Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
practically a new arm, of far greater efficiency than cavalry of the
old type, and Jackson at once recognised, not only its value; but the
manner in which it could be most effectively employed. He was not led
away by the specious advantages, so eagerly urged by young and
ambitious soldiers, of the so-called raids. Even Lee himself,
cool-headed as he was, appears to have been fascinated by the idea of
throwing a great body of horsemen across his enemy’s communications,
spreading terror amongst his supply trains, cutting his
telegraphs, and destroying his magazines. In hardly a single instance
did such expeditions inflict more than temporary discomfort on the
enemy; and the armies were led more than once into false manœuvres, for
want of the information which only the cavalry could supply. Lee at
Malvern Hill and Gettysburg, Hooker at Chancellorsville, Grant at
Spotsylvania, owed defeat, in great measure, to the absence of their
mounted troops. In the Valley, on the contrary, success was made
possible because the cavalry was kept to its legitimate duty—that is,
to procure information, to screen all movements, to take part in battle
at the decisive moment, and to carry out the pursuit.
With all his regard for Napoleon’s maxims, Jackson was no slave to
rule. In war, circumstances vary to such an extent that a manœuvre,
which at one time is manifestly unsound, may at another be the most
judicious. The so-called rules are never binding; they merely point out
the risks which are generally entailed by some particular course of
action. There is no principle on which Napoleon lays more stress than
that a general should never divide his force, either on the field of
battle or the theatre of war. But when he marched to M’Dowell and left
Ewell at Swift Run Gap, Jackson deliberately divided his forces and
left Banks between them, knowing that the apparent risk, with an
opponent like Banks, was no risk at all. At the battle of Winchester,
too, there was a gap of a mile between the brigades on the left of the
Kernstown road and Ewell on the right; and owing to the intervening
hills, one wing was invisible to the other. Here again, like Moltke at
Königgrätz, Jackson realised that the principle might be disregarded
not only with impunity but with effect. He was not like Lord Galway, “a
man who was in war what Molière’s doctors were in medicine, who thought
it much more honourable to fail according to rule than to succeed by
innovation.”[24]
But the triumphs of the Valley campaign were not due alone to the
orders issued by Lee and Jackson. The Confederate troops displayed
extraordinary endurance. When
the stragglers were eliminated their stauncher comrades proved
themselves true as steel. In every engagement the regiments fought with
stubborn courage. They sometimes failed to break the enemy’s line at
the first rush; but, except at Kernstown, the Federals never drove them
from their position, and Taylor’s advance at Winchester, Trimble’s
counterstroke at Cross Keys, the storming of the battery at Port
Republic, and the charge of the cavalry at Cedarville, were the deeds
of brave and resolute men.
A retreat is the most exhausting of military movements. It is costly in
men, “more so,” says Napoleon, “than two battles,” and it shakes the
faith of the soldiers in their general and in themselves. Jackson’s
army retreated for seven days before Frémont, dwindling in numbers at
every step, and yet it never fought better than when it turned at bay.
From first to last it believed itself superior to its enemies; from
first to last it was equal to the tasks which its exacting commander
imposed upon it, and its spirit was indomitable throughout. “One male a
week and three foights a day,” according to one of Jackson’s Irishmen,
was the rule in the campaigns of 1862. The forced marches were not made
in luxury. Not seldom only half-rations were issued, and more often
none at all. The weather, for many days in succession, was abominable,
and the forest bivouacs were comfortless in the extreme. On May 25
twenty per cent of Trimble’s brigade went into action barefoot; and had
it not been for the stores captured in Winchester, the march to the
Potomac, and the subsequent unmolested retreat to Woodstock, would have
been hardly possible.
If the troops were volunteers, weak in discipline and prone to
straggling, they none the less bore themselves with conspicuous
gallantry. Their native characteristics came prominently to the front.
Patient under hardships, vigorous in attack, and stubborn in defence,
they showed themselves worthy of their commander. Their enthusiastic
patriotism was not without effect on their bearing before the enemy.
Every private in the ranks believed that he was fighting in the sacred
cause of liberty, and the spirit
which nerved the resolution of the Confederate soldier was the same
which inspired the resistance of their revolutionary forefathers. His
hatred of the Yankee, as he contemptuously styled the Northerner, was
even more bitter than the wrath which Washington’s soldiers felt
towards England; and it was intensified by the fact that his detested
foeman had not only dared to invade the South, but had proclaimed his
intention, in no uncertain tones, of dealing with the Sovereign States
exactly as he pleased.
But it was something more than native courage and enthusiastic
patriotism which inspired the barefooted heroes of Winchester. It would
be difficult to prove that in other parts of the theatre of war the
Confederate troops were inferior to those that held the Valley. Yet
they were certainly less successful, and in very many instances they
had failed to put forth the same resolute energy as the men who
followed Jackson.
