They Called Him Stonewall

by Davis, Burke;

  Jackson’s division had rested beyond this fury, suffering no more than occasional bursts of artillery. When Jackson attempted to send some of Ewell’s men to the aid of Hill, they could hardly push through the confusion of the roadway. General Early, trying to get through the press, saw “a large number of men retreating from the battlefield,” and “a very deep ditch filled with skulkers.” The streaming to the rear was so powerful that Early became separated from his command.

  It was now too late, much too late for Lee. He had failed, and Jackson had failed, to give Hill and Magruder assistance in the last hour of slaughter; but the confusions of the field, the pressure of the enemy’s deadly guns, and the handicap of the forested plain with its narrow roads, all prevented instant action. The exposed brigades were forced to take their terrible losses before recoiling into the woodlands at the foot of the hill.

  Lee was to write: “D. H. Hill pressed forward across the open field and engaged the enemy gallantly, breaking and driving back his first line; but a simultaneous advance of other troops not taking place, he found himself unable to maintain the ground.… Jackson sent to support his own division, and that part of Ewell’s which was in reserve; but owing to the increasing darkness, and the intricacy of the forest and swamp, they did not arrive in time.…”

  Men remembered that there was no end to the roar of enemy field guns, from midafternoon until night fell, and over them were the fantastic crashes of the long cannon of the hidden gunboats on the James, throwing in the shells which the Rebels called “lamp posts.”

  Ewell’s division went up at dusk, under a moonless sky lit like midday with the artillery. They passed Jackson, who sat his horse in perfect calm, trying to read during the hottest of the fire. The troops pressed on, with Colonel Bradley Johnson leading them. In the darkness some of them heard Ewell’s squeaky lisp: “Whose troops are these?” When some Marylander replied, Ewell shouted, “Thank God! You Maryland boys are the only ones I can find faced in the right direction.”

  One of Ewell’s men remembered:

  “Then commenced a night of horrors. It appears we were holding ground fought over in the day by D. H. Hill’s North Carolina troops, and the ground was covered with their dead and wounded. There would be a long drawn-out scream, and then the wounded would yell out: ‘Fourteenth North Carolina!’… ‘Fourth North Carolina!’ on all sides.”

  D. H. Hill was aghast at the fate of his troops:

  “I never saw anything more grandly heroic than the advance after sunset of the nine brigades. Unfortunately, they did not move together, and were beaten in detail. As each brigade emerged from the woods, from fifty to one hundred guns opened upon it, tearing great gaps in its ranks; but the heroes reeled on and were shot down by the reserves at the guns.… It was not war—it was murder.

  “Our loss was double that of the Federals.… The artillery practice was kept up till nine o’clock at night.… I estimate that my division in that battle was 6,500 strong, and that the loss was 2,000.”

  Once more Jackson’s own casualties had been light, though this day, because of the nature of the field, there was to be little criticism of his inaction. The delay at White Oak Swamp, army strategists were suggesting, had brought on the fearful day at Malvern Hill. But some of Lee’s generals were also saying that a competent reconnaissance would have prevented any attack at all on that day’s position.

  Captain Blackford of Stuart’s cavalry, who passed through dark woods in search of Jackson, was struck by the ghastly spectacle under the trees: the lights, the groans, the work of surgeons, the lines of ambulances and the countless wounded. Blackford found Old Jack, reported that Stuart would join him soon, and explained what had happened to McClellan at the White House. Jackson laughed at Blackford’s description of the Union strategy.

  “That’s good! That’s good!” Jackson cried. “Changing his base, is he? Ha! Ha!”

  And after his first laugh of the day, Jackson invited Blackford to spend the night at his headquarters.

  Jackson went to the rear at about ten o’clock, weary despite his failure to get into the front-line attack. He slept on the ground, where Jim made him a pallet, just out of the path of stragglers and wounded; he was almost immediately asleep after eating a light supper. His rest was short, for in the rainy night his brigade commanders became anxious and at 1 A.M. aroused him for instructions.

  The officers told Jackson that the enemy was likely to attack in the morning, and they were concerned about their exposed positions. Jackson heard them out as if he had little interest in the discussion, and after he had asked one or two casual questions said, “No. I think he will clear out in the morning.”

