by Jeff Shaara
The laughter had stopped, the joke was over, and the young cadet by the window made a low comment, which Jackson could not clearly hear.
“Does Mr. Walker have another valuable thought to share with us today about the usefulness of the principles of geometry?” The question held no sarcasm. Jackson did not play the game, had only one purpose in this room, to impart the lesson.
“No sir, I have nothing further. Um, except, sir, I am confused about the principles regarding the application of triangulation in the placing of the observation sights for artillery.” It was a serious question. Jackson knew that this cadet, for all his bluster and arrogance, was not doing well in his lessons. He sagged, thought, This is inexcusable, a clear lack of effort from the boy. He knew others in the class were having some difficulty as well, and he often received questions that had the unnerving effect of disrupting his presentation.
“Mr. Walker, I am forced to conclude that I must repeat this lesson tomorrow, word for word, and if you, if all of you, will pay a bit closer attention, perhaps it will be understood. We are out of time today.”
There was a low groan, and the cadets understood that Jackson was serious, that tomorrow’s lesson would be the same as today, exactly the same, and they would absorb the words again, or try to, and there would be little room for questions.
He turned, reached toward the small desk behind him, picked up his copy of the large gray textbook which all the cadets carried. They rose, a great collective sigh, and filed from the room.
Jackson was annoyed. He had spent the greater part of the previous evening memorizing today’s lesson, had spoken it aloud to himself in the dim lamplight of his room. It was perfectly clear to him, and he had recited it with the same clarity today. He turned back, watched the cadets, frowned. Many of these young men would not survive the academic load at VMI. He saw the fault lying with the outside influences, recalled West Point, the local taverns that had attracted so many of his classmates. Lexington, Virginia, was not as sophisticated, there was not a bustling social scene, and so it mystified him why these young men were so distracted, why they could not seem to grasp the lessons that were so clear to him.
He held the heavy book under one arm, waited for the last cadet to exit, then walked out into the hallway. He saw many faces watching him, heard some laughter, comments, the brashness of boys who are briefly anonymous, out from your control. He did not look at them, had heard it before, walked past the building’s wide oak doorway and to the cool air outside. He stopped, took a deep breath, then another, tried to rid himself of the stale air of the classroom. It has been going fairly well, he thought, most of them do want to learn. He could not understand the others, could not understand why they made the effort to be here if they had no sense of duty.
Major Jackson walked again, with long loping strides, kept the book tightly under his arm, allowed the other arm to swing freely. Conversations stopped when he passed, cadets pointing, more comments. He didn’t see them, kept his eyes straight ahead in an intent stare—he had an appointment to keep.
Moving out across the wide parade ground, he glanced once toward the row of brass cannon, his cannon, which he used to teach the skills of artillery. It was the one part of their lessons the cadets enjoyed. Jackson’s reputation in the classroom was clear and appalling. He was nicknamed “Tom Fool,” a teacher with no talent for teaching, whose daily routine tortured his cadets, but out here, with the guns, there was something else, something the cadets could feel. The professor was, after all, a soldier, and with his beloved guns his lessons became animated, energetic. Though he forced them through the torture of the classroom, they knew that out here, in the open air, Jackson and his guns would show them a small glimpse of the fire. Out here they did not ridicule him, and though many of these young men would never become soldiers, they would know at least what a soldier was.
He moved beyond the gates now, passed through the campus of Washington University, which spread out alongside VMI. The atmosphere here was very different. There was laughter, young people moving in pairs under great sweeping trees. He did not look at them, stared straight ahead, moved in long strides toward a distant church steeple. He was uncomfortable now, would not look around, would avoid the modest brick home that sat in the center of the campus, the home of Dr. Junkin, the university president. Jackson had lived in that home, had married Junkin’s daughter, Ellie, and it was a part of his life that he put aside, kept far away. Ellie had died in childbirth, and the pain of that moment filled him when he was weak, when he could not wall it away. The Junkins were still his family, but he had married again, to Anna Morrison, the daughter of a minister, and his life had begun again. But he was not safe from the unspeakable, from the sad face of God, and he stared hard ahead, but knew the house was there, right there, and he tried, braced hard against the pain, pushed it away into some untouchable place.
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. I was hoping I could have a few moments of your time to dig through it, or, perhaps, help me understand what is happening.”
