Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
might have been altogether ignorant of the higher art of war. Mr. Davis
himself had been a soldier. He was a graduate of West Point, and in the
Mexican campaign he had commanded a volunteer regiment with much
distinction. But as a director of military operations he was a greater
marplot than even Stanton. It by no means follows that because a man
has lived his life in camp and barrack, has long experience of command,
and even long experience of war, that he can apply the rules of
strategy before the enemy. In the first place he may lack the
character, the inflexible resolution, the broad grasp, the vivid
imagination, the power of patient thought, the cool head, and, above
all, the moral courage. In the second place, there are few schools
where strategy may be learned, and, in any case, a long and laborious
course of study is the only means of acquiring the capacity to handle
armies and outwit an equal adversary. The light of common-sense alone
is insufficient; nor will a few months’ reading give more than a
smattering of knowledge.
“Read and _re-read,_” said Napoleon, “the eighty-eight campaigns of
Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Gustavus, Turenne, Eugène, and Frederick.
Take them as your models, for it is the only means of becoming a great
leader, and of mastering the secrets of the art of war. Your
intelligence, enlightened by such study, will then reject methods
contrary to those adopted by these great men.”
In America, as elsewhere, it had not been recognised before the Civil
War, even by the military authorities, that if armies are to be handled
with success they must be directed by trained strategists. No
_Kriegsakademie_ or its equivalent existed in the United States, and
the officers whom common-sense induced to follow the advice of Napoleon
had to pursue their studies by themselves. To these the campaigns of
the great Emperor offered an epitome of all that had gone before; the
campaigns of Washington explained how the principles of the art might
be best applied to their own country, and Mexico had supplied them with
practical experience. Of the West Point graduates there were many who
had acquired from these sources a wide knowledge of the art of
generalship, and among them were no more earnest students than the
three Virginians, Lee, Jackson, and Johnston.
When Jackson accepted an appointment for the Military Institute, it was
with the avowed intention of training his intellect for war. In his
retirement at Lexington he had kept before his eyes the possibility
that he might some day be recalled to the Army. He had already acquired
such practical knowledge of his profession as the United States service
could afford. He had become familiar with the characteristics of the
regular soldier. He knew how to command, to maintain discipline, and
the regulations were at his fingers’ ends. A few years had been
sufficient to teach him all that could be learned from the routine of a
regiment, as they had been sufficient to teach Napoleon, Frederick, and
Lee. But there remained over and above the intellectual part of war,
and with characteristic thoroughness he had set himself to master it.
His reward came quickly. The Valley campaign practically saved
Richmond. In a few short months the quiet gentleman of Lexington
became, in the estimation of both friend and foe, a very thunderbolt of
war; and his name, which a year previous had hardly been known beyond
the Valley, was already famous.
It is, perhaps, true that Johnston and Lee had a larger share in
Jackson’s success than has been generally recognised. It was due to
Johnston that Jackson was retained in the Valley when McClellan moved
to the Peninsula; and his, too, was the fundamental idea of the
campaign, that the Federals in the Valley were to be prevented from
reinforcing the army which threatened Richmond. To Lee belongs still
further credit. From the moment he assumed command we find the
Confederate operations directed on a definite and well-considered plan;
a defensive attitude round Richmond, a vigorous offensive in the
Valley, leading to the dispersion of the enemy, and a Confederate
concentration on the Chickahominy. His operations were very bold. When
McClellan, with far superior numbers, was already within twenty miles
of Richmond, he had permitted Jackson to retain Ewell’s 8,000 in the
Valley, and he would have given him the brigades of Branch and Mahone.
From Lee, too, came the suggestion that a blow should be struck at
Banks, that he should be driven back to the Potomac, and that the North
should be threatened with invasion. From him, too, at a moment when
McClellan’s breastworks could be actually seen from Richmond, came the
7,000 men under Whiting and Lawton, the news of whose arrival in the
Valley had spread such consternation amongst the Federals. But it is to
be remembered that Jackson viewed the situation in exactly the same
light as his superiors. The instructions he received were exactly the
instructions he would have given had he been in command at Richmond;
and it may be questioned whether even he would have carried them out
with such whole-hearted vigour if he had not thoroughly agreed with
every detail.
Lee’s strategy was indeed remarkable. He knew McClellan and he knew
Lincoln. He knew that the former was over-cautious; he knew that the
latter was over-anxious. No sudden assault on the Richmond lines, weak
as they were, was to be apprehended, and a threat against Washington
was certain to have great results. Hence the audacity which, at a
moment apparently most critical, sent 17,000 of the best troops in the
Confederacy as
far northward as Harper’s Ferry, and, a fortnight later, weakened the
garrison of Richmond by 7,000 infantry. He was surely a great leader
who, in the face of an overwhelming enemy, dared assume so vast a
responsibility. But it is to be remembered that Lee made no suggestion
whatever as to the manner in which his ideas were to be worked out.
