Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
the experience of others. His knowledge of history made him familiar
with the principles which had guided Washington and Napoleon in the
selection of objectives, and with the means by which they attained
them. It is not always easy to determine the benefit, beyond a
theoretical acquaintance with the phenomena of the battle-field, to be
derived from studying the campaigns of the great masters of war. It is
true that no successful general, whatever may have been his practical
knowledge, has neglected such study; but while many have borne witness
to its efficacy, none have left a record of the manner in which their
knowledge of former campaigns influenced their own conduct.
In the case of Stonewall Jackson, however, we have much evidence,
indirect, but unimpeachable, as to the value to a commander of the
knowledge thus acquired. The Maxims of Napoleon, carried in his
haversack, were constantly consulted throughout his campaigns, and this
little volume contains a fairly complete exposition, in Napoleon’s own
words, of the grand principles of war. Moreover, Jackson often quoted
principles which are not to be found in the Maxims, but on which
Napoleon
consistently acted. It is clear, therefore, that he had studied the
campaigns of the great Corsican in order to discover the principles on
which military success is based; that having studied and reflected on
those principles, and the effect their application produced, in
numerous concrete cases, they became so firmly imbedded in his mind as
to be ever present, guiding him into the right path, or warning him
against the wrong, whenever he had to deal with a strategic or tactical
situation.
It may be noted, moreover, that these principles, especially those
which he was accustomed to quote, were concerned far more with the
moral aspect of war than with the material. It is a fair inference,
therefore, that it was to the study of human nature as affected by the
conditions of war, by discipline, by fear, by the want of food, by want
of information, by want of confidence, by the weight of responsibility,
by political interests, and, above all, by surprise, that his attention
was principally directed. He found in the campaigns of Jena and of
Austerlitz not merely a record of marches and manœuvres, of the use of
intrenchments, or of the general rules for attack and defence; this is
the mechanical and elementary part of the science of command. What
Jackson learned was the truth of the famous maxim that the moral is to
the physical—that is, to armament and numbers—as three to one. He
learned, too, to put himself into his adversary’s place and to realise
his weakness. He learned, in a word, that war is a struggle between two
intellects rather than the conflict of masses; and it was by reason of
this knowledge that he played on the hearts of his enemies with such
extraordinary skill.
It is not to be asserted, however, that the study of military history
is an infallible means of becoming a great or even a good general. The
first qualification necessary for a leader of men is a strong
character, the second, a strong intellect. With both Providence had
endowed Jackson, and the strong intellect illuminates and explains the
page that to others is obscure and meaningless. With its innate faculty
for discerning what is essential and for discarding unimportant
details, it discovers most valuable lessons
where ordinary men see neither light nor leading. Endowed with the
power of analysis and assimilation, and accustomed to observe and to
reflect upon the relations between cause and effect, it will
undoubtedly penetrate far deeper into the actual significance and
practical bearing of historical facts than the mental vision which is
less acute.
Jackson, by reason of his antecedent training, was eminently capable of
the sustained intellectual efforts which strategical conceptions
involve. Such was his self-command that under the most adverse
conditions, the fatigues and anxieties of a campaign, the fierce
excitement of battle, his brain, to use the words of a great
Confederate general, “worked with the precision of the most perfect
machinery.”[8] But it was not only in the field, when the necessity for
action was pressing, that he was accustomed to seclude himself with his
own thoughts. Nor was he content with considering his immediate
responsibilities. His interest in the general conduct of the war was of
a very thorough-going character. While in camp on the Rappahannock, he
followed with the closest attention the movements of the armies
operating in the Valley of the Mississippi, and made himself
acquainted, so far as was possible, not only with the local conditions
of the war, but also with the character of the Federal leaders. It was
said that, in the late spring of 1862, it was the intention of Mr.
Davis to transfer him to the command of the Army of the Tennessee, and
it is possible that some inkling of this determination induced him to
study the Western theatre.[9] Be this as it may, the general situation,
military and political, was always in his mind, and despite the victory
of Fredericksburg, the future was dark and the indications ominous.
According to the Official Records, the North, at the beginning of
April, had more than 900,000 soldiers under
arms; the South, so far as can be ascertained, not more than 600,000.
The Army of the Potomac was receiving constant reinforcements, and at
the beginning of April, 130,000 men were encamped on the Stafford
Heights. In the West, the whole extent of the Mississippi, with the
exception of the hundred miles between Vicksburg and Port Hudson, was
held by the Federals, and those important fortresses were both
threatened by large armies, acting in concert with a formidable fleet
of gunboats. A third army, over 50,000 strong, was posted at
Murfreesboro’, in the heart of Tennessee, and large detached forces
were operating in Louisiana and Arkansas. The inroads of the enemy in
the West, greatly aided by the waterways, were in fact far more serious
than in the East; but even in Virginia, although the Army of the
Potomac had spent nearly two years in advancing fifty miles, the
Federals had a strong foothold. Winchester had been reoccupied.
