3. III.
I have endeavoured to draw an outline of Jackson on horseback—the
stiff, gaunt figure, dingy costume, piercing eyes; the
large, firm, iron mouth, and the strong fighting-jaw. A few
more words upon these personal peculiarities. The soldier's
face was one of decided character, but not eminently striking.
One circumstance always puzzled me—Jackson's lofty forehead
seemed to indicate unmistakably a strong predominance of the
imagination and fancy, and a very slight tendency or aptitude
for
mathematics. It was the forehead of a poet!—the statement
is almost a jest. Jackson the stern, intensely matter-of-fact
mathematician, a man of fancy! Never did forehead so contradict
phrenology before. A man more guiltless of “poetry” in
thought or deed, I suppose never lived. His poetry was the
cannon's flash, the rattle of musketry, and the lurid cloud of battle.
Then, it is true, his language, ordinarily so curt and cold,
grew eloquent, almost tragic and heroic at times, from the deep
feeling of the man. At Malvern Hill, General — received
an order from Jackson to advance and attack the Federal forces
in their fortified position, for which purpose he must move
across an open field swept by their artillery. General — was
always “impracticable,” though thoroughly brave, and galloping
up to Jackson said, almost rudely, “Did you send me an
order to advance over that field?” “I did, sir,” was the cold
reply of Jackson, in whose eyes began to glow the light of a
coming storm. “Impossible, sir!” exclaimed General — in
a tone almost of insubordination, “my men will be annihilated!
—annihilated, I tell you, sir!” Jackson raised his finger, and
in his cold voice there was an accent of menace which cooled
his opponent like a hand of ice.
“General —,” he said, “I always endeavour to take care of
my wounded and to bury my dead. Obey that order, sir!”
The officer who was present at this scene and related it to me,
declares that he never saw a deeper suppression of concentrated
anger than that which shone in Jackson's eye, or heard a human
voice more menacing.
There were other times when Jackson, stung and aroused,
was driven from his propriety, or, at least, out of his coolness.
The winter of 1861-2 was such an occasion. He had made his
expedition to Morgan county, and, in spite of great suffering
among the troops, had forced the Federal garrisons at Bath and
Romney to retire, and accomplished all hisends. General Loring
was then left at Romney, and Jackson returned to Winchester.
All that is well known. What follows is not known to many.
General Loring conceived an intense enmity for Jackson, and
made such representations at Richmond, that an order was sent
to Loring
direct, not through Jackson, commanding in the Valley,
recalling him. Jackson at once sent in his resignation.
The scene which took place between him and his friend Colonel
Boteler, thereupon, was a stormy one. The Colonel in vain
tried to persuade him that he ought to recall his resignation.
“No, sir,” exclaimed Jackson, striding fiercely up and down,
“I will not hold a command upon terms of that sort. I will
not have those people at Richmond interfering in my plans, and
sending orders to an officer under me, without even informing
me. No soldier can endure it. I care not for myself. If I
know myself I do not act from anger—but if I yield now they
will treat better men in the same way! I am nobody—but the
protest must be made here, or Lee and Johnston will be meddled
with as I am.” It was only after the resignation had been withdrawn
by the Governor of Virginia without his authority, and
explanations, apologies, protestations, came from the head of the
War Office, that the design was given up. Such is a little
morceau
of private history, showing how Jackson came near not
commanding in the Valley in 1862.
With the exception of these rare occasions when his great
passions were aroused, Jackson was an apparently commonplace
person, and his bearing neither striking, graceful, nor impressive.
He rode ungracefully, walked with an awkward stride, and
wanted ease of manner. He never lost a certain shyness in
company; and I remember his air of boyish constraint, one
day, when, in leaving an apartment full of friends, he hesitated
whether to shake hands with every one or not. Catching the
eye of the present writer, who designed remaining, he hastily
extended his hand, shook hands, and quickly retired, apparently
relieved. His bearing thus wanted ease; but, personally, he
made a most agreeable impression by his delightfully natural
courtesy. His smile was as sweet as a child's, and evidently
sprang from his goodness of heart. A lady said it was “angelic.”
