University of Virginia Library

I.
STUART.

1. I.

Stuart, chief of the Confederate cavalry in Virginia, was one
of the Dii Majores of the recent conflict—his career rather a
page from romance than a chapter of history. Everything
stirring, brilliant, and picturesque, seemed to centre in him.
There was about the man a flavour of chivalry and adventure
which made him more like a knight of the middle age than a
soldier of the prosaic nineteenth century, and it was less the
science than the poetry of war which he summed up and illustrated
in his character and career.

With the majority of those who took part in it, the late revolution
was a hard and bitter struggle, which they entered upon
resolutely, but with unconcealed distaste. To this soldier, however,
it seemed to be a splendid and exciting game, in which his
blood coursed joyously, and his immensely strong physical organization
found an arena for the display of all its faculties.
The affluent life of the man craved those perils and hardships
which flush the pulses and make the heart beat fast. A single
look at him was enough to convince anybody that Stuart loved
danger and adventure, and that the clear blue eyes of the soldier,
“with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine.”
He swung himself into the saddle, at the sound of the bugle, as

the hunter springs on horseback; and at such moments his
cheeks glowed, and his huge moustache curled with enjoyment.
The romance and poetry of the hard trade of arms seemed first
to be inaugurated when this joyous cavalier, with his floating
plume and splendid laughter, appeared upon the great arena of
the war in Virginia.

This gay bearing of the man was plainly unaffected, and few
persons could resist its influence. There was about Stuart an
inspiration of joy and youth. The war was evidently like play
to him—and he accepted its most perilous scenes and cruellest
hardships with the careless abandon of a young knight-errant
seeking adventures. Nothing seemed strong enough to break
down his powerful organization of mind and body; and danger
only aroused and brought his full faculties into play. He greeted
it with ardour and defied it with his joyous laughter—leading his
column in desperate charges with a smile upon the lips. Others
might despond, but Stuart kept his good spirits; and while the
air around him was full of hissing balls and bursting shell, he
would hum his gay songs. In Culpeper the infantry were electrified
by the laughter and singing of Stuart as he led them in
the charge; and at Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's
corps after that great man's fall, the infantry veterans as
they swept on, carrying line after line of breastworks at the point
of the bayonet, saw his plume floating in front—“like Henry of
Navarre's,” one of them said—and heard his sonorous voice
singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”

This curious spirit of boyish gaiety did not characterize him on
certain occasions only, but went with him always, surrounding
every movement of the man with a certain atmosphere of frolic
and abandon. Immense animal health and strength danced in
his eyes, gave elasticity to the motions of his person, and rang
in his contagious laughter. It was hard to realize that anything
could hurt this powerful machine, or that death could ever come
to him; and the perilous positions from which he had so often
escaped unharmed, appeared to justify the idea of his invulnerability.
Although he exposed his person recklessly in more

than a hundred hot engagements, he was never wounded in any.
The resobud in his button-hole, which some child or girl had
given him, or rather say his mother's Bible, which he always
carried, seemed to protect him. Death appeared to shrink before
him and avoid him; and he laughed in the grim face, and
dared it for three years of reckless fighting, in which he seemed
every day to be trying to get himself killed.

His personal appearance coincided with his character. Everything
about the man was youthful, picturesque, and brilliant.
Lee, Jackson, and other eminent soldiers of the South, seemed
desirous of avoiding, in their dress and accoutrements every
species of display, and to aim at making themselves resemble
as closely as possible their brave soldiers, whose uniforms were
sadly deficient in military gewgaws. Stuart's taste was exactly
the opposite. He was as fond of colours as a boy or a girl. His
fighting jacket shone with dazzling buttons and was covered
with gold braid; his hat was looped up with a golden star, and
decorated with a black ostrich plume; his fine buff gauntlets
reached to the elbow; around his waist was tied a splendid yellow
silk sash, and his spurs were of pure gold. The stern Ironsides
of Cromwell would have sneered at this “frivolous boy”
as they sneered at Prince Rupert, with his scarlet cloak, his waving
plume, his white dog, and his twenty-three years—all the
more as Stuart had a white dog for a pet, wore a cape lined with
scarlet, had a plume in his hat, and—to complete the comparison—is
said to have belonged to that royal family of Stuarts
from which Rupert sprang.[1] Many excellent people did not
hesitate to take the Ironside view. They regarded and spoke
of Stuart as a trifling military fop—a man who had in some
manner obtained a great command for which he was wholly
unfit. They sneered at his splendid costume, his careless laughter,
his “love of ladies;” at his banjo-player, his flower-wreathed
horses, and his gay verses. The enemy were wiser. Buford,
Bayard, Pleasanton, Stoneman, and their associates, did not commit
that blunder. They had felt the heavy arm too often; and
knew too well the weight of that flower-encircled weapon.

There were three other men who could never be persuaded
that Stuart was no cavalry officer, and who persisted in regarding
this boyish cavalier as their right-hand man—the “eye and
ear” of their armies. These men were Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.

2. II.

Stuart's great career can be alluded to but briefly here.
Years crammed with incident and adventure cannot be summed
up on a page.

He was twenty-seven when he resigned his first-lieutenancy
in the United States cavalry, and came to offer his sword to Virginia.
He was sprung from an old and honourable family there,
and his love of his native soil was strong. Upon his arrival he
was made lieutenant-colonel, and placed in command of the
cavalry on the Upper Potomac, where he proved himself so vigilant
a soldier that Johnston called him “the indefatigable Stuart,”
and compared him to “a yellow jacket,” which was “no
sooner brushed off than it lit back.” He had command of the
whole front until Johnston left the valley, when he moved with
the column to Manassas, and charged and broke the New York
Zouaves; afterwards held the front toward Alexandria, under
Beauregard; then came the hard falling back, the struggle upon
the Peninsula, the battle of Cold Harbour, and the advance which
followed into Maryland. Stuart was now a general, and laid
the foundation of his fame by the “ride around McClellan”
on the Chickahominy. Thenceforth he was the right hand of
Lee until his death.

