Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
purely frontal, and his troops lost heavily. But he believed King to be
the flank-guard of a larger force, and under such circumstances turning
movements were over-hazardous. The woods, too, prevented the deployment
of his artillery; and the attack, in its wider aspect, was eminently
successful, for the aim was not to defeat King, but to bring Pope back
to a position where Lee could crush him. On the 29th his dispositions
were admirable. The battle is a fine example of defensive tactics. The
position, to use a familiar illustration, “fitted the troops like a
glove.” It was of such strength that, while the front was adequately
manned, ample reserves remained in rear. The left, the most dangerous
flank, was secured by Bull Run, and massed batteries gave protection to
the right. The distribution of the troops, the orders, and the amount
of latitude accorded to subordinate leaders, followed the best models.
The front was so apportioned that each brigadier on the fighting-line
had his own reserve,
and each divisional general half his force in third line. The orders
indicated that counterstrokes were not to be pushed so far as to
involve the troops in an engagement with the enemy’s reserves, and the
subordinate generals were encouraged, without waiting for orders, and
thus losing the occasion, to seize all favourable opportunities for
counterstroke. The methods employed by Jackson were singularly like
those of Wellington. A position was selected which gave cover and
concealment to the troops, and against which the powerful artillery of
a more numerous enemy was practically useless. These were the
characteristics of Vimiera, Busaco, Talavera, and Waterloo. Nor did
Jackson’s orders differ from those of the great Englishman.
The Duke’s subordinates, when placed in position, acted on a
well-established rule. Within that position they had unlimited power.
They could defend the first line, or they could meet the enemy with a
counter-attack from a position in rear, and in both cases they could
pursue. But the pursuit was never to be carried beyond certain defined
limits. Moreover, Wellington’s views as to the efficacy of the
counterstroke were identical with those of Jackson, and he had the same
predilection for cold steel. “If they attempt this point again, Hill,”
were his orders to that general at Busaco, “give them a volley and
charge bayonets; but don’t let your people follow them too far.”
But it was neither wise strategy nor sound tactics which was the main
element in Pope’s defeat; neither the strong effort of a powerful
brain, nor the judicious devolution of responsibility. A brilliant
military historian, more conversant perhaps with the War of Secession
than the wars of France, concludes his review of this campaign with a
reference to Jackson as “the Ney of the Confederate army.”[8] The
allusion is obvious. So long as the victories of Napoleon are
remembered, the name of his lieutenant will always be a synonym for
heroic valour. But the valour of Ney was of a different type from that
of Jackson. Ney’s valour was animal, Jackson’s was moral, and between
the two there is a vast distinction. Before the
enemy, when his danger was tangible, Ney had few rivals. But when the
enemy was unseen and his designs were doubtful, his resolution
vanished. He was without confidence in his own resources. He could not
act without direct orders, and he dreaded responsibility. At Bautzen
his timidity ruined Napoleon’s combinations; in the campaign of Leipsic
he showed himself incapable of independent command; and he cannot be
acquitted of hesitation at Quatre Bras.
It was in the same circumstances that Ney’s courage invariably gave way
that Jackson’s courage shone with the brightest lustre. It might appear
that he had little cause for fear in the campaign of the Second
Manassas, that he had only to follow his instructions, and that if he
had failed his failure would have been visited upon Lee. The
instructions which he received, however, were not positive, but
contingent on events. If possible, he was to cut the railway, in order
to delay the reinforcements which Pope was expecting from Alexandria;
and then, should the enemy permit, he was to hold fast east of the Bull
Run Mountains until Lee came up. But he was to be guided in everything
by his own discretion. He was free to accept battle or refuse it, to
attack or to defend, to select his own line of retreat, to move to any
quarter of the compass that he pleased. For three days, from the
morning of August 26 to the morning of August 29, he had complete
control of the strategic situation; on his movements were dependent the
movements of the main army; the bringing the enemy to bay and the
choice of the field of battle were both in his hands. And during those
three days he was cut off from Lee and Longstreet. The mountains, with
their narrow passes, lay between; and, surrounded by three times his
number, he was abandoned entirely to his own resources.
Throughout the operations he had been in unusually high spirits. The
peril and responsibility seemed to act as an elixir, and he threw off
much of his constraint. But as the day broke on August 29 he looked
long and earnestly in the direction of Thoroughfare Gap, and
when a messenger from Stuart brought the intelligence that Longstreet
was through the pass, he drew a long breath and uttered a sigh of
relief.[9] The period of suspense was over, but even on that unyielding
heart the weight of anxiety had pressed with fearful force. For three
days he had only received news of the main army at long and uncertain
intervals. For two of these days his information of the enemy’s
movements was very small. While he was marching to Bristoe Station,
Pope, for all he knew, might have been marching against Longstreet with
his whole force. When he attacked King on the 28th the Federals, in
what strength he knew not, still held Thoroughfare Gap; when he formed
for action on the 29th he was still ignorant of what had happened to
the main body, and it was on the bare chance that Longstreet would
force the passage that he accepted battle with far superior numbers.