  Jackson’s prediction was borne out in the fog and sifting rain of dawn. Along their road Ewell’s men found the enemy gone, and saw this scene:

  A wandering rail fence covered with thick growth of sassafras, dogwood and blackberry, where charging North Carolinians had yesterday ripped down rails to get at the enemy; bodies lay piled along the fence, some sitting gruesomely erect on the rails. On the open ground beyond lay complete files of men, each on his face, with musket grasped before him. Within ten feet of a ruined Union battery were windrows of dead men.

  Colonel Moxley Sorrel, riding this road, went to a shanty in the woods, where he found General Ewell asleep. Ewell stirred, raised his head and stared. “Mithther Thorrel, can you tell me why we had 500 of our men killed on thith field yethterday?” Sorrel did not answer. Ewell covered his head.

  Blackford rode into the field at daybreak with Jackson and saw details of men collecting and covering the dead. Jackson gave this an attention which surprised Blackford, who wrote:

  “There was another peculiarity about this field … that greatly added to its horrors. It is a fact well-known among medical men … that under certain circumstances … when death comes suddenly from a wound the muscles become, instantly, perfectly rigid, and so remain. Owing probably to the extreme fatigue and excitement Jackson’s troops had been through … many of the bodies presented instances of this phenomenon.

  “One man lay on his back with his legs raised in the air, one hand clutching a handful of grass on the ground, the other holding aloft at arm’s length … a bunch of turf torn up by the roots, at which he was glaring with his eyes wide open.… Quite a number held their muskets with one or both hands, and one poor fellow died in the act of loading.”

  For hours the army gathered the dead; and to Blackford’s amazement, Jackson stood over the working men as they laid out rows, with up to fifty bodies in each, and spread blankets or oilcloths over them. Jackson sent others to hide equipment of the dead in ravines. He looked about the field, sending men to pick up every scrap of cloth or grisly debris. Jackson was stranger even than his reputation, Blackford thought. But he saw at the end that the scene was much less depressing and that the numbers of casualties appeared much less.

  “Why did you have the field cleaned like this?” the cavalryman asked Jackson.

  “Because I am going to attack here presently, as soon as the fog rises, and it won’t do to march troops over their own dead, you know. That’s what I’m doing it for.”

  The attack was not to be. Jackson and Lee soon entered another council of war. President Davis had once more come out to the battlefield, this time without previous notice.

  Jackson was first to arrive at headquarters, which was in the home of a family named Poindexter. Old Jack stood with Lee at a fireside, reporting his observations of the morning. The enemy was fleeing in disorder, he said. He had fallen silent, and Lee was dictating to his aide, Walter Taylor (who was now a colonel), when Longstreet blustered in, shouting that he must send a message to his wife in Richmond announcing his survival of battle. Lee calmed him with a soft reply and asked Old Pete’s opinion on last night’s engagement.

  “General,” Longstreet said soberly, “I think you hurt them about as much as they hurt you.”

  This was a doleful note for Lee, though it was perhap
s a bit more optimistic than was warranted. At this moment President Davis stepped into the room unannounced. Lee was revealed in one of his rare moments of uncertainty, for he said quickly, “President, I am glad to see you.”

  Watching officers noted the unusual address, and with even greater interest watched the meeting of Davis and Jackson. Old Jack’s figure had stiffened at the moment the President entered.

  After Lee and Davis had exchanged greetings, Lee presented Jackson, whom the President had seen only briefly, after Bull Run. The staffs enjoyed the scene. Jackson, who had long resented the role of Davis in the incident of Loring and the expedition to Romney, in Western Virginia, now refused to offer his hand. He stood at attention, looking beyond Davis.

  Lee turned to Davis. “Why, don’t you know General Jackson? This is our Stonewall Jackson.”

  Davis bowed, but did not bring forth his hand. Jackson gave a brisk salute and remained silent.

  Lee and Davis talked of the military situation, and gaping young staff officers heard the two leaders of the Confederacy in an unrestrained discussion. Davis proposed an attack on McClellan, immediately. Lee gave him a patient explanation as to why it could not be done. They talked as the rain poured in torrents over the swamp country. Jackson did not speak until the two had reached the decision that the Federals could not be attacked today. When asked for his opinion, Old Jack spoke quietly: “They have not all got away if we go immediately after them.”

