Bull Run gave the Confederacy a false view of the months ahead, of the worth of Federal troops, and the sagacity of its own commanders. But Beauregard, though his glory was soon to dim, correctly assayed the contributions of his officers. He gave high praise to Jackson who, with the remnants of three other brigades, had almost incredibly held the center of his line. If Jackson had need of reassurance, he found it plentiful in the army’s attentions after the battle.
Old Jack knew, too, from the action along Bull Run, the work of men who were to become his lieutenants in the Shenandoah.
Arnold Elzey, who had taken over the reinforcements when a superior was shot down, was soon promoted to brigadier general; he was a man after Jackson’s heart. He had charged his men before they went into battle: “Here’s the signal, men,” with hand before his face, “And the watchword is Sumter.” When he had studied the field, seeing flags in the breeze, he led the men forward, yelling, “Stars and Stripes! Stars and Stripes! Give it to ’em boys!” Elzey was out of the old army, and had served in Mexico; a man of long experience.
He had a failing which had not come to Jackson’s attention: he could not dispense with his evening toddy. One night, in a gay mood, he served officers with drinks and even called in the sentries on duty. Early in the morning, when Elzey was sound asleep, a sentry tugged at him in the headquarters tent, with, “General, General, ain’t it about time for us to take another drink?” The furious Elzey had his drinking companion arrested, but the incident improved his reputation among the men. Elzey was to fight with Jackson in famous campaigns.
Another who was to do so was Major Roberdeau Wheat, the soldier of fortune whose career had begun in the Mexican War and continued around the world, wherever there was fighting. He was said to be the only man in the army who would, or could, command the Louisiana Tigers, whose ranks were reputed to be filled with felons from New Orleans prisons.
Wheat, son of an Episcopal rector of Alexandria, Virginia, was seriously wounded at Bull Run, shot through both lungs. A surgeon examined him. “There is no instance on record of recovery from such a wound,” the doctor said. “I don’t feel like dying yet,” Wheat replied. “I will put my case on record.” He did so. The six-foot lawyer recovered in a short time and was ready for fight once more.
Jackson already had, too, the man who was to become invaluable—his chief surgeon, Dr. Hunter McGuire. The young physician was just twenty-six, but had been trained at Winchester Medical College, in his home town, and at the University of Pennsylvania. Of great ability, he was to become a professor of surgery and president of the American Medical Association.
At Jackson’s urging, Anna came north by train to his camp near Manassas, riding the last few miles in a jouncing car filled with soldiers. Even years later, in writing of the trip, Anna sounded frightened at memory of passing through the army: “A lady seemed to be a great curiosity to the soldiers, scores of whom filed through the car to take a look.” And, when she was forced to wait in a hospital for her husband: “There was no lock on the door, and the tramp of men’s feet, as they passed continually to and fro and threatened entrance, was not conducive to a peaceful frame of mind.” Anna also had a grim view from her window: squads of soldiers making coffins for their companions who had fallen.
Jackson arrived in an ambulance to rescue her, and took her to his tent in the yard of a family of the neighborhood. They passed a brief holiday. She sang “Dixie” for him several times; he had not heard the song before and insisted on so many repetitions that they ended by giggling like children over the tune.
Anna met the officers of the army and seemed impressed by General Johnston. Many spoke to her of Jackson’s part in the victory at Bull Run, but, Anna said, “he, with his characteristic modesty, gave all the credit to his noble men.”
He took her over the field of Bull Run, which she found of little interest; Bull Run itself was “a small, insignificant stream,” but as she rode in the jolting ambulance with Jackson and General Pendleton, she saw unforgettable sights: the carcasses of horses and bones of men.
When Anna had returned home, Jackson wrote of a visit from Jefferson Davis, who had come to inspect the army:
He looked quite thin.… His voice and manners are very mild. I saw no exhibition of that fire which I had supposed him to possess. The President introduced the subject of the condition of my section of the state (he meant Western Virginia) but did not so much as intimate that he designed sending me there. I told him, when he spoke of my native region, that I felt a very deep interest in it. He spoke hopefully of that section.
