Crossing (52 page)

Neither Jim nor Yancy slept, though both of them got up to stretch and move around a bit, careful to be quiet so as not to wake either the doctor or the general.

Jackson seemed to be sleeping quietly, but around two thirty he started getting restless. Then at about three he came awake all at once, his mouth drawn into a tight line, his face grimacing with pain. His eyes quickly roved around the room, and he whispered, “H–hello, Jim. Hello, Yancy. I don’t feel well at all, Jim. Would you get me some cold wet towels for my abdomen?”

“Sure, sir,” he said, and left to fetch icy water.

Yancy said hesitantly, “Sir, are you in pain?”

“I am,” he admitted with difficulty. “My right side …”

“Sir, shouldn’t I wake Dr. McGuire to check on you?”

“No,” Jackson said harshly. “The man hasn’t slept in three nights. Leave him be. The cold towels will do the trick.”

But they didn’t. Jackson steadily worsened, the vague pain in his side gradually turning into paroxysms of agony with every breath that he took. Still he refused to allow Jim or Yancy to awaken the doctor. He managed to hold out until the first chilly gray light of dawn, and finally he asked Yancy to get Dr. McGuire.

The doctor sprang awake and hurried to Jackson. After listening to his heart and his chest, Dr. McGuire knew what was wrong. Jackson had developed pneumonia in his right lung. Immediately he gave Jackson morphia for the paralyzing pain he was experiencing.

It eased his breathing and obviously lessened his pain. But in his weakened state, the powerful drug affected his mind, and all day he wandered in and out of consciousness, sometimes talking to himself, sometimes talking to people who weren’t there.

Anna arrived that afternoon with Julia and Hetty. One of the doctor’s staff attendants had been dispatched to meet the train. As soon as Anna got into the buggy, she sensed that things had gone wrong. Immediately she asked the young attendant how her husband was.

“The general is doing pretty well,” he answered with some hesitation.

Anna asked no more. She had to wait on the porch until the doctors finished dressing Jackson’s wounds. Finally Dr. McGuire came to fetch her. As soon as she saw her husband, she knew that he would never return to Lexington. He was well on the way to his final home.

She knew of his wounds and the surgery, of course, but there was no way to prepare herself for the sight of his missing arm, the stump thickly bandaged, and his swollen, misshapen right hand. His face looked sunken and skeletal. He slept, but there seemed no repose in it, for his breaths were short and ragged.

Gently Dr. McGuire awakened him.

He looked up, and the old familiar light came into his dull eyes when he saw Anna. “My esposa, my love, how glad I am you have come,” he said. When he saw Anna’s distress he said, “I know you would give your life for me. But I’m perfectly resigned. Don’t be sad. I hope I am going to recover. Pray for me, but always remember in your prayers the old petition, ‘Thy will be done.’”

Then he sank into a stupor, mumbling incoherently. After a time he barely opened his eyes and murmured, “My darling, you must cheer up and not wear such a long face in the sickroom.”

She asked him several times that afternoon when he roused if he wanted to see the baby.

He always replied, “Not yet. Wait until I feel better.”

Anna sat all that long afternoon and evening with him. Dr.

McGuire only interrupted when Jackson began to show pain, to give him more morphine.

Occasionally Jackson would rouse and speak endearments to Anna. Once he said, “My darling, you are very much loved.” Another time he whispered, “You’re the most precious little wife in the world.”

On Friday, he seemed to rally a bit, though he admitted he was exhausted, and throughout the day he grew noticeably weaker. Again he wandered in and out of consciousness.

On Saturday, he wanted to see Julia, and Anna brought her to him. Jackson beamed at her, obviously completely lucid. His splinted right hand was huge and clumsy, but Julia seemed to have no fear of it as he caressed her. She smiled at him and he murmured, “Little comforter … little comforter.”

That afternoon Jackson wanted to send Yancy to get Reverend Lacy.

McGuire frowned. Upon his examination he had found that both of Jackson’s lungs were filled with fluid. His respiration was shallow and fast, like a hoarse panting. “I beg you, General, I don’t think it would do you good to converse with the reverend just now,” Dr. McGuire said.

But Jackson insisted, and Yancy fetched Reverend Lacy. Jackson’s first concern was to learn if Reverend Lacy was continuing to work on an armywide observance of the Sabbath. Lacy assured him that he was. Then Jackson spoke for a while of his favorite topic in this world—spiritual matters. In spite of his determination to see the chaplain, Jackson was utterly exhausted when he left.

His condition steadily worsened. That night, as Anna sat with him, she asked gently, “Thomas, might I read some Psalms of consolation to you?”

Vaguely he shook his head and mumbled, “Too much pain … to be able to listen.” But in a few minutes he roused somewhat and said apologetically, “But yes, Anna, please do. We must never refuse that.”

She read in her soft voice.

After a bit Jackson said, “Sing to me.”

Anna, who had managed to remain calm and steady as she read, knew that she couldn’t sing Thomas’s favorite hymns without crying. She went and got her brother, Lieutenant Joe Morrison, who after he had helped Jackson that awful night had stayed on to attend to him. Together brother and sister sang.

As the night wore on, Jackson’s breathing became short, wheezing gasps. But after they had sung several hymns, Anna said, “The singing had a quieting effect, and he seemed to rest in perfect peace.”

In the morning, Dr. McGuire had a somber meeting with Anna and gave her his tragic prognosis. “I believe he will die today, Mrs. Jackson. I do not think he will see another night.”