The incidents of his career from the spring of 1862 to May,
1864, would fill whole volumes. The ride around McClellan;
the fights on the Rapidan; the night march to Catlett's, where
he captured General Pope's coat and official papers; the advance
to Manassas; the attack on Flint Hill; the hard rear-guard work
at South Mountain; holding the left at Sharpsburg; the circut
of McClellan again in Maryland; the bitter conflicts near Upperville
as Lee fell back; the fighting all along the slopes of the

Blue Ridge; the “crowding 'em with artillery” on the night at
Fredericksburg; the winter march upon Dumfries; the battle
of Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's corps; the
advance thereafter, and the stubbron conflict at Fleetwood Hill
on the 9th of June; the hard, obstinate fighting once more to
guard the flanks of Lee on his way to Gettysburg; the march
across the Potomac; the advance to within sight of Washington,
and the invasion of Pennsylvania, with the determined fights
at Hanovertown, Carlisle, and Gettysburg, where he met and
drove before him the crack cavalry of the Federal army; the
retreat thereafter before an enraged enemy; the continuous combats
of the mountain passes, and in the vicinity of Boonsboro';
the obstinate stand he made once more on the old ground around
Upperville as Lee again fell back; the heavy petites guerres of
Culpeper; the repulse of Custer when he attacked Charlottesville;
the expedition to the rear of General Meade when he
came over to Mine Run; the bitter struggle in the Wilderness
when General Grant advanced; the fighting all along the Po in
Spotsylvania; the headlong gallop past the South Anna, and
the bloody struggle near the Yellow Tavern, where the cavalier,
who had passed through a hundred battles untouched, came to
his end at last—these are a few of the pictures which rise up
before the mind's eye at those words, “the career of Stuart.” In
the brief space of a sketch like this, it is impossible to attempt
any delineation of these crowding scenes and events. They
belong to history, and will sooner or later be placed upon record
—for a thousand octavos cannot bury them as long as one forefinger
and thumb remains to write of them. All that is here
designed is a rough cartoon of the actual man—not a fancy
figure, the work of a eulogist, but a truthful likeness, however
poorly executed.

3. III.

I have supposed that the reader would be more interested in
Stuart the man than in Stuart the Major-General commanding.
History will paint the latter—my page deals with the

former chiefly. It is in dress, habits, the tone of the voice,
the demeanour in private, that men's characters are read; and
I have never seen a man who looked his character more perfectly
than Stuart.

He was the cavalier par excellence; and everything which
he did, or said, was “in character.” We know a clergyman
sometimes by his moderation, mild address, black coat, and
white cravat; a merchant by his quick movements and “business-like”
manner; a senator by his gravity; and a poet by
his dreamy eye. You saw in the same manner, at a single
glance, that Stuart was a cavalry-man—in his dress, voice, walk,
manner, everything. All about him was military; and, fine
as his costume undoubtedly was, it “looked like work.” There
was no little fondness, as I have said, for bright colours and
holiday display in his appearance; and he loved the parade,
the floating banner, the ring of the bugle, “ladies' eyes”—
all the glory, splendour, and brilliant colouring of life; but
the solider of hard fibre and hard work was under the gallant.
Some day a generation will come who will like to know all
about the famous “Jeb Stuart”—let me therefore limn him
as he appeared in the years 1862 and 1863.

His frame was low and athletic—close knit and of very great
strength and endurance, as you could see at a glance. His
countenance was striking and attracted attention—the forehead
broad, lofty, and indicating imagination; the nose prominent,
and inclining to “Roman,” with large and mobile nostrils;
the lips covered with a heavy brown moustache, curled upward
at the ends; the chin by a huge beard of the same colour,
which descended upon the wearer's breast. Such was the rather
brigandish appearance of Stuart—but I have omitted to notice
the eyes. They were clear, penetrating, and of a brilliant blue.
They could be soft or fiery—would fill with laughter or dart
flame. Anything more menacing than that flame, when Stuart
was hard pressed, it would be difficult to conceive; but the
prevailing expression was gay and laughing. He wore a brown
felt hat looped up with a star, and ornamented with an ebon
feather; a double-breasted jacket always open and buttoned

back; gray waistcoat and pantaloons; and boots to the knee,
decorated with small spurs, which he wore even in dancing. To
proceed with my catalogue of the soldier's accoutrements: on
marches he threw over his shoulders his gray cavalry cape, and
on the pommel of his saddle was strapped an oil-cloth overall,
used as a protection in rain, which, instead of annoying him,
seemed to raise his spirits. In the midst of rain-storms, when
everybody was riding along grum and cowering beneath the
flood pouring down, he would trot on, head up, and singing
gaily. His arms were, a light French sabre, balanced by a pistol
in a black holster; his covering at night, a red blanket, strapped
in an oil-cloth behind the saddle. Such was the “outer man”
of Stuart in camp and field. His fondness for bright colours,
however, sometimes made him don additional decorations.
Among these was a beautiful yellow sash, whose folds he would
carefully wrap around his waist, skilfully tying the ends on the
left side so that the tassels fell full in view. Over this he would
buckle his belt; his heavy boots would be changed for a pair
equally high, but of bright patent leather, decorated with gold
thread; and then the gallant Jeb Stuart was ready to visit somebody.
This love of gay colours was shown in other ways. He
never moved on the field without his splendid red battle-flag; and
more than once this prominent object, flaunting in the wind,
drew the fire of the enemy's artillery on himself and staff.
Among flowers, he preferred the large dazzling “Giant of Battles,”
with its blood-red disk. But he loved all blooms for their
brilliance. Lent was not his favourite season. Life in his eyes
was best when it was all flowers, bright colours, and carnival.

He was a bold and expert rider, and stopped at nothing.
Frequently the headlong speed with which he rode saved him
from death or capture—as at Sharpsburg, where he darted close
along the front of a Federal regiment which rose and fired on
him. The speed of his horse was so great that not a ball struck
him. At Hanovertown, in 1863, and on a hundred occasions,
he was chased, when almost unattended, by Federal cavalry; but,
clearing fence and ravine, escaped. He was a “horse-man” in
his knowledge of horses, but had no “passion” for them; preferred

animals of medium size, which wheeled, leaped, and
moved rapidly; and, mounted upon his “Skylark,” “Star of the
East,” “Lady Margaret,” or “Lily of the Valley,” he was the
picture of a bold cavalier, prepared to go into a charge, or to
take a gallop by moonlight—ready for a fight or a frolic.

