1. I.
In the Valley of Virginia, the glory of two men outshines
that of all others; two figures were tallest, best beloved, and to-day
are most bitterly mourned. One was Jackson, the other
Ashby. The world knows all about Jackson, but has little
knowledge of Ashby. I was reading a stupid book the
other day in which he was represented as a guerilla—almost as
a robber and highwayman. Ashby a guerilla!—that great,
powerful, trained, and consummate fighter of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery, in the hardest fought battles of the Valley campaign!
Ashby a robber and highwayman!—that soul and perfect
mirror of chivalry! It is to drive away these mists of stupid or
malignant scribblers that the present writer designs recording
here the actual truth of Ashby's character and career. Apart
from what he performed, he was a personage to whom attached
and still attaches a never-dying interest. His career was all
romance—it was as brief, splendid, and evanescent as a dream—
but, after all, it was the man Turner Ashby who was the real
attraction. It was the man whom the people of the Shenandoah
Valley admire, rather than his glorious record. There was something
grander than the achievements of this soldier, and that was
the soldier himself.
Ashby first attracted attention in the spring of 1862, when
Jackson made his great campaign in the Valley, crushing one
after another Banks, Milroy, Shields, Fremont, and their associates.
Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped
around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time,
Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great
majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline
of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this
soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier
and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and
hearts, but not in all eyes.
What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley
cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle
height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate
gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black
feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry
boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around
his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol
and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was
noticeable. His complexion was as dark as that of an Arab;
his eyes of a deep rich brown, sparkled under well formed
brows; and two thirds of his face was covered by a huge black
beard and moustache; the latter curling at the ends, the former
reaching to his breast. There was thus in the face of the
cavalier something Moorish and brigandish; but all idea of a
melodramatic personage disappeared as you pressed his hand,
looked into his eyes, and spoke to him. The brown eyes, which
would flash superbly in battle, were the softest and most friendly
imaginable; the voice, which could thrill his men as it rang like
a clarion in the charge, was the perfection of mild courtesy. He
was as simple and “friendly” as a child in all his words, movements,
and the carriage of his person. You could see from his
dress, his firm tread, his open and frank glance, that he was a
thorough soldier—indeed he always “looked like work”—but
under the soldier, as plainly was the gentleman. Such in his
plain costume, with his simple manner and retiring modesty,
was Ashby, whose name and fame, a brave comrade has truly
said, will endure as long as the mountains and valleys which he
defended.
