They Called Him Stonewall

by Davis, Burke;

  Having led Anna through those dizzy rounds of reasoning, he went to the heart of the matter:

  Had I fought the battle on Monday instead of Sunday, I fear our cause would have suffered; whereas, as things turned out, I consider our cause gained much from the engagement.

  Jackson was also carrying on a steady correspondence with Richmond, especially with Porcher Miles of South Carolina, chairman of the military committee of Congress. He furnished the politician with many of his most profound military opinions, chief among them arguments in favor of the Conscription Act, which did so much to swell the ranks of the armies, Jackson’s included. Even Turner Ashby found himself at the head of a large force—larger, in fact, than he yet quite knew how to handle.

  Jackson asked Richmond for five thousand more men, but got instead only the tiny command of General Edward Johnson, lying near Staunton. Old Jack tried to impress members of rebellious religious sects into the army, and once arrested a number of conscientious objectors who tried to escape to the North. He made teamsters of several hundred of these men whose religious faith forbade them to fight.

  Jackson continued to lie in camp, with Ashby’s horsemen screening him. The Federal command now thought it must have been mistaken as to the threat of Stonewall.

  On April first, General McClellan wired General Banks: “I doubt whether Johnston will now reinforce Jackson with a view to offensive operations. The time has probably passed when he could gain anything by so doing … in regard to your movements, the most important thing is to throw Jackson well back.”

  Banks in turn wired President Lincoln: “The Rebel Jackson has abandoned the Valley of Virginia permanently, and is en route to Gordonsville by way of the mountains.”

  Retreat was far from Jackson’s mind; he spent his days in ceaseless effort to prepare for attack. Now, at last, he had maps, one of the necessities of a swift campaign. He found a young topographical engineer on the staff of a militia colonel and saw that his talents were being wasted. Jackson snatched him for his staff: Jed Hotchkiss, who was to become an indispensable aide to Jackson. Hotchkiss recalled that the General called him in without warning, saying only, “I want you to make me a map of the Valley from Harpers Ferry to Lexington, showing all the points of offense and defense between those points. Mr. Pendleton will give you orders for whatever outfit you want. Good morning, sir.” The promise of the coming campaign was in the brief interview.

  Hotchkiss went to work, and Jackson followed suit; it was now that he began to memorize the charts of distances in the Valley, figures to become so useful to him.

  He did not forget the spiritual needs of the troops. The Reverend Dabney described him making devout appearances at worship services and once handing out religious pamphlets to his privates in their camp; he carried saddlebags filled with the tracts.

  There was trouble with his officers. Some swore they would not serve under Jackson, and when a reorganization came, with elections of new officers, Colonel A. C. Cummings of the Thirty-third Virginia refused his post and resigned. Richmond, in Jackson’s view, sent the wrong men to replace lost officers. A newcomer was General William B. Taliaferro, who had won Jackson’s contempt in the winter for allowing his brigade “to become so demoralized that I had to abandon an important enterprise in consequence.” He complained of the reappearance of this officer only in Richmond dispatches, however, and put up an appearance of satisfaction with his command.

  There was now a surprising bit of good news: Richmond wanted General Banks held off so that he could not menace supply lines to the capital. Jackson was to get reinforcements—the seven thousand fine troops of General Ewell.

  While the Valley army waited, Turner Ashby performed one of the feats of daring that made him the hero of the countryside. As the army watched from a hillside on an April day, the dust of a Federal advance appeared, with Union cavalry driving at top speed. Just a few yards in front of them, on a white horse, was the figure of Ashby, firing at his pursuers, and himself under fire. It was clear that he would not have time to burn the covered bridge in front of him, as he had been ordered to do in case of an enemy advance. Nevertheless he reined at the bridge as if to set fire to the brush piled against its timbers. The Yankees were upon him. One of the enemy fired, narrowly missing Ashby, striking his stallion in the side. Ashby cut the Federal from the saddle with his saber and disappeared into the bridge. Confederate officers thought he would never reappear; but he dashed out and, joining his troops, he got to the ground and stood over his dying horse, oblivious to the scattered fire of the engagement he had brought to the camp.