It was out of the saddle, however, that Stuart was most attractive.
There he was busy; in his tent, when his work was once
over, he was as insouciant as a boy. Never was there a human
being of readier laughter. He dearly loved a joke, and would
have one upon everybody. They were not mild either. He
loved a horse-joke, and a horse-laugh. But the edge of his
satire, although keen, was never envenomed. The uproarious
humour of the man took away anything like sarcasm from his
wit, and he liked you to “strike back.” What are called “great
people” sometimes break their jests upon lesser personages, with
a tacit understanding that the great personage shall not be jested
at in return. Such deference to his rank was abhorrent to Stuart.
He jested roughly, but you were welcome to handle him
as roughly in return. If you could turn the laugh upon him,
you were perfectly welcome so to do, and he never liked you
the less for it. In winter-quarters his tent was a large affair,
with a good chimney and fireplace; in the summer, on active
service, a mere breadth of canvas stretched over rails against a
tree, and open at both ends. Or he had no tent, and slept under
a tree. The canvas “fly” only came into requisition when he
rested for a few days from the march. Under this slight shelter,
Stuart was like a king of rangers. On one side was his chair
and desk; on the other, his blankets spread on the ground:
at his feet his two setters, “Nip” and “Tuck,” whom he had
brought out of Culpeper, on the saddle, as he fell back before
the enemy. When tired of writing, he would throw himself
upon his blankets, play with his pets, laugh at the least provocation,
and burst into some gay song.

He had a strong love for music, and sang, himself, in a clear,
sonorous, and correct voice. His favourites were: “The bugle
sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered;” “The dew is on
the blossom;” “Sweet Evelina,” and “Evelyn,” among pathetic

songs; but comic ones were equal or greater favourites with him:
“If you get there before I do;” “The old gray horse;” “Come
out of the wilderness,” and “If you want to have a good time,
join the cavalry,” came from his lips in grand uproarious merriment,
the very woods ringing with the strains. This habit
of singing had always characterized him. From the days in the
valley when he harassed Paterson so, with his omnipresent cavalry,
he had fought and sung alternately. Riding at the head
of his long column, bent upon some raid, or advancing to attack
the enemy, he would make the forest resound with his sonorous
songs; and a gentleman who met him one day, thus singing in
front of his men, said that the young cavalier was his perfect
ideal of a knight of romance. It might almost, indeed, be said
that music was his passion, as Vive la joie! might have been
regarded as his motto. His banjo-players, Sweeny, was the constant
inmate of his tent, rode behind him on the march, and
went with him to social gatherings. Stuart wrote his most important
dispatches and correspondence with the rattle of the gay
instrument stunning everybody, and would turn round from his
work, burst into a laugh, and join uproariously in Sweeny's
chorus. On the march, the banjo was frequently put in requisition;
and those “grave people” who are shocked by “frivolity”
must have had their breath almost taken away by this extraordinary
spectacle of the famous General Stuart, commanding all
the cavalry of General Lee's army, moving at the head of his
hard-fighting corps with a banjo-player rattling behind him.
But Stuart cared little for the “grave people.” He fought
harder than they did, and chose to amuse himself in his own
way. Lee, Johnston, and Jackson, had listened to that banjo
without regarding it as frivolous; and more than once it had
proved a relaxation after the exhausting cares of command. So
it rattled on still, and Stuart continued to laugh, without caring
much about “the serious family” class. He had on his side
Lee, Jackson, and the young ladies who danced away gaily
to Sweeny's music—what mattered it whether Aminadab Sleek,
Esq., approved or disapproved!

The “young lady” element was an important one with Stuart.

Never have I seen a purer, more knightly, or more charming
gallantry than his. He was here, as in all his life, the Christian
gentleman, the loyal and consistent professor of religion; but
with this delicacy of the chevalier was mingled the gaiety of
the boy. He was charmed, and charmed in return. Ladies
were his warmest admirers—for they saw that under his laughing
exterior was an earnest nature and a warm heart. Everything
drew them towards him. The romance of his hard career,
the adventurous character of the man, his mirth, wit, gallantry,
enthusiasm, and the unconcealed pleasure which he showed in
their society, made him their prime favourite. They flocked
around him, gave him flowers, and declared that if they could
they would follow his feather and fight with him. With all
this, Stuart was delighted. He gave them positions on his staff,
placed the flowers in his button-hole, kissed the fair hands that
presented them, and if the cheek was near the hand, he would
laugh and kiss that too. The Sleek family cried out at this,
and rolled their eyes in horror—but it is hard to please the
Sleek family. Stuart was married, a great public character, had
fought in defence of these young ladies upon a hundred battle-fields,
and was going to die for them. It does not seem so huge
an enormity as the Sleeks everywhere called it—that while the
blue eyes flashed, the eyes of women should give back their
splendour; while the lips were warm, they should not shrink
from them. Soon the eyes were to grow dim, and the lips
cold.

Stuart was best loved by those who knew him best; and it
may here be recorded that his devotion towards his young wife
and children attracted the attention of every one. His happiest
hours were spent in their society, and he never seemed so well
satisfied as when they were in his tent. To lie upon his campcouch
and play with one of his children, appeared to be the
summit of felicity with him; and when, during the hard falling
back near Upperville, in the fall of 1862, the news came of the
death of his little daughter Flora, he seemed almost overcome.
Many months afterwards, when speaking of her, the tears
gushed to his eyes, and he murmured in a broken voice; “I will