It is not difficult to imagine how a general like Ney, placed in
Jackson’s situation, would have trimmed and hesitated: how in his march
to Manassas, when he had crossed the mountains and left the Gap behind
him, he would have sent out reconnaissances in all directions, halting
his troops until he learned the coast was clear; how he would have
dashed at the Junction by the shortest route; how he would have forced
his weary troops northward when the enemy’s approach was reported; how,
had he reached Sudley Springs, he would have hugged the shelter of the
woods and let King’s division pass unmolested; and, finally, when
Pope’s columns converged on his position, have fallen back on
Thoroughfare or Aldie. Nor would he have been greatly to blame. Unless
gifted with that moral fortitude which Napoleon ranks higher than
genius or experience, no general would have succeeded in carrying Lee’s
design to a successful issue. In his unhesitating march to Manassas
Junction, in his deliberate sojourn for four-and-twenty hours astride
his enemy’s communications, in his daring challenge to Pope’s whole
army at Groveton, Jackson displayed the indomitable courage
characteristic of the greatest soldiers.
As suggested in the first volume, it is too often overlooked, by those
who study the history of campaign, that war is the province of
uncertainty. The reader has the whole theatre of war displayed before
him. He notes the exact disposition of the opposing forces at each hour
of the campaign, and with this in his mind’s eye he condemns or
approves the action of the commanders. In the action of the defeated
general he usually often sees much to blame; in the action of the
successful general but little to admire. But his judgment is not based
on a true foundation. He has ignored the fact that the information at
his disposal was not at the disposal of those he criticises; and until
he realises that both generals, to a greater or less degree, must have
been groping in the dark, he will neither make just allowance for the
errors of the one, nor appreciate the genius of the other.
It is true that it is difficult in the extreme to ascertain how much or
how little those generals whose campaigns have become historical knew
of their enemy at any particular moment. For instance, in the campaign
before us, we are nowhere told whether Lee, when he sent Jackson to
Manassas Junction, was aware that a portion of McClellan’s army had
been shipped to Alexandria in place of Aquia; or whether he knew, on
the second day of the battle of Manassas, that Pope had been reinforced
by two army corps from the Peninsula. He had certainly captured Pope’s
dispatch book, and no doubt it threw much light on the Federal plans,
but we are not aware how far into the future this light projected. We
do know, however, that, in addition to this correspondence, such
knowledge as he had was derived from reports. But reports are never
entirely to be relied on; they are seldom full, they are often false,
and they are generally exaggerated. However active the cavalry, however
patriotic the inhabitants, no general is ever possessed of accurate
information of his enemy’s dispositions, unless the forces are very
small, or the precautions to elude observation very feeble. On August
28 Stuart’s patrols covered the whole country round Jackson’s army, and
during the
whole day the Federal columns were converging on Manassas. Sigel and
Reynolds’ four divisions passed through Gainesville, not five miles
from Sudley Springs, and for a time were actually in contact with
Jackson’s outposts; and yet Sigel and Reynolds mistook Jackson’s
outposts for reconnoitring cavalry. Again, when King’s single division,
the rear-guard of Pope’s army, appeared upon the turnpike, Jackson
attacked it with the idea that it was the flank-guard of a much larger
force. Nor was this want of accurate intelligence due to lack of
vigilance or to the dense woods. As a matter of fact the Confederates
were more amply provided with information than is usually the case in
war, even in an open country and with experienced armies.
But if, in the most favourable circumstances, a general is surrounded
by an atmosphere which has been most aptly named the fog of war, his
embarrassments are intensified tenfold when he commands a portion of a
divided army. Under ordinary conditions a general is at least fully
informed of the dispositions of his own forces. But when between two
widely separated columns a powerful enemy, capable of crushing each in
turn, intervenes; when the movements of that enemy are veiled in
obscurity; when anxiety has taken possession of the troops, and the
soldiers of either column, striving hopelessly to penetrate the gloom,
reflect on the fate that may have overtaken their comrades, on the
obstacles that may delay them, on the misunderstandings that may have
occurred—it is at such a crisis that the courage of their leader is put
to the severest test.
His situation has been compared to a man entering a dark room full of
assailants, never knowing when or whence a blow may be struck against
him. The illustration is inadequate. Not only has he to contend with
the promptings of his own instincts, but he has to contend with the
instincts and to sustain the resolution of his whole army. It is not
from the enemy he has most to fear. A time comes in all protracted
operations when the nervous energy of the best troops becomes
exhausted, when the most daring shrink from further sacrifice, when
the desire of self-preservation infects the stoutest veterans, and the
will of the mass opposes a tacit resistance to all further effort.