Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
Secretary of War is sufficient proof that he would have brooked no
meddling with his designs when once they had received the sanction of
the Cabinet. At the same time, it must remain undetermined whether
Jackson was equal to the vast responsibilities which Lee bore with such
steadfast courage; whether he could have administered a great army,
under the most untoward circumstances, with the same success; whether
he could have assuaged the jealousies of the different States, and have
dealt so tactfully with both officers and men that there should have
been no friction between Virginians and Georgians, Texans and
Carolinians.
It is probable that Jackson’s temper was more akin to Grant’s than
Lee’s. Grant had the same whole-hearted regard for the cause; the same
disregard for the individual. He was just as ready as Jackson to place
a recalcitrant subordinate, no matter how high his rank, under instant
arrest, and towards the incompetent and unsuccessful he was just as
pitiless. Jackson, however, had the finer intellect. The Federal
Commander-in-Chief was unquestionably a great soldier, greater than
those who overlook his difficulties in the ’64 campaign are disposed to
admit. As a strategist he ranks high. But Grant was no master of
stratagem. There was no mystery about his operations. His manœuvres
were strong and straightforward, but he had no skill in deceiving his
adversary, and his tactics were not always of a high order. It may be
questioned whether on the field of battle his ability was equal to that
of Sherman, or of Sherman’s great antagonist, Johnston. Elsewhere he
was their superior. Both Sherman and Johnston were methodical rather
than brilliant; patient, confident, and far-seeing as they were,
strictly observant of the established principles of war, they were
without a
touch of that aggressive genius which distinguished Lee, Grant, and
Jackson.
Nevertheless, to put Jackson above Grant is to place him high on the
list of illustrious captains. Yet the claim is not extravagant. If his
military characteristics are compared with those of so great a soldier
as Wellington, it will be seen that in many respects they run on
parallel lines. Both had perfect confidence in their own capacity. “I
can do,” said Jackson, “whatever I will to do;” while the Duke, when a
young general in India, congratulated himself that he had learned not
to be deterred by apparent impossibilities. Both were patient, fighting
on their own terms, or fighting not at all. Both were prudent, and yet,
when audacity was justified by the character of their opponent and the
condition of his troops, they took no counsel of their fears. They were
not enamoured of the defensive, for they knew the value of the
initiative, and that offensive strategy is the strategy which
annihilates. Yet, when their enemy remained concentrated, they were
content to wait till they could induce him to disperse. Both were
masters of ruse and stratagem, and the Virginian was as industrious as
the Englishman. And in yet another respect they were alike. “In issuing
orders or giving verbal instruction, Jackson’s words were few and
simple; but they were so clear, so comprehensive and direct, that no
officer could possibly misunderstand, and none dared disobey.”[9]
Exactly the same terms might be applied to Wellington. Again, although
naturally impetuous, glorying in war, they had no belief in a lucky
star; their imagination was always controlled by common-sense, and,
unlike Napoleon, their ambition to succeed was always subordinate to
their judgment. Yet both, when circumstances were imperative, were
greatly daring. The attacks at Groveton and at Chancellorsville were
enterprises instinct with the same intensity of resolution as the storm
of Badajos and Ciudad Rodrigo, the passage of the Douro, the great
counterstroke of Salamanca. On the field of battle the one was not more
vigilant nor imperturbable than the other, and both possessed a due
sense of proportion. They knew exactly how much they could effect
themselves, and how much must be left to others. Recognising that when
once the action had opened the sphere in which their authority could be
exercised was very limited, they gave their subordinates a free hand,
issuing few orders, and encouraging their men rather by example than by
words. Both, too, had that “most rare faculty of coming to prompt and
sure conclusions in sudden exigencies—the certain mark of a
master-spirit in war.”[10] At Bull Run, Jackson was ordered to support
Evans at the Stone Bridge. Learning that the left was compromised,
without a moment’s hesitation he turned aside, and placed his brigade
in the only position where it could have held its ground. At Groveton,
when he received the news that the Federal left wing was retreating on
Centreville across his front, the order for attack was issued almost
before he had read the dispatch. At Chancellorsville, when General
Fitzhugh Lee showed him the enemy’s right wing dispersed and
unsuspecting, he simply turned to his courier and said, “Let the column
cross the road,” and his plan of battle was designed with the same
rapidity as Wellington’s at Salamanca or Assaye.
It has been already pointed out that Jackson’s dispositions for defence
differed in no degree from those of the great Duke. His visit to
Waterloo, perhaps, taught the American soldier the value and importance
of concealing his troops on the defensive. It was not, however, from
Wellington that he learned to keep his plans to himself and to use
every effort to mislead his adversary. Yet no general, not even
Napoleon himself, brought about so many startling surprises as
Wellington. The passage of the Douro, the storm of the frontier
fortresses, the flank attack at Vittoria, the passage of the Adour, the
passage of the Bidassoa—were each and all of them utterly unexpected by
the French marshals; and those were by no means the only, or the most
conspicuous, instances. Was ever general more surprised than Masséna,
when pursuing his retreating foe through Portugal, in full anticipation
of “driving the leopards
into the sea,” he suddenly saw before him the frowning lines of Torres
Vedras, the great fortress which had sprung from earth, as it were, at
the touch of a magician’s wand?