never get over it—never!” He seemed rough and hard to those
who only saw him now and then; but the persons who lived
with him knew his great kindness of heart. Under that careless,
jesting, and often curt demeanour, was a good, true heart.
The fibre of the man was tough under all strain, and his whole
organization was masculine; but he exhibited, sometimes, a softness
of feeling which might almost be called tenderness. A
marked trait of his character was this: that if he had offended
anybody, or wounded their feelings, he could never rest until he
had in some way made amends. His temper was irascible at
times, and he would utter harsh words; but the flaming eyes
soon softened, the arrogant manner disappeared. In ten minutes
his arm would probably be upon the shoulder or around the
neck of the injured individual, and his voice would become
caressante. This was almost amusing, and showed his good
heart. Like a child, he must “make up” with people he had
unintentionally offended; and he never rested until he succeeded.
Let it not be understood, however, that this placability
of temperament came into play in “official” affairs. There
Stuart was as hard as adamant, and nothing moved him. He
never forgave opposition to his will, or disobedience of his
orders; and though never bearing malice, was a thoroughly
good hater. His prejudices were strong; and when once he had
made up his mind deliberately, nothing would change him. He
was immovable and implacable; and against these offenders he
threw the whole weight of his powerful will and his high position,
determined to crush them. That, however, was in public
and official matters. In all the details of his daily life he was
thoroughly lovable, as many persons still living can testify.
He was the most approachable of major-generals, and jested
with the private soldiers of his command as jovially as though
he had been one of themselves. The men were perfectly unconstrained
in his presence, and treated him more like the chief
huntsman of a hunting party than as a major-general. His
staff were greatly attached to him, for he sympathized in all their
affairs as warmly as a brother, and was constantly doing them
some “good turn.” When with them off duty, he dropped
every indication of rank, and was as much a boy as the youngest
of them—playing marbles, quoits, or snowball, with perfect
abandon and enjoyment. Most charming of all in the eyes of
those gentlemen was the fact that he would not hesitate to
decline invitations to entertainments, on the plainly stated
ground that “his staff were not included”—after which I need
give myself no further trouble to explain why he was the most
beloved of generals!

I have spoken of his reckless exposure of his person in battle.
It would convey a better idea of his demeanour under fire
to say that he seemed unaware of the presence of danger. This
air of indifference was unmistakable. When brave men were
moving restlessly, or unconsciously “ducking” to avoid the bullets
showering around them, Stuart sat his horse, full front to
the fire, with head up, form unmoved—a statue of unconsciousness.
It would be difficult to conceive of a greater coolness and
indifference than he exhibited. The hiss of balls, striking down
men around him, or cutting off locks of his hair and piercing
his clothes, as at Fredericksburg, did not seem to attract his attention.
With shell bursting right in his face and maddening
his horse, he appeared to be thinking of something else. In
other men what is called “gallantry” is generally seen to be the
effect of a strong will; in Stuart it seemed the result of indifference.
A stouter-hearted cavalier could not be imagined; and if
his indifference gave way, it was generally succeeded by gaiety.
Sometimes, however, all the tiger was aroused in him. His face
flushed; his eyes darted flame; his voice grew hoarse and strident.
This occurred in the hot fight of Fleetwood Hill, in June,
1863, when he was almost surrounded by the heavy masses of
the enemy's cavalry, and very nearly cut off; and again near
Upperville, later in the same year, when he was driven back,
foot by foot, to the Blue Ridge. Stuart's face was stormy at
such moments, and his eyes like “a devouring fire.” His voice
was curt, harsh, imperious, admitting no reply. The veins in
his forehead grew black, and the man looked “dangerous.” If
an officer failed him at such moments, he never forgave him; as
the man who attracted his attention, or who volunteered for a

forlorn hope, was never forgotten. In his tenacious memory,
Stuart registered everybody; and in his command, his word, bad
or good, largely set up or pulled down.

To dwell still for a few moments upon the private and personal
character of the man—he possessed some accomplishments
unusual in famous soldiers. He was an excellent writer, and his
general orders were frequently very striking for their point and
eloquence. That in which he called on his men after the ride
around McClellan to “avenge Latanè!” and that on the death
of Major Pelham, his chief of artillery, are good examples.
There was something of the Napoleonic fervour in these compositions,
and, though dashed off rapidly, they were pointed, correct,
and without bombast. His letters, when collected, will be
found clear, forcible, and often full of grace, elegance, and wit.
He occasionally wrote verses, especially parodies, for which he
had a decided turn. Some of these were excellent. His letters,
verses, and orders, were the genuine utterances of the man; not
laboured or “stiff,” but spontaneous, flowing, and natural. He
had in conversation some humour, but more wit; and of badinage
it might almost be said that he was a master. His repartee was
excellent, his address ever gay and buoyant, and in whatever
society he was thrown he never seemed to lose that unaffected
mirthfulness which charms us more perhaps than all other qualities
in an associate. I need scarcely add that this uniform gaiety
was never the result of the use of stimulants. Stuart never drank
a single drop of any intoxicating liquid in his whole life, except
when he touched to his lips the cup of sacramental wine at
the communion. He made that promise to his mother in his
childhood, and never broke it. “If ever I am wounded,” he
said to me one day, “don't let them give me any whiskey or
brandy.” His other habits were as exemplary. I never saw him
touch a card, and he never dreamed of uttering an oath under
any provocation—nor would he permit it at his quarters. He
attended church whenever he could, and sometimes, though not
often, had service at his headquarters. One day a thoughtless
officer, who did not “know his man,” sneered at preachers in his
presence, and laughed at some one who had entered the ministry.

Stuart's face flushed; he exhibited unmistakable displeasure,
and said: “I regard the calling of a clergyman as the
noblest in which any human being can engage.” This was the
frivolous, irreverent, hard-drinking personage of some people's
fancies—the man who was sneered at as little better than a
reprobate by those whom he had punished, and who, therefore,
hated and slandered him!

4. IV.

Such, in brief outline, was this “Flower of Cavaliers,” as he
moved in private, before the eyes of friends, and lived his life
of gentleman. An estimate of the military and intellectual
calibre of the man remains to be made—a rapid delineation of
those traits of brain and nerve combined which made him the
first cavalry officer of his epoch—I had nearly written of any
epoch.

