21. XXI.
ON REVIEW.
In these memoirs, my dear reader, I intend to carefully avoid
writing a history of the war. See the histories for that. I aim
only at giving you a few pictures and relating some incidents.
Therefore, go to the grave and strictly reliable “official documents”
for an account of the situation in May, 1861. I need
only say, that at that moment the Federal Government threatened
Virginia with three great columns—from Wheeling, Williamsport,
and Alexandria; and that the second, commanded by
Majer-General Patterson, was about four or five times as great as
the little “Army of Observation” at Harper's Ferry.
But that army was composed of excellent material. All classes
were mingled fraternally in its ranks, by the hand of that great
leveller called War. Here was the high-spirited boy, raised in
his elegant home on the banks of the Shenandoah, and the hardy
and athletic mountaineer from beyond the Alleghanies. The
pale and slender student lay down side by side with the ruddy
son of the poor farmer, who had dropped the handles of the
plough to take up the musket. All were alike in one thing—
their eager desire to meet the enemy.
On the day after my arrival, Colonel Jackson reviewed the
troops. As he rode along the line, above which rose the glittering
hedge of bayonets, I heard many a smothered laugh at his
singular appearance. In fact, the Colonel's odd costume and
manners were enough to excite laughter. Fancy a sort of Don
Quixote, reader—gaunt, bony, and angular—riding an old, stiff
Rosinante, which he pushed into a trot with great difficulty. This
figure was clad in a gray coat already growing rusty; a faded
cap resting nearly upon the wearer's nose; top-boots, huge
gauntlets, and a leather stock which propped up his chin and
sawed his ears.
He rode leaning forward, with his knees drawn up, owing to
the shortness of his stirrups; raised his chin in the air in order
to look from beneath his cap-rim; and from time to time moved
his head from side to side, above his stiff leather collar, with an
air of profound abstraction. Add to this a curious fashion of
slapping his right hand against his thigh, and the curt, abrupt
“Good!—very good!” which was jerked from his lips when any
report was made to him: and there is Colonel T. J. Jackson, of
the Virginia forces.
The young volunteers evidently expected to see a gallant and
imposing figure, richly clad, and superbly mounted. When this
scarecrow appeared, they with difficulty restrained their laughter.
When the review was over, and the young men were
marched back to their quarters, I learned, afterward, that they
made themselves exceedingly merry on the subject of their commander's
appearance—not a few, who had been to the Lexington
Institute, repeating his former nickname of “Fool Tom Jackson.”
What was the opinion, it may be asked, of his aide-de-camp,
who saw him every hour, and had ample opportunity of observing
the man? He did not impress me greatly: and I am obliged
to disclaim the deep penetration of that mighty multitude who—
long afterward—“always knew what was in Jackson from the
first.” I thought him matter-of-fact in character, rather dull in
conversation, and possessed of only average abilities. He seemed
a plodding, eccentric, commonplace martinet. That was the
light in which I regarded this immortal.
If I did not admire his intellect, I, however, very greatly
respected his moral character. His life was perfectly blameless,
and he had not a single bad habit. Spirit never passed
his lips, and I should as soon have expected the Potomac to
flow backward as to have heard him utter an oath. He regularly
said grace at his simple meals, spread on the lid of a camp-chest,
and spent hours daily in religious reading and prayer. He
was habitually charitable in his estimates of men, and seldom
yielded to any sort of irritability. “Eccentric” he was, in the
highest degree—but it was the eccentricity of a man whose
thoughts were half the time in heaven.
Three days after my arrival, he called me into his tent, and
began to talk to me about the war. He listened with an air of
great modesty and attention to my crude views, and, when I expressed
an opinion that Harper's Ferry would not be attacked,
replied briefly:
“I think so too; it will be flanked.”
He remained thoughtful for some moments, and then said:
“I wish you to carry a message for me to Colonel Stuart,
Captain; you will find him near Martinsburg. Desire him to
picket heavily the whole front toward Williamsport, and to es
tablish relays of couriers to give me intelligence. I should like
to hear what his scouts report. Before Patterson crosses I must
be out of this place, ready to fight him on the”—
Suddenly the speaker paused, and looked keenly at me.
“Captain,” he said, abruptly, “never remember any thing
but the message I send. My intentions must be known to no
one but myself. If my coat knew my plans, I would take it off
and burn it.”[1]
I saluted, ordered my horse, and in half an hour was on the
road to Martinsburg.
