Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
could give me. I had been in Jackson’s corps since the battles round
Richmond, and had been very derelict in not paying my respects to my
old professor.
As I rode to his headquarters I wondered if he would recognise me. I
certainly expected to receive his orders in a few terse sentences, and
to be promptly dismissed with a military salute. He knew me as soon as
I entered his tent, though we had not met for years. He rose quickly,
with a smile on his face, took my hand in both of his in the warmest
manner, expressed his pleasure at seeing me, chided me for not having
been to see him, and bade me be seated. His kind words, the tones of
his voice, his familiarly calling me Lane, whereas it had always been
Mr. Lane at the Institute, put me completely at my ease. Then, for the
first time, I began to love that reserved man whom I had always
honoured and respected as my professor, and whom I greatly admired as
my general.
“After a very pleasant and somewhat protracted conversation, he ordered
me to move at once, and as rapidly as possible, to North Mountain
Depôt, tear up the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and put myself in
communication with General Hampton (commanding cavalry brigade), who
would cover my operations. While we were there General Jackson sent a
member of his staff to see how we were progressing. That night I
received orders to move at once and quickly to Martinsburg, as there
had been heavy skirmishing near Kerneysville. Next morning, when I
reported to General Jackson, he received me in the same cordial,
warm-hearted manner, complimented me on the thoroughness of my work,
told me that he had recommended me for promotion to take permanent
charge of Branch’s brigade, and that as I was the only person
recommended through military channels, I would be appointed in spite of
the two aspirants who were trying to bring political influence to bear
in Richmond in their behalf. When I rose to go he took my hand in both
of his, looked me steadily in the face, and in the words and tones of
friendly warmth, which can never be forgotten, again expressed his
confidence in my promotion, and bade me good-bye, with a ‘God bless
you, Lane!’”[21]
On the other hand, Jackson’s treatment of those who
failed to obey his orders was very different. No matter how high the
rank of the offender, Jackson never sought to screen the crime.[22] No
thought that the public rebuke of his principal subordinates might
impair their authority or destroy their cordial relations with himself
ever stayed his hand; and it may well be questioned whether his
disregard of consequences was not too absolutely uncompromising. Men
who live in constant dread of their chief’s anger are not likely to
render loyal and efficient service, and the least friction in the
higher ranks is felt throughout the whole command. When the troops
begin taking sides and unanimity disappears, the power of energetic
combination at once deteriorates. That Jackson was perfectly just is
not denied; the misconduct of his subordinates was sometimes flagrant;
but it may well be questioned whether to keep officers under arrest for
weeks, or even months, marching without their swords in rear of the
column, was wholly wise. There is but one public punishment for a
senior officer who is guilty of serious misbehaviour, and that is
instant dismissal. If he is suffered to remain in the army his presence
will always be a source of weakness. But the question will arise, Is it
possible to replace him? If he is trusted by his men they will resent
his removal, and give but halfhearted support to his successor; so in
dealing with those in high places tact and consideration are essential.
Even Dr. Dabney admits that in this respect Jackson’s conduct is open
to criticism.
As already related, he looked on the blunders of his officers, if those
blunders were honest, and due simply to misconception of the situation,
with a tolerant eye. He knew too much of war and its difficulties to
expect that their judgment would be unerring. He never made the mistake
of reprehending the man who had done his best to succeed, and contented
himself with pointing out, quietly and courteously, how failure might
have been avoided. “But if he believed,” says his chief of the
staff, “that his subordinates were self-indulgent or contumacious, he
became a stern and exacting master; . . . and during his career a
causeless friction was produced in the working of his government over
several gallant and meritorious officers who served under him. This was
almost the sole fault of his military character: that by this jealousy
of intentional inefficiency he diminished the sympathy between himself
and the general officers next his person by whom his orders were to be
executed. Had he been able to exercise the same energetic authority,
through the medium of a zealous personal affection, he would have been
a more perfect leader of armies.”[23]
This system of command was in all probability the outcome of deliberate
calculation. No officer, placed in permanent charge of a considerable
force, least of all a man who never acted except upon reflection, and
who had a wise regard for human nature, could fail to lay down for
himself certain principles of conduct towards both officers and men. It
may be, then, that Jackson considered the course he pursued the best
adapted to maintain discipline amongst a number of ambitious young
generals, some of whom had been senior to himself in the old service,
and all of whom had been raised suddenly, with probably some
disturbance to their self-possession, to high rank. It is to be
remembered, too, that during the campaigns of 1862 his pre-eminent
ability was only by degrees made clear. It was not everyone who, like
General Lee, discerned the great qualities of the silent and unassuming
instructor of cadets, and other leaders, of more dashing exterior, with
a well-deserved reputation for brilliant courage, may well have doubted
whether his capacity was superior to their own.