Out of his peculiar sphere he did not display marked
ability. His mind was naturally shrewd, and, except in some
marked instances, he appeared to possess an instinctive knowledge
of men. But the processes of his brain, on ordinary occasions,
exhibited rather activity and force than profoundness of
insight. His mental organization seemed to be sound and practical
rather than deep and comprehensive. He read little when
I knew him, and betrayed no evidences of wide culture. His
education was that of the gentleman rather than the scholar.
“Napoleon's Maxims,” a translation of Jomini's Treatise on
War, and one or two similar works, were all in which he
appeared to take pleasure. His whole genius evidently lay in
the direction of his profession, and even here many persons
doubted the versatility of his faculties. It will remain an interesting
problem whether he would have made a great infantry
commander. He was confident of his own ability; always
resented the dictum that he was a mere “cavalry officer;” and I
believe, at one time, it was the purpose of the Confederate authorities
to place him in command of a corps of infantry. Upon
the question of his capacity, in this sphere, there will probably

be many opinions. At Chancellorsville, when he succeeded
Jackson, the troops, although quite enthusiastic about him, complained
that he had led them too recklessly against artillery;
and it is hard for those who knew the man to believe that, as an
army commander, he would ever have consented to a strictly
defensive campaign. Fighting was a necessity of his blood, and
the slow movements of infantry did not suit his genius. With
an army under him, it is probable that he would either have
achieved magnificent successes or sustained overwhelming
defeats. I confess I thought him equal to anything in his profession,
but competent judges doubted it. What every one
agreed about, however, was his supreme genius for fighting
cavalry.

He always seemed to me to be intended by nature for this
branch of the service. Some men are born to write great works,
others to paint great pictures, others to rule over nations. Stuart
was born to fight cavalry. It was only necessary to be with him
in important movements or on critical occasions, to realize this.
His instinct was unfailing, his coup d'oeil that of the master. He
was a trained soldier, and had truly graduated at West Point,
but it looked like instinct rather than calculation—that rapid
and unerring glance which took in at once every trait of the
ground upon which he was operating, and anticipated every
movement of his adversary. I never knew him to blunder.
His glance was as quick, and reached its mark as surely as the
lightning. Action followed like the thunder. In moments of
great emergency it was wonderful to see how promptly he swept
the whole field, and how quickly his mind was made up. He
seemed to penetrate, as by a species of intuition, every design
of his opponent, and his dispositions for attack or defence were
those of a master-mind. Sometimes nothing but his unconquerable
resolution, and a sort of desperation, saved him from
destruction; but in almost every critical position which he was
placed in during that long and arduous career, it was his wonderful
acumen, no less than his unshrinking nerve, which
brought him out victorious.

This nerve had in it something splendid and chivalric. It

never failed him for a moment on occasions which would have
paralysed ordinary commanders. An instance was given in
October, 1863. Near Auburn his column was surrounded by
the whole of General Meade's army, then retiring before General
Lee. Stuart massed his command, kept cool, listened hour
after hour as the night passed on, to the roll of the Federal
artillery and the heavy tramp of their infantry within a few
hundred yards of him, and at daylight placed his own guns in
position and made a furious attack, under cover of which he
safely withdrew. An earlier instance was his raid in rear of
General McClellan, in June, 1862, when, on reaching the lower
Chickahominy, he found the stream swollen and unfordable,
while at every moment an enraged enemy threatened to fall
upon his rear with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery. Although the men were much disheartened, and
were gloomy enough at the certain fate which seemed to await
them, Stuart remained cool and unmoved. He intended, he said
afterwards, to “die game” if attacked, but he believed he could
extricate his command. In four hours he had built a bridge,
singing as he worked with the men; and his column, with the
guns, defiled across just as the enemy rushed on them. A third
instance was the second ride around McClellan in Maryland,
October, 1862; when coming to the Monocacy he found General
Pleasanton, with a heavy force of cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
in his path, but unhesitatingly attacked and cut his way through.
Still another at Jack's Shop, where he charged both ways—the
column in front, and that sent to cut him off—and broke
through. Still another at Fleetwood Hill, where he was
attacked in front, flank, and rear, by nearly 17,000 infantry and
cavalry, but charging from the centre outwards, swept them
back, and drove them beyond the Rappahannock.

Upon these occasions and twenty others, nothing but his stout
nerve saved him from destruction. This quality, however,
would not have served him without the quick military instinct
of the born soldier. His great merit as a commander was, that
his conception of “the situation” was as rapid and just as his
nerve was steady. His execution was unfaltering, but the brain

had devised clearly what was to be done before the arm was
raised to strike. It was this which distinguished Stuart from
others—the promptness and accuracy of his brain work “under
pressure,” and at moments when delay was destruction. The
faculty would have achieved great results in any department of
arms; but in cavalry, the most “sudden and dangerous” branch
of the service, where everything is decided in a moment as it
were, it made Stuart one of the first soldiers of his epoch.
With equal—or not largely unequal—forces opposed to him, he
was never whipped. More than once he was driven back, and
two or three times “badly hurt;” but it was not the superior
genius of Buford, Stoneman, Pleasanton, or other adversaries,
which achieved those results. It was the presence of an obstacle
which his weapon could not break. Numbers were too much
for brain and acumen, and reckless fighting. The hammer was
shattered by the anvil.

5. V.

Stuart was forced, by the necessities of the struggle, the nature
of the country, and the all-work he had to perform, to depend
much upon sharp-shooting. But he preferred pure cavalry
fighting. He fought his dismounted skirmishers with obstinacy,
and was ever present with them, riding alone the line, a conspi
cuous target for the enemy's bullets, cheering them on. But it
was in the legitimate sphere of cavalry that he was greatest.
The skirmishing was the “hard work.” He had thus to keep
a dangerous enemy off General Lee's flanks as the infantry
moved through the gaps of the Blue Ridge towards Pennsylvania,
or to defend the line of the Rappahannock, when some Federal
commander with thousands of horsemen, “came down like a
wolf” on General Lee's little “fold.” It was here, I think, that
Stuart vindicated his capacity to fight infantry, for such were
the dismounted cavalry; and he held his ground before swarming
enemies with a nerve and persistence which resembled Jackson's.