But it is hardly possible to discuss the spirit of an army apart from
that of its commander. If, in strategy wholly, and in tactics in great
part, success emanates from a single brain, the _moral_ of the troops
is not less dependent on the influence of one man. “Better an army of
stags,” runs the old proverb, “led by a lion, than an army of lions led
by a stag.”
Their leader’s character had already made a sensible impression on the
Valley soldiers. Jackson was as untheatrical as Wellington. He was
hardly to be distinguished, even by his dress, from the private in the
ranks. Soon after his arrival at Richmond he called on Mrs. Pendleton,
the wife of the reverend captain of the Rockbridge battery. The negro
servant left him standing in the hall, thinking that this quiet
soldier, clad in a faded and sunburnt uniform, need not be treated with
further ceremony.[25] Headquarters in camp were an ordinary bell-tent,
or a room in the nearest cottage, and they were often without guard or
sentry. In bivouac the general rolled himself in his blankets, and lay
down under a tree or in a fence corner. He could sleep
anywhere, in the saddle, under fire, or in church; and he could compel
sleep to come to him when and where he pleased. He cared as little for
good quarters as a mountain hunter, and he was as abstemious as a Red
Indian on the war-path. He lived as plainly as the men, and often
shared their rations. The majority of the cavalry were better mounted,
and many of his officers were better dressed. He was not given to
addressing his troops, either in mass or as individuals. His praises he
reserved for his official reports, and then he was generous. In camp he
was as silent as the Sphinx, and he never posed, except in action, as
the commander of an army. Off duty he was the gentlest and most
unpretentious of men, and the most approachable of generals. He was
always scrupulously polite; and the private soldier who asked him a
question might be sure of a most courteous reply. But there was no man
with whom it was less safe to take liberties; and where duty was
concerned he became a different being. The gentle tones grew curt and
peremptory, and the absent demeanour gave place to a most purposeful
energy. His vigilance was marvellous: his eye was everywhere; he let
nothing pass without his personal scrutiny. The unfortunate officer
accused of indolence or neglect found the shy and quiet professor
transformed into the most implacable of masters. No matter how high the
rank of the offender, the crime met with the punishment it deserved.
The scouts compared him with Lee. The latter was so genial that it was
a pleasure to report to him. Jackson cross-questioned them on every
detail, treating them as a lawyer does a hostile witness, and his keen
blue eyes seemed to search their very souls.
Nor did the men escape when they misbehaved. Ashby’s cavalry were
reprimanded in general orders for their indiscipline at Middletown, and
again at Port Republic; and if either officer or regiment displeased
the general, it was duly mentioned in his published reports.[26]
But the troops knew that their grave leader, so uncommunicative in
camp, and so unrelenting to misconduct, was constantly occupied with
their well-being. They knew that he spared them, when opportunity
offered, as he never spared himself. His _camaraderie_ was expressed in
something more than words. The hospitals constructed in the Valley
excited the admiration even of the Federals, and Jackson’s wounded were
his first care. Whatever it might cost the army, the ambulances must be
got safely away, and the sick and disabled soldiers transferred to
their own people. But, at the same time, the troops had long since
learned that, as administered by Jackson, the military code was a stern
reality. They had seen men shot for striking their officers, and they
knew that for insubordination or disobedience it was idle to plead
excuse. They had thought their general harsh, and even cruel; but as
their experience increased they recognised the wisdom of his severity,
and when they looked upon that kindly face, grave and determined as it
was, they realised how closely his firmness was allied to tenderness.
They had learned how highly he esteemed them. Once, in his twelve
months of command, he had spoken from his heart. When, on the heights
near Centreville, he bade farewell to his old brigade, his pride in
their achievements had broken through the barriers of his reserve, and
his ringing words had not yet been forgotten. If he was swift to blame,
his general orders and official dispatches gave full credit to every
gallant action, and each man felt himself a hero because his general so
regarded him.
They had learned, too, that Jackson’s commendation was worth having.
They had seen him in action, the coolest of them all, riding along the
line of battle with as much composure as if the hail of bullets was no
more than summer rain. They had seen him far in advance of the charging
lines, cheering them to the pursuit; and they knew the tremendous
vigour of his flank attacks.
But it was not only confidence in the skill of their
commander that inspired the troops. It was impossible not to admire the
man who, after a sleepless night, a long march, and hard fighting,
would say to his officers, “We must push on—we must push on!” as
unconcernedly as if his muscles were of steel and hunger an unknown
sensation. Such fortitude was contagious. The men caught something of
his resolution, of his untiring energy, and his unhesitating audacity.
The regiments which drove Banks to the Potomac were very different from
those that crawled to Romney through the blinding sleet, or that fell
back with the loss of one-sixth their number from the Kernstown Ridge.
It has been related of Jackson that when he had once made up his mind,
“he seemed to discard all idea of defeat, and to regard the issue as
assured. A man less open to the conviction that he was beaten could not
be imagined.” To this frame of mind he brought his soldiers. Jackson’s