Fortress Monroe was still garrisoned. Suffolk, on the south bank of the
James, seventy miles from Richmond, was held by a force of 20,000 men;
while another small army, of about the same strength, occupied New
Berne, on the North Carolina coast.
Slowly but surely, before the pressure of vastly superior numbers, the
frontiers of the Confederacy were contracting; and although in no
single direction had a Federal army moved more than a few miles from
the river which supplied it, yet the hostile occupation of these
rivers, so essential to internal traffic, was making the question of
subsistence more difficult every day. Louisiana, Texas and Arkansas,
the cattle-raising States, were practically cut off from the remainder;
and in a country where railways were few, distances long, and roads
indifferent, it was impossible, in default of communication by water,
to accumulate and distribute the produce of the farms. Moreover, the
dark menace of the blockade had assumed more formidable proportions.
The Federal navy, gradually increasing in numbers and activity, held
the highway of the ocean in an iron grip; and proudly though the
Confederacy bore her isolation, men looked across the waters with dread
foreboding, for the shadow of their doom was already rising from the
pitiless sea.
If, then, his staff officers had some reason to complain of their
chief’s silence and abstraction, it was by no means unfortunate for the
South, so imminent was the danger, that the strong brain was
incessantly occupied in forecasting the emergencies that might occur.
But not for a single moment did Jackson despair of ultimate success.
His faith in the justice of the Southern cause was as profound as his
trust in God’s good providence. He had long since realised that the
overwhelming strength of the Federals was more apparent than real. He
recognised their difficulties; he knew that the size of an army is
limited to the number that can be subsisted, and he relied much on the
superior _moral_ and the superior leading of the Confederate troops.
After long and mature deliberation he had come to a conclusion as to
the policy to be pursued. “We must make this campaign,” he said, in a
moment of unusual expansion, “an exceedingly active one. Only thus can
a weaker country cope with a stronger; it must make up in activity what
it lacks in strength. A defensive campaign can only be made successful
by taking the aggressive at the proper time. Napoleon never waited for
his adversary to become fully prepared, but struck him the first blow.”
On these principles Jackson had good reason to believe General Lee had
determined to act;[10] of their efficacy he was convinced, and when his
wife came to visit him at the end of April, she found him in good heart
and the highest spirits. He not only anticipated a decisive result from
the forthcoming operations, but he had seen with peculiar satisfaction
that a more manly tone was pervading the Confederate army. Taught by
their leaders, by Lee, Jackson, Stuart, and many others, of whose worth
and valour they had received convincing proof, the Southern soldiers
had begun to practise the clean and wholesome virtue of self-control.
They had discovered that purity
and temperance are by no means incompatible with military prowess, and
that a practical piety, faithful in small things as in great, detracts
in no degree from skill and resolution in the field. The Stonewall
Brigade set the example. As soon as their own huts were finished, the
men, of their own volition, built a log church, where both officers and
men, without distinction of rank, were accustomed to assemble during
the winter evenings; and those rude walls, illuminated by pine torches
cut from the neighbouring forest, witnessed such scenes as filled
Jackson’s cup of content to overflowing. A chaplain writes: “The devout
listener, dressed in simple grey, ornamented only with three stars,
which any Confederate colonel was entitled to wear, is our great
commander, Robert Edward Lee. That dashing-looking cavalry-man, with
‘fighting jacket,’ plumed hat, jingling spurs, and gay decorations, but
solemn, devout aspect during the service, is ‘Jeb’ Stuart, the flower
of cavaliers—and all through the vast crowd wreaths and stars of rank
mingle with the bars of the subordinate officers and the rough garb of
the private soldier. But perhaps the most supremely happy of the
gathered thousands is Stonewall Jackson.” “One could not,” says
another, “sit in that pulpit and meet the concentrated gaze of those
men without deep emotion. I remembered that they were the veterans of
many a bloody field. The eyes which looked into mine, waiting for the
Gospel of peace, had looked steadfastly upon whatever is terrible in
war. Their earnestness of aspect constantly impressed me. . . . They
looked as if they had come on business, and very important business,
and the preacher could scarcely do otherwise than feel that he, too,
had business of moment there!
At this time, largely owing to Jackson’s exertions, chaplains were
appointed to regiments and brigades, and ministers from all parts of
the country were invited to visit the camps. The Chaplains’
Association, which did a good work in the army, was established at his
suggestion, and although he steadfastly declined to attend its
meetings,
deeming them outside his functions, nothing was neglected, so far as
lay within his power, that might forward the moral welfare of the
troops.
But at the same time their military efficiency and material comforts