It was in the raid, the flank movement, the charge, and the

falling back, with cavalry proper, however, that he exhibited the
most conspicuous traits of the soldier. The foundation of his
successes here was a wonderful energy. The man was a war-machine
which never flagged. Day or night he was ready to
mount at the sound of the bugle. Other commanders, like the
bonus Homerus, drowsed at times, and nodded, suffering their
zeal to droop; but Stuart was sleepless, and General Lee could
count on him at any instant. To that inexhaustible physical
strength was united a mentality as untiring. The mind, like the
body, could “go day and night,” and needed no rest. When all
around him were broken down, Stuart still remained fresh and
unwearied; ready for council or for action; to give his views
and suggest important movements, or to march and make an
attack. His organization was of the “hair-trigger” kind, and
the well-tempered spring never lost its elasticity. He would
give orders, and very judicious ones, in his sleep—as on the
night of the second Manassas. When utterly prostrated by
whole days and nights spent in the saddle, he would stop by the
roadside, lie down without pickets or videttes, even in an enemy's
country—as once he did coming from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in
July, 1863—sleep for an hour, wrapped in his cape and resting
against the trunk of a tree, and then mount again, as fresh
apparently, as if he had slumbered from sunset to dawn.

As his physical energies thus never seemed to droop, or
sprang with a rebound from the weight on them, so he never
desponded. A stouter heart in the darkest hour I have never
seen. No clouds could depress him or disarm his courage. He
met ill fortune with a smile, and drove it before him with his
gallant laughter. Gloom could not live in his presence, and the
whole race of “croakers” were shamed into hopefulness by his
inspiring words and demeanour. Defeat and disaster seemed to
make him stronger and more resolute, and he rose under
pressure. In moments of the most imminent peril to the very
existence of his command, I have seen him drum carelessly with
his fingers on the knee thrown over the pommel of his saddle,
reflect for an instant without any trace of excitement, and then
give the order to cut a path through the enemy, without the

change of a muscle. At such moments, it was plain that Stuart
coolly made up his mind to do his best, and leave the rest to the
chances of arms. His manner said as plainly as any word: “I
am going to make my way out or die—the thing is decided upon
—why make a to-do about it?” So perfect was his equanimity
upon such occasions, that persons ignorant of the extent of the
peril could not realize that any existed. It was hard to believe,
in presence of this “heart of oak,” with his cool and indifferent
manner, his composed tones and careless smile, that death or
capture stared the command in the face. And yet these were
just the occasions when Stuart's face of bronze was most unmoved.
Peril brought out his strength. The heaviest clouds
must obscure the landscape before his splendid buoyancy and
“heart of hope” were fully revealed. That stout heart seemed
invincible, and impending ruin could not shake it. I have seen
him strung, aroused, his eye flaming, his voice hoarse with the
mingled joy and passion of battle; but have never seen him
flurried or cast down, much less paralysed by a disaster. When
not rejoicing like the hunter on the traces of the game, he was
cool, resolute, and determined, evidently “to do or die.” The
mens œqua in arduis shone in the piercing blue eye, and his undaunted
bearing betrayed a soul which did not mean to yield—
which might be crushed and shattered, but would not bend.
When pushed hard and hunted down by a swarm of foes, as he
was more than once, Stuart presented a splendid spectacle. He
met the assault like an athlete of the Roman amphitheatre, and
fought with the ferocity of a tiger. He looked “dangerous”
at such moments; and those adversaries who knew him best,
advanced upon their great opponent thus standing at bay, with a
caution which was born of experience.

These observations apply with especial justice to the various
occasions when Stuart held with his cavalry cordon the country
north of the Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge, while
General Lee either advanced or retired through the gaps of the
mountains. The work which he did here will remain among his
most important services. He is best known to the world by his
famous “raids,” as they were erroneously called, by his circuits

of McClellan's army in Virginia and in Maryland, and other
movements of a similar character. This, however, was not his
great work. He will live in history as the commander of Lee's
cavalry, and for the great part he played in that leader's most
important movements. What Lee designed when he moved
Northward, or fell back from the valley, it was a matter of the
utmost interest to the enemy to know, and persistent efforts were
made by them to strike the Confederate flank and discover.
Stuart was, however, in the way with his cavalry. The road to
the Blue Ridge was obstructed; and somewhere near Middleburg,
Upperville, or Paris, the advancing column would find the
wary cavalier. Then took place an obstinate, often desperate
struggle—on Stuart's part to hold his ground; on the enemy's
part to break through the cordon. Crack troops—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—were sent upon this important work,
and the most determined officers of the United States Army
commanded them.

Then came the tug of war. Stuart must meet whatever force
was brought against him, infantry as well as cavalry, and match
himself with the best brains of the Federal army in command
of them. It was often “diamond cut diamond.” In the fields
around Upperville, and everywhere along the road to Ashby's
Gap, raged a war of giants. The infantry on both sides heard
the distant roar of the artillery crowning every hill, and thought
the cavalry was skirmishing a little. The guns were only the
signal of a hand-to-hand struggle. Desperate charges were
made upon them; sabres clashed, carbines banged; in one
great hurly-burly of rushing horses, ringing sabres, cracking
pistols, and shouts which deafened, the opposing columns clashed
together. If Stuart broke them, he pressed them hotly, and
never rested until he swept them back for miles. If they broke
Stuart, he fell back with the obstinate ferocity of a bull-dog;
fought with his sharpshooters in every field, with his Horse Artillery
upon every knoll; and if they “crowded him” too closely
he took command of his column, and went at them with the
sabre, resolved to repulse them or die. It was upon this great
theatre that he displayed all his splendid faculties of nerve,

judgment, dash, and obstinacy—his quickness of conception,
rapidity of decision, and that fire of onset before which few
opponents could stand. The infantry did not know much about
these hot engagements, and cherished the flattering view that they
did all the fighting. General Lee, however, knew accurately
what was done, and what was not done. In Spotsylvania, after
Stuart's fall, he exclaimed: “If Stuart only were here! I can
scarcely think of him without weeping.”

The great cavalier had protected the Southern flanks upon a
hundred movements; guarded the wings upon many battle-fields,
penetrated the enemy's designs, and given General Lee information
in every campaign; and now when the tireless brain was
still, and the piercing eyes were dim, the country began to comprehend
the full extent of the calamity at Yellow Tavern, in
May, 1864, and to realize the irreparable loss sustained by the
cause when this bulwark fell.

