University of Virginia Library

II.
JACKSON.

1. I.

At five in the evening, on the 27th of June, 1862, General
Stonewall Jackson made his appearance on the field of Cold
Harbour. Fresh from the hot conflicts of the Valley—an
athlete covered with the dust and smoke of the arena—he came
now with his veteran battalions to enter upon the still more
desperate conflicts of the lowland.

At that time many persons asked, “Who is Jackson?” All
we then knew of the famous leader was this—that he was born a
poor boy beyond the Alleghanies; managed to get to West
Point; embarked in the Mexican war as lieutenant of artillery,
where he fought his guns with such obstinacy that his name
soon became renowned; and then, retiring from active service,
became a Professor at the Lexington Military School. Here
the world knew him only as an eccentric but deeply pious man,
and a somewhat commonplace lecturer. Stiff and rigid in his
pew at church, striding awkwardly from his study to his lectureroom,
ever serious, thoughtful, absent minded in appearance—
such was the figure of the future Lieutenant-General, the estimate
of whose faculties by the gay young students may be
imagined from their nickname for him, “Fool Tom Jackson.”

In April, 1861, Fool Tom Jackson became Colonel of Virginia
volunteers, and went to Harper's Ferry, soon afterwards fighting
General Patterson at Falling Water, thence descending to
Manassas. Here the small force—2,611 muskets—of Brigadier-General
Jackson saved the day. Without them the Federal

column would have flanked and routed Beauregard. Bee,
forced back, shattered and overwhelmed, galloped up to Jackson
and groaned out, “General, they are beating us back!” Jackson's
set face did not move. “Sir,” he said, “we will give them
the bayonet.” Without those 2,611 muskets that morning,
good-by to Beauregard! In the next year came the Valley
campaign; the desperate and most remarkable fight at Kernstown;
the defeat and retreat of Banks from Strasburg and Winchester;
the retreat, in turn, of his great opponent, timed with
such mathematical accuracy, that at Strasburg he strikes with
his right hand and his left the columns of Fremont and Shields,
closing in from east and west to destroy him—strikes them and
passes through, continuing his retreat up the Valley. Then
comes the last scene—finis coronat. At Port Republic his
adversaries strike at him in two columns. He throws himself
against Fremont at Cross Keys and checks his advance; then
attacks Shields beyond the river, and after one of the hottest
battles of the war, fought nearly man to man, defeats him-Troops
never fought better than the Federals there, but they
were defeated; and Jackson, by forced marches, hastened to fall
upon McClellan's right wing on the Chickahominy.

These events had, in June, 1862, attracted all eyes to Jackson.
People began to associate his name with the idea of unvarying
success, and to regard him as the incarnate genius of victory.
War seemed in his person to have become a splendid pageant of
unceasing triumph; and from the smoke of so many battle-fields
rose before the imaginative public eye, the figure of a
splendid soldier on his prancing steed, with his fluttering banner,
preceded by bugles, and advancing in all the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of glorious war. The actual man was somewhat
different; and in this sketch I shall try to draw his outline
as he really looked. In doing so, an apparent egotism will be
necessary; but this may be pardoned as inseparable from the
subject. What men see is more interesting than what they
think, often; what the writer saw of this great man will here be
recorded.

It was late in the afternoon of this memorable day, and A. P.

Hill had just been repulsed with heavy slaughter from General
McClellan's admirable works near New Cold Harbour, when
the writer of this was sent by General Stuart to ascertain if
Jackson's crops had gone in, and what were his dispositions for
battle. A group near a log cabin, twenty paces from Old Cold
Harbour House, was pointed out to me; and going there, I asked
for the General. Some one pointed to a figure seated on a log
—dingy, bending over, and writing on his kness. A faded,
yellow cap of the cadet pattern was drawn over his eyes; his
fingers, holding a pencil, trembled. His voice, in addressing
me, was brief, curt, but not uncourteous; and then, his dispatch
having been sent, he mounted and rode slowly alone across
the field. A more curious figure I never saw. He sat his rawboned
sorrel—not the “old sorrel,” however—like an automaton.
Kness drawn up, body leaning forward; the whole figure
stiff, angular, unbending. His coat was the dingiest of the
dingy; originally gray, it seemed to have brought away some
of the dust and dirt of every region in which he had bivouacked.
His faded cap was pulled down so low upon the forehead that
he was compelled to raise his chin into the air to look from
beneath the rim. Under that rim flashed two keen and piercing
eyes—dark, with a strange brilliancy, and full of “fight.” The
nose was prominent; the moustache heavy upon the firm lip,
close set beneath; the rough, brown beard did not conceal the
heavy fighting jaw. All but the eye was in apparent respose;
there was no longer any tretnor of anxiety. The soldier seemed
to have made all his arrangements, “done his best,” and he
evidently awaited the result with entire coolness. There was
even something absent and abstracted in his manner, as he rode
slowly to and fro, sucking a lemon, and looking keenly at you
when you spoke, answering briefly when necessary.