  That was not enough to save Ashby from a collision with Jackson. The cavalry companies, now grown to twenty-one, were scattered over the countryside and were wilder than ever. Near Woodstock, the enemy had surprised a body of them while they were making merry on native applejack, had captured many and driven others into the hills. Jackson chose this time to impose discipline on Ashby. He divided the cavalry into regiments, for the purpose of training. Ashby was to command only the advance regiments, which were to guard the army.

  Ashby and his next in command, Major O. R. Funsten, so camp gossip said, offered their resignations in an instant. The army buzzed with the clash, for though the troops knew well enough that Ashby maintained no discipline, they understood his worth just as Jackson did; Old Jack, his privates knew, had a hard choice. He could bring Ashby to heel, but he might well lose him in the doing.

  Nothing in Jackson’s career hinted that he would compromise in this crisis, but he did just that. General Winder, a close friend to Ashby, became a mediator. He went to Jackson, probably with Ashby’s resignation in his pocket, and tried to placate the commander. Jackson agreed to talk with the cavalryman.

  The army craned necks after Ashby as he trotted through camp and disappeared into Old Jack’s headquarters. He was inside for more than two hours. No word of their talk came from the room, but the trouble passed. An order went out detaching all cavalry to Ashby’s command, as before; and though the dashing horseman was only technically in charge, the army understood that he had won and would fight the troopers almost as he chose.

  Old John Harman, the quartermaster, who had thought “the army is in great danger from our crackbrained General,” now wrote that “the difficulty has been settled for the present by General Jackson backing square down.”

  Jackson explained to Lee in a tone he seldom used: “Such was Colonel Ashby’s influence over his command that I became well satisfied that if I persisted in my attempt to increase the efficiency of the cavalry it would produce the contrary effect, as Colonel Ashby’s influence, who is very popular with his men, would be thrown against me.”

  In short, Jackson saw that he was whipped, and he saved face as best he could, though his behavior was in the best interest of the service, too.

  Now Kyd Douglas joined the staff; he was a young lawyer, raised at Shepherdstown on the Potomac, who had been to college in Pennsylvania, at Franklin and Marshall, and had come home from his new career in St. Louis when Virginia seceded from the Union. He was a friend of Sandie Pendleton’s, and for that reason was called to headquarters duty. A courier found him chopping at the company woodpile and took him to meet the strange commander. His introduction was typical:

  “At midnight came a quiet message, ‘The General wishes to see Lieutenant Boswell.’—his engineer officer. Lieutenant James K. Boswell, expecting to ride, dressed himself for it and departed.… In a few minutes he returned with the information that the General only wanted to know the distance from Gordonsville to Orange Court House. Fifteen minutes later, the General sent to him again to get the same information in writing. I learned afterward that occasionally his staff officers were subject to petty ills of that kind.…”

  Douglas had more to learn. On a rainy night near Harrisonburg, Jackson casually handed Douglas a dispatch for General Ewell, who was across the Massanuttons and the Blue Ridge, near Culpeper. Douglas was to deliver the paper by daylight
, and the paper was too precious to be entrusted to an ordinary courier. Douglas had never seen the country he was to ride, but he left at a gallop to the laconic farewell of Old Jack: “A successful and pleasant ride.”

  Goading and leading a series of weary horses some 105 miles in the storm, Douglas found Ewell, and fell, almost fainting, as he delivered the message. He spent a day in bed, and rode, through rain once more, to rejoin the army. Then, after his delivery of the vital message which set the Valley campaign in motion:

  “I went into the General’s room to report. It was empty of furniture and on the hearth were some dying coals of a wood fire. He was lying on the floor upon a thin mattress, wrapped in a blanket and asleep. I awoke him and made my report. He listened politely and then with, ‘Very good. You did get there in time. Good night.’, he turned over to sleep and I left the room. I will not attempt to describe my surprise and indignation at this cool reception.”