Everything was left to Jackson. The swift manœuvres which surprised in
succession his various enemies emanated from himself alone. It was his
brain that conceived the march by Mechum’s Station to M’Dowell, the
march that surprised Frémont and bewildered Banks. It was his brain
that conceived the rapid transfer of the Valley army from the one side
of the Massanuttons to the other, the march that surprised Kenly and
drove Banks in panic to the Potomac. It was his brain that conceived
the double victory of Cross Keys and Port Republic; and if Lee’s
strategy was brilliant, that displayed by Jackson on the minor theatre
of war was no less masterly. The instructions he received at the end of
April, before he moved against Milroy, were simply to the effect that a
successful blow at Banks might have the happiest results. But such a
blow was not easy. Banks was strongly posted and numerically superior
to Jackson, while Frémont, in equal strength, was threatening Staunton.
Taking instant advantage of the separation of the hostile columns,
Jackson struck at Milroy, and having checked Frémont, returned to the
Valley to find Banks retreating. At this moment he received orders from
Lee to threaten Washington. Without an instant’s hesitation he marched
northward. By May 28, had the Federals received warning of his advance,
they might have concentrated 80,000 men at Strasburg and Front Royal;
or, while Banks was reinforced, McDowell might have moved on
Gordonsville, cutting Jackson’s line of retreat on Richmond.
But Jackson took as little count of numbers as did Cromwell. Concealing
his march with his usual skill he dashed with his 16,000 men into the
midst of his enemies. Driving Banks before him, and well aware that
Frémont and McDowell were converging in his rear, he advanced
boldly on Harper’s Ferry, routed Saxton’s outposts, and remained for
two days on the Potomac, with 62,000 Federals within a few days’ march.
Then, retreating rapidly up the Valley, beneath the southern peaks of
the Massanuttons he turned fiercely at bay; and the pursuing columns,
mustering together nearly twice his numbers, were thrust back with
heavy loss at the very moment they were combining to crush him.[5] A
week later he had vanished, and when he appeared on the Chickahominy,
Banks, Frémont, and McDowell were still guarding the roads to
Washington, and McClellan was waiting for McDowell. 175,000 men
absolutely paralysed by 16,000! Only Napoleon’s campaign of 1814
affords a parallel to this extraordinary spectacle.[6]
Jackson’s task was undoubtedly facilitated by the ignorance of Lincoln
and the incapacity of his political generals. But in estimating his
achievements, this ignorance and incapacity are only of secondary
importance. The historians do not dwell upon the mistakes of Colli,
Beaulieu, and Wurmser in 1796, but on the brilliant resolution with
which Napoleon took advantage of them; and the salient features, both
of the Valley Campaign and of that of 1796, are the untiring vigilance
with which opportunities were looked for, the skill with which they
were detected, and the daring rapidity with which they were seized.
History often unconsciously injures the reputation of great soldiers.
The more detailed the narrative, the less brilliant seems success, the
less excusable defeat. When we are made fully acquainted with the
dispositions of both sides, the correct solution of the problem,
strategical or tactical, is generally so plain that we may easily be
led to believe that it must needs have spontaneously suggested itself
to the victorious leader; and, as a natural corollary, that success is
due rather to force of will than to force of intellect; to vigilance,
energy, and audacity, rather than
to insight and calculation. It is asserted, for instance, by
superficial critics that both Wellington and Napoleon, in the campaign
of 1815, committed unpardonable errors. Undoubtedly, at first sight, it
is inconceivable that the one should have disregarded the probability
of the French invading Belgium by the Charleroi road, or that the
other, on the morning of the great battle, should never have suspected
that Blücher was close at hand. But the critic’s knowledge of the
situation is far more ample and accurate than that of either commander.
Had either Wellington before Quatre Bras, or Napoleon on the fateful
June 18 known what we know now, matters would have turned out very
differently. “If,” said Frederick the Great, “we had exact information
of our enemy’s dispositions, we should beat him every time;” but exact
information is never forthcoming. A general in the field literally
walks in darkness, and his success will be in proportion to the
facility with which his mental vision can pierce the veil. His
manœuvres, to a greater or less degree, must always be based on
probabilities, for his most recent reports almost invariably relate to
events which, at best, are several hours old; and, meanwhile, what has
the enemy been doing? This it is the most essential part of his
business to discover, and it is a matter of hard thinking and sound
judgment. From the indications furnished by his reports, and from the
consideration of many circumstances, with some of which he is only
imperfectly acquainted, he must divine the intentions of his opponent.
It is not pretended that even the widest experience and the finest
intellect confer infallibility. But clearness of perception and the
power of deduction, together with the strength of purpose which they
create, are the fount and origin of great achievements; and when we
find a campaign in which they played a predominant part, we may fairly
rate it as a masterpiece of war. It can hardly be disputed that these
qualities played such a part on the Shenandoah. For instance; when
Jackson left the Valley to march against Milroy, many things might have