Twice more I saw him that day—first in the evening, in the
midst of a furious shelling, riding slowly with General Stuart
among his guns; his face lit up by the burning brushwood—a
face perfectly calm and unmoved. And again at midnight,
when, as I slept in a fence corner, I felt a hand upon my shoulder,
and a voice said, “Where is the General?” It was

Jackson, riding about by himself; and he tied his horse, lay
down beside General Stuart, and began with, “Well, yesterday's
was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard!” Words of
unwonted animation coming from Jackson—that most matter-of-fact
of speakers, and expressing much.

From this time, Jackson became the idol of his troops and the
country. Wherever he moved among the camps he was met
by cheers; and so unvarying was this reception of him, that a
distant yell would often draw from his men the exclamation,
“That's Jackson or a rabbit!” the sight of the soldier or the
appearance of a hare being alone adequate to arouse this tremendous
excitement. From the day of Cold Harbour, success continued
to crown him—at Cedar Mountain, the second Manassas,
Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, where he met the full weight of
McClellan's right wing under Hooker, and repulsed it, and
Chancellorsville. When he died, struck down by the hands of
his own men, he was the most famous and the most beloved of
Southern commanders.

2. II.

His popularity was great in degree, but more singular in
character. No general was ever so beloved by the good and
pious of the land. Old ladies received him wherever he went
with a species of enthusiasm, and I think he preferred their
society and that of clergymen to any other. In such society his
kindly nature seemed to expand, and his countenance was
charming. He would talk for hours upon religious subjects,
never weary, it seemed, of such discourse, and at such moments
his smile had the sweetness and simplicity of childhood. The
hard intellect was resting, and the heart of the soldier spoke in
this congenial converse upon themes more dear to him than all
others. I have seen him look serene and perfectly happy, conversing
with a venerable lady upon their relative religious
experiences. Children were also great favourites with him, and
he seldom failed to make them love him. When at his headquarters
below Fredericksburg, in 1863, he received a splendid

new cap, gorgeous with a broad band of dazzling gold braid,
which was greatly admired by a child one day in his quarters.
Thereupon Jackson drew her between his knees, ripped off the
braid, and binding it around her curls, sent her away delighted.
With maidens of more advanced age, however, the somewhat
shy General was less at his ease. At “Hayfield,” near the
same headquarters, and about the same time, the hospitable
family were one day visited by Generals Lee, Jackson, and
Stuart, when a little damsel of fourteen confided to her friend
General Lee her strong desire to kiss General Jackson. General
Lee, always fond of pleasantry, at once informed Jackson of the
young lady's desire, and the great soldier's face was covered
with blushes and confusion. An amusing picture, too, is drawn
of the General when he fell into the hands of the ladies of
Martinsburg, and they cut off almost every button of his coat
as souvenirs. The beleaguered hero would have preferred
storming a line of intrenchments.

Jackson had little humour. He was not sour or gloomy, nor
did he look grimly upon “fun” as something which a good
Presbyterian should avoid. He was perfectly cheerful, liberal
and rational in this as in everything; but he had no ear for
humour, as some persons have none for music. A joke was a
mysterious affair to him. Only when so very “broad” and
staring, that he who ran might read it, did humour of any sort
strike Jackson. Even his thick coating of matter-of-fact was
occasionally pierced, however. At Port Republic a soldier said
to his companion: “I wish these Yankees were in hell,” whereupon
the other replied: “I don't; for if they were, old Jack
would be within half a mile of them, with the Stonewall Brigade
in front!” When this was told to Jackson, he is said to
have burst out into hearty laughter, most unusual of sounds upon
the lips of the serious soldier. But such enjoyment of fun was
rare with him. I was never more struck with this than one day
at Fredericksburg, at General Stuart's headquarters. There was
an indifferent brochure published in those days, styled “Abram,
a Poem,” in the comic preface to which, Jackson was presented
in a most ludicrous light, seated on a stump at Oxhill and gnawing

at a roasting ear, while a whole North Carolina brigade
behind him in line of battle was doing likewise. General Stuart
read it with bursts of laughter to his friend, and Jackson also
laughed with perfect good-humour; but no sooner had the book
been closed than he seemed to forget its existence, and said with
an irresistibly matter-of-fact expression which made this writer
retire to indulge his own laughter: “By the by, in going to Culpeper,
where did you cross the Rapidan?” His manner was
unmistakable. It said: “My dear Stuart, all that is no doubt
very amusing to you, and I laugh because you do; but it don't
interest me.” On one occasion only, to the knowledge of the
present writer, did Jackson betray something like dry humour.
It was at Harper's Ferry, in September, 1862, just after the surrender
of that place, and when General Lee was falling back
upon Sharpsburg. Jackson was standing on the bridge over
the Potomac when a courier, out of breath, and seriously “demoralized,”
galloped up to him, and announced that McClellan
was within an hour's march of the place with an enormous army.
Jackson was conversing with a Federal officer at the moment,
and did not seem to hear the courier, who repeated his message
with every mark of agitation. Thereupon Jackson turned round
and said: “Has he any cattle with him?” The reply was that
there were thousands. “Well,” said Jackson, with his dry smile,
“you can go. My men can whip any army that comes well
provisioned.” Of wit, properly speaking, he had little. But
at times his brief, wise, matter-of-fact sentences became epigrammatic.
Dr. Hunter McGuire, his medical director, once gave
him some whiskey when he was wet and fatigued. Jackson made
a wry face in swallowing it, and Dr. McGuire asked if it was
not good whiskey. “Oh, yes,” replied Jackson, “I like liquor,
the taste and effect—that's why I don't drink it.”

