems to be doing well. May I give them a report?”

“Certainly. General Jackson is recovering—”

Peyton interrupted, “Sir, excuse me, but this is so important to the men that I would prefer to write it down just as you say it.” From the courier’s bag he took out pencil and paper.

Dr. McGuire continued, pausing to let Peyton write. “General Jackson’s recovery is very satisfactory. His wounds are healing cleanly. His spirits are good. He is eating very well considering the trauma of his injuries and the surgery. He sleeps peacefully. He is keenly interested in the progress of the battle and is always glad for news of his men. We expect Mrs. Jackson and baby Julia to join us, perhaps tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peyton said gracefully. “I’ll return as fast as I can with this good news.” He mounted Senator, gave them a jaunty salute, and dashed off.

General Jackson seemed to be doing so well that Dr. McGuire decided to let Jim watch him while he got a much-needed night of sleep.

Yancy scouted all over the district that day and night and saw no sign of Union soldiers, cavalry or otherwise. He returned at about midnight and was about to bed down when a shadowy figure slipped outside. Jim came to Yancy’s campfire. “I’m watching the gen’ral tonight. I was thinkin’ mebbe you might like to help me.” Yancy was one of Jim’s favorites, mainly because he was one of Jackson’s favorites.

Yancy jumped up eagerly, and they tiptoed back into the house. Without speaking they took chairs by the general’s bed. On the far side of the room, Dr. McGuire slept on a sofa, his face tranquil, his breaths deep and restful.

And so the two kept watch, Jim with uncomplicated affection, Yancy with somewhat more complex emotions. He esteemed Jackson personally, but he also had the sense of separation from him, the chasm between a mere soldier and the great man that is his leader in the bloody business of war.