The dispatches and correspondence of the generals who were opposed to
Wellington are the clearest evidence of his extraordinary skill.
Despite their long experience, their system of spies, their excellent
cavalry, superior, during the first years of the Peninsular War, both
in numbers and training, to the English, it was seldom indeed that the
French had more than the vaguest knowledge of his movements, his
intentions, or his strength. On no other theatre of war—and they were
familiar with many—had they encountered so mysterious an enemy. And
what was the result? Constantly surprised themselves, they at length
hesitated to attack even isolated detachments. At Guinaldo, in 1812,
Marmont, with 30,000 soldiers, refused to assault a ridge occupied by
no more than 13,000. The morning of Quatre-Bras, when that important
position was but thinly held, even Ney was reluctant to engage. In the
judgment of himself and his subordinates, who had met Wellington
before, the fact that there were but few red jackets to be seen was no
proof whatever that the whole allied army was not close at hand, and
the opportunity was suffered to escape. Other generals have been
content with surprising the enemy when they advanced against him;
Wellington and Jackson sought to do so even when they were confined to
the defensive.
And in still another respect may a likeness be found. Jackson’s regard
for truth was not more scrupulous than Wellington’s. Neither declined
to employ every legitimate means of deceiving their enemies, but both
were absolutely incapable of self-deception. And this characteristic
was not without effect on their military conduct. Although never
deterred by difficulties, they distinguished clearly between the
possible and the impossible. To gain great ends they were willing to
run risks, but if their plans are carefully considered, it will be seen
that the margin left to chance was small. The odds were invariably in
their favour. In conception as in execution obstacles were
resolutely faced, and they were constitutionally unable to close their
eyes to contingencies that might prove ruinous. The promise of great
results was never suffered to cajole them into ignoring the perils that
might beset their path. Imagination might display in vivid colours the
success that might accrue from some audacious venture, but if one step
was obscure the idea was unhesitatingly rejected. Undazzled by the
prospect of personal glory, they formed “a true, not an untrue, picture
of the business to be done,” and their plans, consequently, were
without a flaw. Brilliant, indeed, were the campaigns of Napoleon, and
astonishing his successes, but he who had so often deceived others in
the end deceived himself. Accustomed to the dark dealings of intrigue
and chicanery, his judgment, once so penetrating, became blunted. He
believed what he wished to believe, and not that which was fact. More
than once in his later campaigns he persuaded himself that the chances
were with him when in reality they were terribly against him. He
trusted to the star that had befriended him at Marengo and at Aspern;
that is, he would not admit the truth, even to himself, that he had
been overdaring, that it was fortune, and fortune alone, that had saved
him from destruction, and Moscow and Vittoria, Leipsic and Waterloo,
were the result.
But although there was a signal resemblance, both in their military
characters as in their methods of war, between Wellington and Jackson,
the parallel cannot be pushed beyond certain well-defined limits. It is
impossible to compare their intellectual capacity. Wellington was
called to an ampler field and far heavier responsibilities. Not as a
soldier alone, but as financier, diplomatist, statesman, he had his
part to play. While Napoleon languished on his lonely island, his great
conqueror, the plenipotentiary of his own Government, the most trusted
counsellor of many sovereigns, the adviser of foreign Administrations,
was universally acknowledged as the mastermind of Europe. Nor was the
mark which Wellington left on history insignificant. The results of his
victories were lasting. The freedom of the nations was restored to
them,
and land and sea became the thoroughfares of peace. America, on the
other hand, owes no single material benefit to Stonewall Jackson. In
the cause of progress or of peace he accomplished nothing. The
principle he fought for, the right of secession, lives no longer, even
in the South. He won battles. He enhanced the reputation of American
soldiers. He proved in his own person that the manhood of Virginia had
suffered no decay. And this was all. But the fruits of a man’s work are
not to be measured by a mere utilitarian standard. In the minds of his
own countrymen the memory of Wellington is hallowed not so much by his
victories, as by his unfaltering honesty and his steadfast regard for
duty, and the life of Stonewall Jackson is fraught with lessons of
still deeper import.
Not only with the army, but with the people of the South, his influence
while he lived was very great. From him thousands and ten thousands of
Confederate soldiers learned the self-denial which is the root of all
religion, the self-control which is the root of all manliness.[11]
Beyond the confines of the camps he was personally unknown. In the
social and political circles of Richmond his figure was unfamiliar.
When his body lay in state the majority of those who passed through the
Hall of Representatives looked upon his features for the first time. He