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.

4. IV.

Jackson's religious opinions are unknown to the present writer.
He has been called a “fatalist.” All sensible men are fatalists
in one sense, in possessing a strong conviction that “what will
be, will be.” But men of deep piety like Jackson, are not Oriental
in their views. Fate was a mere word with Jackson, with
no meaning; his “star” was Providence. Love for and trust
in that Providence dwelt and beat in every vein and pulse of
his nature. His whole soul was absorbed in his religion—as
much as a merchant's is in his business, or a statesman's in public
affairs. He believed that life “meant intensely, and meant
good.” To find its meaning was “his meat and drink.” His
religion was his life, and the real world a mere phantasmagoria.
He seemed to have died rejoicing, preferring death to life.
Strange madness! This religious dreamer was the stern, practical,
mathematical calculator of chances; the obstinate, unyielding
fighter; the most prosaic of realists in all the commonplaces
of the dreadfully commonplace trade of war.

The world knocks down many people with that cry of “eccentric,”
by which is really meant “insane.” Any divergence from
the conventional is an evidence of mental unsoundness. Jackson
was seen, once in Lexington, walking up and down in a
heavy rain before the superintendent's quarters, waiting for the
clock to strike ten before he delivered his report. He wore
woollen clothes throughout the summer. He would never mail
a letter which to reach its destination must travel on Sunday.

All these things made him laughed at; and yet the good sense
seems all on his side, the folly on that of the laughers. The Institute
was a military school; military obedience was the great
important lesson to the student—rigid, unquestioning obedience.
Jackson set them the example. He was ordered to hand in his
report at ten, and did not feel himself at liberty to present it before
ten, in consequence of the rain. He was ordered to don a
woollen uniform in the winter, and having received no order
preseribing or permitting another, continued to wear it. He
considered it wrong to travel or carry mails on Sunday, and
would not take part in the commission of wrong. This appears
logical, however eccentric.

In truth, the great soldier was an altogether earnest man, with
little genius for the trivial pursuits of life, or its more trivial
processes of thought and opinion. His temper was matter-of-fact,
his logic straightforward; “nonsense” could not live in
his presence. The lighter graces were denied him, but not the
abiding charm. He had no eye for the “flower of the peas,” no
palate for the bubble on the champagne of life; but he was true,
kind, brave, and simple. Life with him was a hard, earnest
struggle; duty seems to have been his watchword. It is hard
to find in his character any actual blot—he was so true and
honest.

Jackson has probably excited more admiration in Europe
than any other personage in the late revolution. His opponents
even are said to have acknowledged the purity of his motives—
to have recognised the greatness of his character and the splendor
of his achievements. This sentiment springs naturally from
a review of his life. It is no part of my design to present a
critical analysis of his military movements. This must sooner
or later be done; but at present the atmosphere is not clear of
the battle-smoke, and figures are seen indistinctly. The time
will come when the campaigns of Jackson will become the study
of military men in the Old World and the New—the masterly advances
and retreats of the Valley; the descent against McClellan;
the expedition to Pope's rear, which terminated in the
second battle of Manassas; and the great flank movement at

Chancellorsville, which has made the tangled brakes of the
Spotsylvania wilderness famous for ever.

Under the grave exterior, the reserved demeanour, the old
faded costume of the famous soldier, the penetrating student of
human nature will discern “one of the immortals.” In the man
who holds aloft his hand in prayer while his veteran battalions
move by steadily to the charge, it will not be difficult to fancy
a reproduction of the stubborn Cromwell, sternest of Ironsides,
going forth to conquer in the name of the Lord. In the man
who led his broken lines back to the conflict, and charged in
front of them on many fields, there was all the dash and impetus
of Rupert. The inscrutable decree of Providence struck
down this great soldier in the prime of life and the bloom of his
faculties. His career extended over but two years, and he lives
only in memory. But history cannot avoid her landmarks; the
great proportions of Stonewall Jackson will sooner or later be
delineated.

The writer of these lines can only say how great this man
appeared to him, and wait with patience for the picture which
shall “denote him truly.”