White sat silently, waited for Jackson to continue. The silence lasted over a minute, and White finally said, “Major Jackson, I have always considered you not only a guiding force in this church, but I have also considered you my friend. There are few in this congregation who share my devotion to doing God’s good work as much as you. Please do not hesitate to freely discuss with me anything, anything at all. I had hoped you would visit me sooner. You have suffered a loss that no one can realize unless they have lived through it.”
Jackson sat without moving, stared at White’s desk, then looked up, into his eyes. “I have heard . . . that God punishes us for loving each other too much. There are those . . . who have come to visit . . . friends . . . I suppose. They offer kind words, advice. I have been told . . . ” He stopped, tried again to form the words.
“I have been told that if we do not suppress our love for human things, and give more to God, He . . . makes us pay with great pain. I . . . am not sure I believe that. And yet . . . I am finding it harder to keep the pain away.”
“It’s an interesting doctrine, but I must say, not a very comforting one. Do you feel you and Anna have been punished?”
Jackson thought, glanced at the ceiling, then around the room.
“I . . . well, no. God has His reasons . . . Anna has suffered a great deal. I have told her we must try harder to please Him, that He has given us a lesson. It does not seem to help her. The path I chose, marrying Anna, was the correct one. I truly believe that. But I may love her too much. Is it possible . . . God has given us . . . a warning?”
White put his hands together, under his chin, and looked down.
Jackson continued. “If it is wrong for me to love anyone but God . . . if I have to, I can do that.”
White looked up, said, “You have made a giant leap of interpretation there, I must say. You are accepting what has happened in your life as a direct result of an act of God. Step away, Major, back away from your own pain, and look around you. Your loss is not yours alone. What of your family? What of the people in your life, who share the pain of your loss? And, excuse me, Major, but what of the baby?”
“The baby?” Jackson stiffened, did not want to think about the baby.
“Was the baby punished because you gave it love? Major, I do not know why God does the things He does, but I believe you have the same duty to God as you have always had: to follow the right path, to live your life with a clear conscience. If God decides to inform you why He is doing whatever it is He chooses to do, then please come and tell me. But I suspect, Major, that you may only learn the Great Answers when He calls you away from this life.”
Jackson pondered again, absorbed the words, began to feel a release, a load removed. He had assumed an awful guilt for the baby’s death, had assumed it was his fault. He sat silently, scolded himself for his ego, his presumptions.
After a long, quiet pause, White said, “Major, do you miss your mother?”
The question caught Jackson by surprise. He looked at White, puzzled, thought about his mother. “I suppose . . . well, I try not to. It serves no purpose. She died when I was very young. God would not want me to dwell on that . . . the pain.”
“Well, maybe. But do you miss her? Do you ever talk to her, pray to her? If we believe that all our departed loved ones sit with God, then maybe it is she who watches over you, who might provide you some guidance.”
Jackson stared at White, fought, pushed away the image of his mother. “I . . . don’t think I can do that. It seems odd to pray . . . not to God.”
“Don’t look for answers, Major, look for guidance, for comfort. And do not fear love. I believe that God would be happy if you sought out the guiding hand of someone who loves you as much as your mother loves you.”
Jackson thought again, did not like thinking of her. When she entered his mind, the brief glimpses, the memories, always brought pain, so he did not pursue it. But if it would please God . . .
“Doctor, thank you.” Jackson stood abruptly, and White leaned back in his chair, saw the look he had come to know as Jackson’s own, the face that says, It is time to move on, to take the next step.
SHE STOOD high on the small porch, above the hard dirt street, watched him slap at the horse. The carriage lurched, then began to roll slowly away.
He saw the look, the dull pain, and tried to make her smile, waved foolishly, exaggeratedly, then stood up precariously. Now she laughed, softly, and shook her head. He sat back down on the small wooden seat, pulled at the horse, and the carriage stopped.
“It will be soon. Really.”
She nodded. “I know, Thomas. It is a good thing. . . .”
“You can come along . . . still. . . .”
“No. This is for you. I will be fine. The garden needs tending.”
He turned to the horse, nodded quietly, thought, Yes, the garden . . . that will also please God. He looked at Anna again, thought, There will be comfort for you as well. She waved now, the smile faded, and she began to back away, into the house, and he knew it was time to go.