Jackson wrote a joking letter: “If I get into winter quarters, will little ex-Anna Morrison come and keep house for me?… Now, remember, I don’t want to change housekeepers.”
In the same letter, with studied calm, he gave her important news: “I am very thankful to God who withholds no good thing from me (though I am utterly unworthy and ungrateful) for making me a major general.… The commission dates from the 7th of October.”
The Reverend White visited the camp; and on one evening when Jackson prayed at supper, the minister was deeply impressed with his eloquence. Then, White wrote: “With that calm dignity of mien … for which he was so remarkable, he said, ‘Doctor, I would be glad to learn more fully than I have yet done what your views are of the prayers of faith.’” The two spent long hours in the night, probing their faith.
Dr. White was in camp when Jackson got orders to command in Western Virginia, a move which was to mean so much to him. He said to White: “Such a degree of public confidence … should be prized; but, apart from that, promotion among men is only a temptation and a trouble. Had this communication not come as an order, I should instantly have declined it, and continued in command of my old brigade.”
Old Jack worked night and day to prepare for his new post on the frontier, until there was but one last chore—to say farewell to the Stonewall Brigade. He had the men drawn up in ranks:
“Officers and men of the First Brigade, I am not here to make a speech, but simply to say farewell. I first met you at Harpers Ferry in the commencement of the war.… You have already gained a brilliant and deservedly high reputation … and I trust in the future … you will gain more victories.… You have already gained a proud position in the history of this, our second War of Independence. I shall look with great anxiety to your future movements, and I trust whenever I hear of the First Brigade on the field of battle it will be of still nobler deeds.…”
Then, as if he sensed that neither he nor the men had been quite satisfied with this rhetoric, he stood in his stirrups and called in the screeching voice:
“In the Army of the Shenandoah you were the First Brigade; in the Army of the Potomac you were the First Brigade; in the second corps of this army you are the First Brigade; you are the First Brigade in the affections of your general; and I hope by your future deeds and bearing you will be handed down as the First Brigade in our second War of Independence. Farewell!”
He spurred off amid a deafening yell from the troops and disappeared, waving his disreputable old cap over his head.
The speech, despite its gaudy Napoleonic roll, was detected as one of importance by Kyd Douglas and another young officer, who wrote it down from their memories and sent it to the Richmond Dispatch, which published it to cheer the populace.
10
PRELUDE TO FAME
Old Jack took over his command in Winchester, where he found three sleepy little brigades and a handful of militia, some of whom were armed with flintlocks. But in mid-November, when he called for reinforcements for the Valley, he was sent the old Stonewall Brigade, which he had recently departed. He worked with his troops under little danger from the enemy.
The most promising of Union commanders had now been removed from Western Virginia, where he had won a small victory, and he was made commander in chief of the United States armies: George B. McClellan. Old Fuss and Feathers Scott had been deposed in Washington, sunk like McDowell in t
he bog of misery after Bull Run. Scott had shouted: “I am the greatest coward in America. I have fought this battle, sir, against my judgment; I think the President of the United States ought to remove me today for doing it.” Lincoln was not slow to act.
Jackson was not affected by the larger strategy in these weeks. He drilled men and tried to develop a staff. His first attempt at discipline of officers brought mutiny; men accustomed to the informal life of an isolated post were outraged at Jackson’s order that they were not to go in or out of Winchester without passes from headquarters. Some wrote impassioned protests at this “unwarranted assumption of authority” which “disparaged their dignity.” Jackson’s reply was calm, but unrelenting; he accused the officers of neglect of duty, incompetence and subversion. They submitted to his strict discipline.