His voice in ordinary conversation was subdued, and
pleasant from its friendly and courteous tone, though injured by
the acquired habit—a West Pointism—of cutting off, so to speak,
each word, and leaving each to take care of itself. This was
always observable in his manner of talking; but briefest of the
brief, curtest of the curt, was General Stonewall Jackson on the
field of battle and “at work.” His words were then let fall as
though under protest; all superfluities were discarded; and the
monosyllables jerked from his lips seemed clipped off, one by
one, and launched to go upon separate ways. The eccentricities
of the individual were undoubtedly a strong element of his popularity;
the dress, habits, bearing of the man, all made his soldiers
adore him. General Lee's air of collected dignity, mingled
with a certain grave and serious pride, aroused rather admiration
than affection—though during the last years of the war, the
troops came to love as much as they admired him: to arrive at
which point they had only to know the great warm heart which
beat under that calm exterior, making its possessor “one altogether
lovely.” Jackson's appearance and manners, on the contrary,
were such as conciliate a familiar, humorous liking. His
dingy old coat, than which scarce a private's in his command
was more faded; his dilapidated and discolored cap; the absence
of decorations and all show in his dress; his odd ways;
his kindly, simple manner; his habit of sitting down and eating
with his men; his indifference whether his bed were in a comfortable
headquarter tent, on a camp couch, or in a fence corner
with no shelter from the rain but his cloak; his abstemiousness,
fairness, honesty, simplicity; his never-failing regard for the
comfort and the feelings of the private soldier; his oddities,
eccentricities, and originalities—all were an unfailing provocative
to liking, and endeared him to his men. Troops are charmed
when there is anything in the personal character of a great
leader to “make fun of”—admiration of his genius then becomes
enthusiasm for his person. Jackson had aroused this
enthusiasm in his men—and it was a weapon with which he
struck hard.
One of the most curious peculiarities of Jackson was the
strange fashion he had of raising his right hand aloft and then
letting it fall suddenly to his side. It is impossible, perhaps, to
determine the meaning of this singular gesture. It is said that
he had some physical ailment which he thus relieved; others
believed that at such moments he was praying. Either may be
the fact. Certain it is that he often held his hand, sometimes
both hands, thus aloft in battle, and that his lips were then seen
to move, evidently in prayer. Not once, but many times, has
the singular spectacle been presented of a Lieutenant-General
commanding, sitting on his horse silently as his column moved
before him—his hands raised to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips
moving in prayer. At Chancellorsville, as he recognised the
corpses of any of his old veterans, he would check his horse,
raise his hands to heaven, and utter a prayer over the dead body.
There were those who said that all this indicated a partial
species of insanity—that Jackson's mind was not sound. Other
stories are told of him which aim to show that his eccentricities
amounted to craziness. Upon this point the philosophers and
physiologists must decide. The present writer can only say that
Jackson appeared to him to be an eminently rational, judicious,
and sensible person in conversation; and the world must determine
whether there was any “craze,” any flaw or crack, or error,
in the terribly logical processes of his brain as a fighter of
armies. The old incredulity of Frederick will obtrude itself
upon the mind. If Jackson was crazy, it is a pity he did not
bite somebody, and inoculate them with a small amount of his
insanity as a soldier. Unquestionably the most striking trait of
Jackson as a leader was his unerring judgment and accuracy of
calculation. The present writer believes himself to be familiar
with every detail of his career, and does not recall one blunder.
Kernstown was fought upon information furnished by General
Ashby, a most accomplished and reliable partisan, which turned
out to be inaccurate; but even in defeat Jackson there accomplished
the very important object of retaining a large Federal
force in the Valley, which McClellan needed on the Chickahominy.
For instances of the boldness, fertility, and originality
of his conceptions, take the campaigns against General Pope,
the surprise of Harper's Ferry, the great flank attack at Chancellorsville,
and the marvellous success of every step taken in
the campaign of the Valley. This is not the occasion for an
analysis of these campaigns; but it may be safely declared that
they are magnificent illustrations of the mathematics of war;
that the brain which conceived and executed designs so bold and
splendid, must have possessed a sanity for all practical purposes
difficult to dispute.