Calmly Anna nodded and went back to her husband’s bedside. Long before, Jackson had told her that he had no fear of dying, but he hoped that when that time came he would “have a few hours’ preparation before entering into the presence of my Maker and Redeemer.”

She steeled herself for this last and most difficult service for her husband. She roused him from his stupor and said quietly, “Do you know the doctors say that you must very soon be in heaven?”

His eyes were open, and he looked at her but said nothing.

Anna repeated it and added, “Do you not feel willing to acquiesce in God’s allotment, if He wills you to go today?”

He stirred a little but apparently didn’t comprehend what she was saying, and so she repeated it, softly and clearly. This time he focused on her face and said, “I prefer it.” His words came out slurred, just a little, so he repeated, more firmly, “I prefer it.”

They talked a little while longer, and then the surgeons came in to examine him, though they did not redress his wounds. They disturbed him as little as possible. He sank into a stupor when they left.

Later he roused again to see Anna kneeling by his bed. Again she told him that before the sun went down he would be in heaven.

He thought for a moment then asked, “Will you call Dr. McGuire?”

Instantly his faithful physician was at his bedside.

“Doctor,” Jackson said, clearly and alertly, “Anna informs me that you have told her that I am to die today. Is it so?”

Always gentle, always warm, Dr. McGuire replied, “General, the medicine has done its utmost.”

Jackson pondered this for a bit, staring up at the ceiling. Now, instead of his habitual “Good, good,” he already seemed to be seeing a higher plane, and he said, “Very good, very good. It is all right.” And then he comforted Anna, who at last was weeping.

She stayed, and they talked from time to time. Jackson seemed to have recovered his full senses. Later he said, “It is the Lord’s Day … my wish is fulfilled. I have always desired to die on Sunday.”

In the warm, bright afternoon, he again wandered. He gave orders, spoke to his favorites on his staff. He mentioned Yancy once, murmuring that he should ride hard and return quickly. He fought battles, was at home in Lexington with Anna and Julia, was praying. He fell silent.

Only Anna was at his bedside, holding his bandaged hand, crying silently.

The clock struck three sonorous notes.

His breathing grew shallower; his chest barely rose.

At 3:15, his eyes closed. Clearly and gladly he said, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”

And so he did.

T
he once-splendid uniform that Jeb Stuart had given Stonewall Jackson was bloodstained and slashed to shreds. Jim had found a suit of civilian clothes to fit, but then he was so distraught that for the first time he could not attend his general.

Yancy, Lieutenant Smith, Dr. McGuire, and Reverend Lacy dressed General Jackson in the clothes then wrapped him in a military cloak. They covered the coffin in spring flowers and banked lily of the valley at the head.

Anna stayed with him most of the night. He showed no trace of the suffering he had endured in his last days.

The next day, Monday, May 11, 1863, the funeral party left for Richmond.

Yancy didn’t want to leave Midnight behind, so he wrangled an empty cattle car and settled the skittish stallion in it. Midnight didn’t do too well on trains, so Yancy planned on staying with him.

To his surprise, riding as if a bandit was on their heels, Peyton, Chuckins, and Sandy came flying up. They spotted Yancy and without prelude started loading their horses into the boxcar with Midnight. Their faces were grim, and Chuckins had traces of tears on his face.

As they settled in the car, Yancy asked, “How did you get leave?

General Lee wouldn’t let the Stonewall Brigade take leave. He wouldn’t even leave the field himself.” The Battle of Chancellorsville was still raging.

“Most of the staff and aides got leave,” Peyton answered. “Since General Stuart took over command of Second Corps, he’s used some of us, but he has his own staff and couriers aplenty, you know.”

“But what about you, Sandy?” Yancy asked curiously. Sandy was a pivotal part of General Pendleton’s battery. He had consistently gotten praise for his bravery and daring in every battle they fought, and he was the number one gun captain. Many men asked to be on his gun crew.

Sandy shrugged carelessly. “I went to General Pendleton and requested leave. He refused, telling me about General Lee’s stand on furloughs right now. So I said that I was giving him notice that I was deserting, and since the penalty was either getting arrested or getting shot, I told him I’d appreciate it if he’d take the next few days to decide which it would be. I would report back after General Jackson’s funeral and he could do whatever he wanted. So he gave me leave.”

For most of the trip the four friends stared into space, remembering. Every once in a while one of them would say, “Remember First Manassas? He stood there, the bullets whizzing by him, as calm as a summer’s day….” And another memory, and another. “Do you remember … remember …?”

When they neared Richmond, they got up and groomed the horses until their coats shone like polished glass in sunlight. Then they worked on their uniforms, polishing buttons, arranging their sashes just so, making certain that their sabers hung just right, the scabbards spotless, polishing and repolishing their boots, flicking every single speck of dust off of their tunics. The four looked splendid together. Peyton’s and Yancy’s long tunics, with collars and cuffs of infantry blue, had gold lieutenant’s flashes on the collar and elaborate gold embroidery on the cuffs. They wore dark red sashes, the regimental color of the Stonewall Brigade. Chuckins and Sandy were still sergeants, so their sleeves had the distinctive three chevrons. Chuckins’s sash was the regimental dark red, but Sandy’ sinsignia and sash were the bright scarlet of the artillery. Motionless and silent they stood for the last few miles, not wanting to sit down again on their blankets and get dusty. They were determined to show nothing but perfection for General Jackson.