In the first brisk weather of coming winter, he drove his men on what seemed a foolish errand: to destroy a canal dam and locks beside the Potomac, where men chopped away at the wooden cribs while standing in waist-deep water and suffering under rifle fire from the enemy. He was only partially successful and lost a few men on the outing; survivors grumbled and added to the stories that he was insane.
More troops came in, some of them under the command of General W. W. Loring; these were in a notable state of indiscipline.
One cold day when the little army was trailing through the hill country, Jackson halted his staff and climbed a persimmon tree which was heavy with the tart fruit. He clambered far into the crown of the rugged tree and was caught so that he could not move. He was obliged to call his officers for help, and they, howling with laughter, fetched rails to rescue him. He returned to earth with an air of wounded dignity and added an unconvincing note to the chorus of laughter.
Jackson wrote Anna as if he were unsure of himself: “The rank of major general does not appear to be recognized by the laws of the Confederate States, so far as I have seen.” He then became more cheerful:
But I expect to have two aides, and at least an adjutant general. I am making up my staff slowly.… I don’t think that a major general will be paid more than $301 a month, but as commander of an army my additional pay is $100, making in all $401 a month. I send you a check for $1,000, which I wish invested in Confederate bonds.… You had better not sell your coupons from the bonds … but let the Confederacy keep the gold. Citizens should not receive a cent of gold from the government when it is so scarce.
Major J. T. L. Preston of his staff was writing home at this time: “We have a merry table, but … Jackson as grave as a signpost, until something chances to overcome him, and then he breaks out into a laugh so awkward that it is manifest he has never laughed enough to learn how. He is a most simple-hearted man.”
Anna was soon on her way to her husband. She reached Winchester on a frozen December night, and was told that Jackson was off on a raid. She walked from the stagecoach to the hotel with an elderly minister as an escort:
“I noticed a small group of soldiers standing on the sidewalk, but they remained as silent spectators … my escort led me up the long stairway.… I turned to look back, for one figure among that group looked startlingly familiar, but as he had not come forward, I felt that I must be mistaken.
“An officer muffled up in a military coat, and cap drawn over his eyes, followed us in rapid pursuit, and by the time we were upon the top step a pair of strong arms caught me in the rear; the captive’s head was thrown back, and she was kissed again and again by her husband, before she could realize the delightful surprise he had given her. The good old minister chuckled gleefully.”
Anna lived in the General’s cottage of four rooms, whose floor matting, piano and “beautiful papering and five paintings” seemed elegant to him. They boarded with the Reverend James Graham and his family, ardent and friendly Presbyterians. Winchester, Anna found, was “rich in happy homes … social refinement and elegant hospitality … lovely Christian characters … true specimens of patrician blood.” She confessed that she saw everything “through a rose-colored light” that winter.
Jackson opened his first campaign on January first, with Turner Ashby’s improving cavalry in his front to lead an attack on Bath and Romney, enemy outposts in the mountains. His men were sure he had gone mad with this drive over mountain roads in midwinter. The weather at the start was unusual, bright and mild; by night chill winds blew once more.
Jackson was cold in the saddle. He had been given an unaccustomed gift by an old man of the region; Jackson was under the impression that it was wine, but it was in fact a bottle of liquor. When he became chilled, the General turned up the bottle and drank freely. When he had consumed about half of it, he passed the bottle among his staff. These officers, not yet familiar with Jackson’s idiosyncrasies, did not properly value this miracle; they simply drank the remainder of the liquor. Within a few moments, as they rode toward the enemy, Jackson began a most unnatural chattering. Sweat appeared on his face, and despite the cold air, he unfastened his coat, garrulously discussing a variety of subjects. Jackson was, for the only recorded time in his life, half drunk.
The army moved on Bath in the morning, and the Federal garrison fled toward Hancock, Maryland. There was scarcely a skirmish at the village, but the troops feasted on stores left by the enemy—coffee and canned fruits and condensed milk. Men slept in the empty resort hotel by the village springs, bedded down in the ballroom and wrapped in lace curtains and other spoils. Jackson gave them brief rest.