He drove the horse with a long whip, bounced along, holding straps of worn soft leather in his hand. There were high hills and thick woods, then a farmhouse, orchards, vast fields of ripening corn. He rode down the Shenandoah Valley, northward, through the most beautiful land he had ever seen, the treasured land of home. He would gaze, marveling at a farmer’s good work, the neat rows that covered the countryside, and then in the distance the high mountains, the Blue Ridge, the Alleghenies. He rode with purpose, the passion of the good mission. He did not feel the painful bouncing, did not fight the dust. It was bright, and warm, and perfect, and he stopped only to rest the horse. After many hours and many miles, he reined up, saw a small wooden sign with crude letters, HAWK’S NEST.
He stepped down from the carriage, looked for . . . something, not sure what. He saw no people, a few small wooden buildings, one of old brick, a general store, a broken sign hanging loosely over the door. He walked stiffly over, working the kinks out of his legs, patting his chest and pants, freeing the dust.
The store was dark, with one small, dirty window. It did not appear to be open for business, but behind a dust-covered counter sat an old man, deep wrinkles in dark, weathered skin. He slept on the floor, propped up against a sack of flour. Jackson leaned over the counter, studied the strange old face, the etchings of long hard experience. The old man let out a muffled noise, a small snore, twitched a wiry shoulder, and Jackson thought, Let him be, and began to turn away. But the weight of his boots sent a loud squeak from the worn wooden planks of the floor, and the old man suddenly woke, snapped to, looked at Jackson with the fear of a wounded animal.
“Who are you . . . what . . . ohhh.” The old man grabbed his head, looked away in obvious pain, then back at Jackson, the fear now annoyance.
“What can I do for you, there, stranger? Pardon me for not getting up . . . bad leg. Bad most everything else too. Damned apple cider . . . A word to you, friend. Don’t mix good corn whiskey with bad apple cider.”
He closed his eyes, groaned again, one hand on top of his head, holding it in place. Jackson stood quietly, wanted to leave, but this was the only person he had seen.
“Pardon my interruption, sir. I am Major Thomas Jackson, of Lexington. My mother is buried here, around this place. I am trying to find her grave.”
“Your mother?” The old man squinted up at Jackson’s face, tried to recognize him, didn’t. “What’s her name? When was the funeral? Indians get her?”
Jackson thought, Indians?
“Her name was Julia Neale Jackson Woodson. She died in 1831.”
“Twenty . . . uh . . . twenty . . . some-odd years ago?” The old man laughed, wiped his nose. “You just now find out about it?”
Jackson did not smile, did not want to explain, had not expected difficulty finding the g
ravesite.
“Is there a cemetery here, a churchyard?”
“I don’t reckon there is, son, um . . . Major, you say? Woodson? You in the army? Indian fighter?”
“It’s Jackson, my mother married again just before she died. I’m Virginia Militia. I’m a professor at VMI.”
“VMI—what’s that? A professor?” The old man was obviously disappointed. “I’m an old Indian fighter myself, Texas, the cavalry. Back then, well, we had it really rough, not like these boys today. You see them fancy repeating revolvers? Well, Major . . . Jackson, I don’t know no one with any of them names around here. Check with the lieutenant outside, we have our troops stationed here, all good men, good Indian fighters. Just come back from Texas, you know, cavalry. Watch that cornfield over there, they sneak up every now and again. Arrow flew in here just . . . well, there, over there. Dang near got me too. Stay down here, the floor, safe.” The old man made a cracked wheeze, coughed.
Jackson followed the man’s gesture, saw no arrow, began to understand.
“Thank you, sir. The . . . the lieutenant seems to be off duty. Can you tell me where I might find someone who can tell me more?”
“Yep, check with old McLean . . . yep, McLean, he’s around the town most of the time. Old guy, older than me even, hee. Gray head. Jake it is, Jacob McLean.”
The old man coughed again, kept talking. “You bring a regiment with you? I heard drums last night, they’re planning something, I tell you that. I stay here, on the floor.”
Jackson nodded, turned, and stepped gratefully back into the sunlight. Across the road, away from the few buildings, was a huge cornfield, stretching to the hills beyond. He walked to the edge of the field, thought, Maybe a farmhouse, saw no one, and a voice behind him said, “You, hey, you there! You aim to steal some corn?”
Jackson turned, saw an old man, bent, gray, with a crooked cane. The man was well dressed, dark wool suit, looked out of place.
“Sir, I’m trying to find some information . . . a man named McLean. I’m looking for—”