  In the morning, however, Jackson sent for Douglas and without warning offered him a permanent place on his staff, as assistant inspector general. Old Jack thus acquired one of the most faithful and discerning observers of his campaigns.

  Almost the same day, Jackson began the secret moves of the campaign which was to win him renown.

  Leaving Banks mystified behind him, and his own General Ewell in almost the same state, Jackson disappeared with his little command on the road toward Staunton.

  The army was two and a half days in going sixteen miles, for Jackson persisted in taking a river road incredibly deep in mud and sinkholes which sapped the strength of his men and patience of his officers. Jackson himself got into the mud and tugged at wagons and guns which were held fast in the mire. There was further danger that Federal sentries would fire across the river at any moment. When the men, soaked in mud, reached high ground, they soundly cursed the commander who had scorned a good road for one more remote—and bottomless. The army then climbed the Blue Ridge and passed Brown’s Gap. Trains took them into Staunton, where they were joined by two hundred cadets of the Virginia Military Institute.

  Jackson wrote Anna of the grim march only: “The road up the river was so treacherous that I could only advance about six miles per day, and to leave the road was at the risk of sinking yet deeper in the quicksands, in which that locality abounds. The country is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.”

  He made one more apology for being forced to violate the Sabbath by marching. He added: “Dr. Dabney is here, and I am thankful to God for it. He comes up to my highest expectations as a staff officer.”

  Jackson now turned to the first stroke in clearing the enemy from his Valley. General Frémont, with his force divided into three segments, was moving to the west of him. General R. H. Milroy and General Robert C. Schenck commanded his divisions. Jackson thought that by moving quickly he could prevent the junction of these men. He marched westward from Staunton on May seventh to make an attempt.

  He met General Edward Johnson with his men and turned him about as his vanguard. General Winder had vexations on the march. As Jackson had instructed him, he had forbidden his men to bring their knapsacks, and as he rode past the ranks, men hooted at him, “More baggage! More baggage!” Winder was enraged but could not find the offenders, though he halted the column to search for them.

  Just eighteen miles out of Staunton, hungry and in ill humor, the army ran into the first Federal outposts. The men were in a fighting mood. The Reverend Dabney overheard a Georgia private: “We never come all this way to run before Yankees.”

  General Milroy was camped before them with thirty-seven hundred troops at the foot of Bull Pasture Mountain, in strong position, though reinforcements were some distance away. He had no inkling of Jackson’s coming.

  Banks had spread assurances that all was well: “A Negro employed in Jackson’s tent came in … and reports preparation for retreat of Jackson … you need have no apprehensions for our safety.

  “Jackson is bound for Richmond … is on half-rations, his supplies having been cut off by our advance. There is nothing to be done in this valley.”

  General Milroy discovered, with the sight of swarming gray figures on Sitlington Hill on the morning of May eighth, the gravity of the error of Banks. Already Jackson commanded the Federal position, but there was hot and bloody work ahead. While Milroy sent out frantic messages for help, Jackson advanced his men.

  Stonewall was at first cautious, for the Federals filled the village; at about 10 A.M. they got reinforcements when Schenck’s troops arrived after a day-and-night march of thirty-four miles. There was light skirmishing during the early afternoon. Confederates lay on their hillside, contemplating the ugly task of storming over this landscape cut by hills and ravines, with a bridge dominated by Union cannon. Scouts reported to Jackson a track over the mountain by which the enemy might be taken in the rear. Jackson was giving orders, perhaps dreaming of the victories he had seen won in Mexico by such a ruse, when the Federals astounded him by charging his front.