The General’s aims were not modest on this expedition. He proposed through Alec Boteler, now in Congress, that he be allowed to recruit twenty thousand mountain men and sweep down on Pittsburgh and Harrisburg. The army of Johnston was to cross the Potomac and meet him in the North. Boteler found in Richmond no support for such a daring assault; at this time there was nothing to hint that the politicians might be rejecting a plan which would conquer the Federal armies. It was only a wild scheme by an officer with an unimpressive reputation.
Through cold fields Jackson’s men moved on Hancock, a village strung along a slope. Ashby was sent in under a flag of truce and, blindfolded, was led to Federal headquarters, where he delivered Jackson’s demand for a surrender. He returned with a refusal, and Jackson’s guns fired a few rounds into the town; the enemy fell back. Ashby returned with the story that Yankees had whispered as he passed: “That’s the famous Ashby.” It appeared that Jackson’s command was drawing attention.
Old Jack pushed on to Romney, where he left General Loring and his troops. He was aware that Loring’s rebellious men had opposed this campaign and were in a state of “demoralization.” But he was not prepared for the storm that followed.
Loring and his officers appealed to Richmond for relief from the orders of this madman. They were dangerously exposed to the enemy, they wrote, and were to be sacrified to no purpose. They should be withdrawn.
Unaware of this, Jackson was making angry protests of his own. He denounced the atrocities of Federal commanders in the district, complaining of houses and mills burned, saying, “The track from Romney to Hanging Rock, a distance of fifteen miles, was one of desolation. The number of dead animals lying along the roadside, where they had been shot by the enemy, exemplified the spirit of that part of the Northern army.”
His report claimed that he had, within four days, saved Western Virginia for the South. He was to receive a shock soon after, when the people of this region voted overwhelmingly for separation from Virginia, and created the loyal state of West Virginia.
There was another jolt nearer at hand, a telegram from Secretary of War Judah P. Benjamin. Jackson read with “astonishment”:
Our news indicates that a movement is being made to cut off General Loring’s command. Order him back to Winchester immediately.
It was one moment of war for which Jackson was unprepared; he had not dreamed that his authority might be challenged by the civilians of Richmond. His reaction was immediate. He recalled Loring, though that move wasted the brief campaign he had just
concluded. He wrote to Benjamin on January 31, 1862:
Sir,—Your order requiring me to direct General Loring to return … has been received and promptly complied with.
With such interference in my command, I cannot expect to be of much service in the field, and I accordingly request to be ordered to report for duty to the Superintendent of the Virginia Military Institute at Lexington, as has been done in the case of other professors.
Should this application not be granted, I respectfully request that the President will accept my resignation from the army.
I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant.
Virginia rocked with the news.
General Johnston, to whom the letter was forwarded, recognized the talent at stake. He wrote on the back of the dispatch:
Respectfully forwarded with great regret. I don’t know how the loss of this officer can be supplied. General officers are much wanted in this department.
Even so, vexed as he was by difficult men, Benjamin might well have let Jackson depart the service, had it not been for the furore breaking over him.
Johnston chided Benjamin for his order to Jackson:
The discipline of the army cannot be maintained under such circumstances. The direct tendency of the orders is to insulate the commanding general from his troops … and to harass him with the constant fear that his most matured plans may be marred by orders from his government.
Jackson overlooked no source of help. He wrote Governor Letcher, denouncing Benjamin’s “attempt to control military operations in detail from the Secretary’s desk at a distance,” and added:
As a single order like that … may destroy the entire fruits of a campaign, I cannot reasonably expect, if my operations are thus interfered with, to be of much service in the field. A sense of duty brought me into the field, and has thus far kept me. It now appears to be my duty to return to the Institute, and I hope that you will leave no stone unturned to get me there.
They Called Him Stonewall Page 17