Such soaring spirits possibly needed a tight hand; and, in any case,
Jackson had much cause for irritation. With Wolfe and Sherman he shared
the distinguished honour of being considered crazy by hundreds of
self-sufficient mediocrities. It was impossible that he should have
been ignorant, although not one word of complaint ever passed
his lips, how grossly he was misrepresented, how he was caricatured in
the press, and credited with the most extravagant and foolhardy ideas
of war. Nor did his subordinates, in very many instances, give him that
loyal and ungrudging support which he conceived was the due of the
commanding general. More than one of his enterprises fell short of the
full measure of success owing to the shortcomings of others; and these
shortcomings, such as Loring’s insubordination at Romney, Steuart’s
refusal to pursue Banks after Winchester, Garnett’s retreat at
Kernstown, A. P. Hill’s tardiness at Cedar Run, might all be traced to
the same cause—disdain of his capacity, and a misconception of their
own position. In such circumstances it is hardly to be wondered at if
his wrath blazed to a white heat. He was not of a forgiving nature.
Once roused, resentment took possession of his whole being, and it may
be questioned whether it was ever really appeased. At the same time,
the fact that Jackson lacked the fascination which, allied to lofty
intellect, wins the hearts of men most readily, and is pre-eminently
the characteristic of the very greatest warriors, can hardly be denied.
His influence with men was a plant of slow growth. Yet the glamour of
his great deeds, the gradual recognition of his unfailing sympathy, his
modesty and his truth, produced in the end the same result as the
personal charm of Napoleon, of Nelson, and of Lee. His hold on the
devotion of his troops was very sure: “God knows,” said his
adjutant-general, weeping the tears of a brave man, “I would have died
for him!” and few commanders have been followed with more implicit
confidence or have inspired a deeper and more abiding affection. Long
years after the war a bronze statue, in his habit as he lived, was
erected on his grave at Lexington. Thither, when the figure was
unveiled, came the survivors of the Second Army Corps, the men of
Manassas and of Sharpsburg, of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and
of many another hard-fought field; and the younger generation looked on
the relics of an army whose peer the world has seldom seen. When the
guns had fired a salute, the wild rebel yell, the music which the great
Virginian had
loved so well, rang loud above his grave, and as the last
reverberations died away across the hill, the grey-haired ranks stood
still and silent. “See how they loved him!” said one, and it was spoken
with deepest reverence. Two well-known officers, who had served under
Jackson, were sitting near each other on their horses. Each remarked
the silence of the other, and each saw that the other was in tears.
“I’m not ashamed of it, Snowden!” “Nor I, old boy,” replied the other,
as he tried to smile.
When, after the unveiling, the columns marched past the monument, the
old fellows looked up, and then bowed their uncovered heads and passed
on. But one tall, gaunt soldier of the Stonewall Brigade, as he passed
out of the cemetery, looked back for a moment at the life-like figure
of his general, and waving his old grey hat towards it, cried out,
“Good-bye, old man, good-bye; we’ve done all we could for you;
good-bye!”
It is not always easy to discern why one general is worshipped, even by
men who have never seen him, while another, of equal or even superior
capacity, fails to awaken the least spark of affection, except in his
chosen friends. Grant was undoubtedly a greater soldier than McClellan,
and the genius of Wellington was not less than that of Nelson. And yet,
while Nelson and McClellan won all hearts, not one single private had
either for Wellington or Grant any warmer sentiment than respect. It
would be as unfair, however, to attribute selfishness or want of
sympathy to either Wellington or Grant, as to insinuate that Nelson and
McClellan were deliberate bidders for popularity. It may be that in the
two former the very strength of their patriotism was at fault. To them
the State was everything, the individual nothing. To fight for their
country was merely a question of duty, into which the idea of glory or
recompense hardly entered, and, indifferent themselves either to praise
or blame, they considered that the victory of the national arms was a
sufficient reward for the soldier’s toils. Both were generous and
open-handed, exerting themselves incessantly to provide for the comfort
and well-being of their troops.
Neither was insensible to suffering, and both were just as capable of
self-sacrifice as either Nelson or McClellan. But the standpoint from
which they looked at war was too exalted. Nelson and McClellan, on the
other hand, recognised that they commanded men, not stoics. Sharing
with Napoleon the rare quality of captivating others, a quality which
comes by nature or comes not at all, they made allowance for human
nature, and identified themselves with those beneath them in the
closest _camaraderie._ And herein, to a great extent, lay the secret of
the enthusiastic devotion which they inspired.
If the pitiless dissectors of character are right we ought to see in
Napoleon the most selfish of tyrants, the coldest end most crafty of
charlatans. It is difficult, however, to believe that the hearts of a
generation of hardy warriors were conquered merely by ringing phrases
and skilful flattery. It should be remembered that from a mercenary
force, degraded and despised, he transformed the Grand Army into the
terror of Europe and the pride of France. During the years of his