6. VI.

I have noticed Stuart's stubbornness, nerve, and coolness. His
dash and impetuosity in the charge have scarcely been alluded
to, and yet it was these characteristics of the man which chiefly
impressed the public mind. On a former page he has been compared
to Rupert, the darling of love and war, who was never so
well satisfied as when dashing against the Roundhead pikes and
riding down his foes. Stuart seems to have inherited that trait
of the family blood—for it seems tolerably well established that
he and Rupert were descended from the same stock, and scions
of that family which has given to the world men of brain and
courage, as well as faineans and libertines. To notice briefly
this not uninteresting point, the “family likeness” in the traits
of Stuart and Prince Rupert is very curious. Both were utterly
devoted to a principle which was their life-blood—in Rupert it
was the love of royalty, in Stuart the love of Virginia. Both
were men of the most impetuous temper, chafing at opposition,
and ready at any instant to match themselves against their adversaries,
and conquer or die. Both were devoted to the “love of

ladies,” gallant to the echo; of a proud and splendid loyalty to
their word; of unshrinking courage; kind and compassionate
in temper, gay and smiling in address; fonder of fighting than
of looking to the commissariat; adored by their men, who
approached them without fear of a repulse; cavalry-men in every
drop of their blood; fond of brilliant colours, splendid pageants,
the notes of the bugle, the glitter of arms: Rupert with his
snowy plume, Stuart with his black one;—both throwing over
their shoulders capes of dazzling scarlet, unworn by men who
are not attached to gay colours; both taking a white dog for a
pet; both proud, gay, unswerving, indomitable, disdainful of
low things, passionately devoted to glory; both men in brain
and character at an age when others are mere boys; both famous
before thirty—and for ever—such were the points of resemblance
between these two men. Those familiar with the character of
the greatest cavalry-man of the English struggle, and with the
traits of Stuart, the most renowned of the recent conflict, will
not fail to see the likeness.

But I pass to “Stuart in the charge.” Here the man was
superb. It was in attack, after all, that his strongest faculties
were exhibited. Indeed, the whole genius and temperament of
the Virginian were for advancing, not retreating. He could fall
back stubbornly, as has been shown; and he certainly did so in
a masterly manner, disputing every inch of ground with his
adversary, and giving way to an enemy's advance under bloody
protest. At these times he displayed the obstinate temper of the
old Ironsides of Cromwell, when they retired in serried ranks,
ready to turn as they slowly retreated, and draw blood with their
iron claws. But when advancing upon an adversary—more
than all in the impetuous charge—Stuart was no longer the
Roundhead; he was the Cavalier. Cavalier he was by birth
and breeding and temperament; and he sprang to meet an
enemy, as Rupert drove forward in the hot struggle of the past
in England. You could see, then, that Stuart was in his element.
Once having formed his column for the charge, and given
his ringing order to “Form in fours! draw sabre!” it was neck
or nothing. When he thus “came to the sabre,” there was no

such word as fail with him. Once in motion to hurl his column
against his adversary, he seemed to act upon the Scriptural precept
to forget those things which were behind, and press on to
those which were before. That was the enemy in front; and to
ride over, and cut right and left among them, was the work
before him. At such moments there was something grand in
the magnificent fire and rush of the soldier. He seemed strong
enough to ride down a world. Only a glance was needed to
tell you that this man had made up his mind to break through
and trample under foot what opposed him, or “die trying.”
His men knew this; and, when he took personal command of
the column, as he most often did, prepared for tough work. His
occasional roughness of address to both officers and men had made
him bitter enemies, but the admiration which he aroused was
unbounded. The men were often heard to say, in critical places:
“There goes old Jeb to the front, boys; it's all right.” And an
officer whom he had offended, and who hated him bitterly,
declared with an oath that he was the greatest cavalry commander
that had ever lived. The reported words of General
Sedgwiek, of the United States Army, may be added here:
“Stuart is the greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America.”

The impetuosity here noted was undoubtedly one of the most
striking traits of the man. In a charge, Stuart seemed on fire,
and was more the Chief of Squadron than the Corps Commander.
He estimated justly his own value as a fighting man, when he
said one day: “My proper place would be major of artillery;”
and it is certain that in command of a battalion of field-pieces,
he would have fought until the enemy were at the very
muzzles of his guns. But in the cavalry he had even a better
field for his love of close fighting. To come to the sabre best
suited his fiery organization, and he did come to it, personally,
on many occasions. He preferred saying, “Come on” to “Go
on.” The men declared that he was reckless, but no one could
say that he had ever sent his column where he was not ready to
go himself. If he made a headlong and determined attack upon
an overpowering force—a thing common with him—he was in

front himself, or fighting among the men. He never seemed to
feel, as far as my observation went, that his life was any more
valuable than that of the humblest private soldier. After one
of these occasions of reckless exposure of himself, I said to him:
“General, you ought not to put yourself in the way of the
bullets so; some day you will be killed.” He sighed and
replied: “Oh, I reckon not; but if I am, they will easily find
somebody to fill my place.” He had evidently determined to
spend and be spent in the Southern struggle, which had aroused
his most passionate sympathies. This love of native land came
to add a magnificent fervour to the natural combativeness of the
man. As a “free lance,” Stuart would have been careless of
his person; but in the Southern struggle he was utterly
reckless.