  The so-called battle of McDowell was an affair of limited slaughter on the slope in front of Jackson’s lines, for the Yankee infantry stormed the precipitous hill like veterans accustomed to heavy fire, and they did not pause. Jackson’s three thousand banged away at the twenty-five hundred attacking Federals. Old Jack was almost driven from his position. He had earlier warned Richmond that the Western troops of the Federals would be troublesome, and he now saw their mettle. The Ohio and West Virginia boys pulled themselves up the slope, which in places was almost sheer rock face. They drove back the Twelfth Georgia regiment in some quarters but could not hold the ground. The Georgians were today the only regiment in Jackson’s army which insisted upon remaining on the exposed side of the ridge—and they stayed there, suffering heavy casualties, despite several orders from Jackson that they return to a more protected spot.

  Even Jackson’s superior numbers and fine position did not suffice, and the Rebel line needed reserves. One regiment did not wait to be called: the Forty-fourth Virginia charged without orders when the fire swelled. Jackson had to call up others before driving off the enemy. After fighting with skill and vigor for four hours, the Federals retired in good order. They built numerous fires around the village of McDowell; in the morning they had disappeared.

  Jackson had struck at an exposed portion of the invading army but had by no means crippled it; his officers counted 500 dead and wounded, including the serious toll of 54 officers; Union losses were about 175.

  The General went to bed early; and when his servant, Jim, approached with food, Jackson refused, though he had not eaten since morning. “I want none,” he said. “Nothing but sleep.”

  He rose to find Milroy gone and sent a brief message to Richmond: “God blessed our arms with victory at McDowell yesterday.” He tried to follow the Federals, with but little success. His wagon train was in poor condition, and forest fires set by Milroy made pursuit difficult and dangerous.

  He turned back from the chase, now with other thoughts in mind. He wrote Anna:

  How I do desire to see our country free and at peace! It appears to me that I would appreciate home more than I have ever done before.… Yesterday Dr. Dabney preached an excellent sermon from the text, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” It is a great privilege to have him with me.

  Jackson had one failure here. He had called the cadet corps of the Institute, hoping to make the child soldiers a permanent part of his army. He had them a few days; but on May seventeenth, they were recalled by the Board of Visitors of the school, which abruptly canceled Old Jack’s plans. He surrendered without comment.

  He now moved near New Market, where he had called Ewell to meet him; and he pored over maps in the nights and muttered over his memory charts. He cast about for means of using the great parallelogram of roads in the Valley which surrounded the Massanutton range. He did not lose sight of the vast strategic value of the lone road crossing the Massanuttons, near the center o
f the parallelogram. He puzzled over the country, and heard constant reports of scouts and spies.

  He was then ready for the campaign which was to free his Valley and build his reputation as a singular commander. Already he had firmly in his mind the small outlying towns which he was to make famous in the month ahead: Front Royal, Winchester, Cross Keys, Port Republic.

  Book Two:

  All things work together for my good.

  —JACKSON

  Prologue:

  SMILE, MR. DAVIS

  A smoky spring dawn came to Richmond, with a hint of hot weather in the swamp-scented breeze that crept among the Seven Hills. In the east a Federal observation balloon hung over the verdant tangle, like a monstrous new planet in the April sunshine. The James rolled beneath the ranks of its bridges, but its familiar voice was unheard.

  The city had not slept, was full of the passage of soldiers, and caught in the frenzy of preparation for a siege.

  Bitter odors rose from the ruins of a cartridge factory, where last night an explosion had killed ten women and girls.

  A squad of workmen shambled through paling shadows to dig up the Revolutionary cannon from their honored places as curbstones to provide metal for the shells of the army. The groaning wagons went downhill to the Tredegar Iron Works, where the night shift was dragging out, and the low plumes of smoke drifted about the heads of the aristocrats of the city’s laborers—sixteen dollars a day.

  A shop window held a wry cartoon this morning. It depicted the flight of Confederate Congressmen from the Yankees by canalboat, for they feared the railroads; an escort of women gave protection from frogs and snakes on the bank.

  The views were lovely, for it was a city of long white bridges, wooded islands in its river, and with charming hills: Shockoe, Union, Church, Council Chamber, Gamble’s, French Garden, Navy. From the heights could be seen the oldest part of the city, all but filling the mile-long plain which swept from the river up the tree-covered terraces to the Capitol.