This indifference to danger was evidently a trait of blood, and
wholly unaffected. Nor, for a long time, did his incessant exposure
of himself bring him so much as a scratch. On all the
great battle-fields of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as
well as in the close and bitter conflicts of his cavalry at Fleetwood,
Auburn, Upperville, Middleburg, South Mountain,
Monocacy, Williamsport, Shepherdstown, Paris, Barbee's, Jeffersonton,
Culpeper Court-House, Brandy, Kelly's Ford, Spotsylvania—in
these, and a hundred other hotly-contested actions,
he was in the very thickest of the fight, cheering on the sharpshooters,
directing his artillery, or leading his column in the
charge, but was never hurt. Horses were shot under him, bullets
struck his equipments, pierced his clothes, or cut off curls of
his hair, as at Fredericksburg, but none ever wounded him. In
the closest melée of clashing sabres the plume of Stuart was
unscathed; no sword's edge ever touched him. He seemed to
possess a charmed life, and to be invulnerable, like Achilles.
Shell, canister, and round-shot tore their way through the ranks
around him, overthrowing men and horses—many a brave fellow
at his side fell, pierced by the hissing bullets of Federal carbines—
but Stuart, like Rupert, never received a wound. The ball
which struck and laid him low at the Yellow Tavern on that
black day of May, 1864, was the first which touched him in the

war. In a hundred battles they had passed to the left and right
of him, sparing him.

7. VII.

The foregoing presents as accurate an outline of Stuart as the
present writer, after a close association with him for two or three
years, could draw. No trait is feigned or fanciful, and the picture
is not exaggerated, though it may seem so to some. The
organization of this man was exceptional and very remarkable.
The picture seems a fancy piece, perhaps, but it is the actual
portrait. The gaiety, nerve, courage, dash, and stubborn resolution
of that man were as great as here described. These were
the actual traits which made him fill so great a space in the public
eye; and as what he effected was not “done in a corner,” so
what he was became plain to all.

He was hated bitterly by some who had felt the weight of his
hot displeasure at their shortcomings, and some of these people
tried to traduce and slander him. They said he was idle and
negligent of his duties—he, the hardest worker and most wary
commander I ever saw. They said, in whispers behind his
back—in that tone which has been described as “giggle-gabble”
—that he thought more of dancing, laughing, and trifling with
young ladies than of his military work, when those things were
only the relaxations of the man after toil. They said that ladies
could wheedle and cajole him—when he arrested hundreds,
remained inexorable to their petitions, and meted out to the
“fairest eyes that ever have shone” the strictest military justice.
They said that he had wreaths of flowers around his horse, and
was “frolicking” with his staff at Culpeper Court-House, so
that his headquarters on Fleetwood Hill were surprised and captured
in June, 1863, when he had not been at the Court-House
for days; sent off every trace of his headquarters at dawn, six
hours before the enemy advanced; and was ready for them at
every point, and drove them back with heavy loss beyond the
river. In like manner the Sleeks sneered at his banjo, sneered
at his gay laughter, sneered at his plume, his bright colours, and

his merry songs. The same good friends invented stories of
rebukes he had incurred from General Lee, when he uniformly
received from that great friend and commander the highest evidences
of regard and confidence. These winged arrows, shot in
secret by the hand of calumny, which in plain Saxon are called
lies, accompanied Stuart everywhere at one period of his career;
but the Southern people could not be brought to believe them.
They flushed the face of the proud and honest cavalier, sometimes,
and made the blue eyes flash; but what could he do?
The calumnies were nameless; their authors slunk into shadow,
and shrank from him. So he ended by laughing at them, as the
country did, and going on his way unmindful of them. He
answered slander by brave action—calumny by harder work,
more reckless exposure of himself, and by grander achievements.
Those secret enemies might originate the falsehoods aimed at
him from their safe refuge in some newspaper office, or behind
some other “bomb-proof” shelter—he would fight. That was
his reply to them, and the scorn extinguished them. The honest
gentleman and great soldier was slandered, and he lived down
the slander—fighting it with his sword and his irreproachable
life, not with his tongue.

When death came to him in the bloom of manhood, and the
flush of a fame which will remain one of the supremest glories of
Virginia, Stuart ranked with the preux chevalier Bayard, the
knight “without reproach or fear.”

The brief and splendid career in which he won his great
renown, and that name of the “Flower of Cavaliers,” has
scarcely been touched on in this rapid sketch. The arduous
work which made him so illustrious has not been described—I
have been able to give only an outline of the man. That picture
may be rude and hasty, but it is a likeness. This was
Stuart. The reader must have formed some idea of him, hasty
and brief as the delineation has necessarily been. I have tried
to draw him as the determined leader, full of fire and force; the
stubborn fighter; the impetuous cavalier in the charge; the, at
times, hasty and arrogant, but warm-hearted friend; the devoted
Christian, husband, and father; the gayest of companions; full

of fun, frolic, laughter, courage, hope, buoyancy, and a certain
youthful joyousness which made his presence like the sunshine.
Upon this last trait I have dwelt much—the youth, and joy,
and hope, which shone in his brilliant eyes and rang in his
sonorous laughter. He passed before you like an incarnate
spring, all mirth and sunshine; but behind was the lightning.
In those eyes as fresh and blue as the May morning, lurked the
storm and the thunderbolt. Beneath the flowers was the hard
steel battle-axe. With that weapon he struck like Cœur de Lion,
and few adversaries stood before it. The joy, romance, and
splendour of the early years of chivalry flamed in his regard, and
his brave blood drove him on to combat. In the lists, at Camelot,
he would have charged “before the eyes of ladies and of
kings,” like Arthur; on the arena of the war in Virginia he followed
his instincts. Bright eyes were ever upon the daring
cavalier there, and his floating plume was like Henry of Navarre's
to many stout horsemen who looked to him as their chosen
leader; but, better still, the eyes of Lee and Jackson were fixed
on him with fullest confidence. Jackson said, when his wound
disabled him at Chancellorsville, and Stuart succeeded him:
“Go back to General Stuart and tell him to act upon his own
judgment, and do what he thinks best—I have implicit confidence
in him.” In Spotsylvania, as we have seen, General Lee
“could scarcely think of him without weeping.” The implicit
confidence of Jackson, and the tears of Lee, are enough to fill
the measure of one man's life and fame.

Such was Stuart—such the figure which moved before the
eyes of the Southern people for those three years of glorious
encounters, and then fell like some “monarch of the woods,”
which makes the whole forest resound as it crashes down.
Other noble forms there were; but that “heart of oak” of the
stern, hard fibre, the stubborn grain, even where it lies is mightiest.
Even dead and crumbled into dust, the form of Stuart
still fills the eye, and the tallest dwindle by his side—he seems
so great.