  The council ended with the decision to remain in the neighborhood with the army. Jackson did not protest, or repeat his opinion. The President, who had been seeking liquor for his drenched party, was glad to see the doors opened and other officers crowding in, one of them Major Charles Marshall of Lee’s staff, who had a silver flask of “excellent old whisky” given him by the captured Federal, General George A. McCall.

  Douglas noted that the President “touched it very lightly; General Lee declined, saying that he would not deprive some young officer of a drink which he would better appreciate. General Longstreet took a good, soldierly swig of it. General Jackson declined, and also General Stuart.” Stuart’s suggestion that McCall must have poisoned the liquor did not affect the thirst of the staff, and the flask was soon empty.

  There was little to be done that day. The army was moved forward painfully; and A. P. Hill and Longstreet, whose divisions were the best marchers of the campaign, could make but two miles in the rain.

  On this dreary day, General Richard Taylor left the army, leaving a gap in Jackson’s command. Taylor, who had been in an ambulance for more than a week, was now ordered to the western theater of the war, but paralysis of the legs was to prevent his active soldiering for a time. On Jackson’s recommendation, Taylor had been made a major general.

  In the afternoon, Stuart and a handful of troopers found the enemy on the James River, and though a horse battery and a Congrieve “Rocket Battery” shelled the enemy, the cavalrymen seemed to do more harm than good. First, the experimental rockets, throwing “liquid damnation,” came howling back like boomerangs to scatter the Confederates. Further, Stuart had stirred and educated the enemy, for the Federals soon saw that the ridge from which Stuart was firing should be seized as a bit of commanding ground, and the bluecoats occupied it.

  The next morning, July third, Jackson followed Stuart’s lead over the poor road to the river, but the force made little progress in the mud, and Jackson went into camp at sunset with only three miles covered. He gave orders to move before dawn and told his staff officers they should breakfast and be in the saddle when the army moved. He also ordered that guides be sent to General Ewell, just at dawn.

  In the early morning, Jim shook awake the young staff officers in a farmhouse room; the General was asking for them, and breakfast was ready. Douglas, first up, met the General as he emerged from his room. When Jackson learned that the guides had not been sent to Ewell, but were still asleep, he sent them off without breakfast. His temper was not improved when he found his own staff tardy. He could not conceal his anger.

  Only Jim had eaten breakfast, but Jackson ordered the meal dispensed with and told the servant to pack his equipment and have the wagon rolling within ten minutes. As Douglas mourned and other officers arrived cursing, Jim poured fresh coffee on the ground and stored away the rest of the food. Even the Reverend Dabney, appearing sleepy-eyed and half-dressed, did not manage a bite to eat for all his skill, for Jim had determined that if his favorites went hungry, all would do so. The caravan got underway with tempers short.

  The sport was only beginning, for Jackson, moving rapidly, also found General Ewell abed, and before staff officers he gave Ewell a tongue-lashing, and sent Douglas to put Ewell’s troops in motion. Douglas used the visit to beg a breakfast, and when he returned, had the poor grace to tell his fellows of the meal in detail. The staff at large did not eat until one o’clock in the afternoon.

  On this day, the common soldiers of Confederacy and Union made their own brief truce; and in defiance of officers, the nation was reunited in a blackberry patch. Private Casler was there:

  “The next day, the 4th of July, we lay in line of battle all day, my regiment being on picket; but not a shot was fired. The post I was on was in the woods, and in front of us was an open field; beyond the field were woods, and the enemy was on picket there. This field was full of blackberries; so our boys and the Yanks made a bargain not to fire at each other, and went out in the field, leaving one man on each post with the arms, and gathered berries together and talked over the fight, traded tobacco and coffee and exchanged newspapers as peacefully and kindly as if they had not been engaged for the last seven days in butchering one another.”

  The line of battle lay beneath Evelington Hill, the heights held by the Federals near the James River. Jackson was insistent that he could not join an attack here today, for his men were in no condition to fight. Lee arrived, and Longstreet urged an assault. Lee was skeptical. He took Jackson and rode along every foot of the front, at many points dismounting to study the terrain through glasses. The two could find no means of attacking, for McClellan had covered well the flanks on the ridge so obligingly pointed out to him by Stuart. And behind this ridge lay the entire Federal army, confident as it waited beneath the gunboats. The enemy had crowded about Harrison’s Landing, near the historic Westover, home of the Byrd family. There was little to be done beyond the expression of bitter regret in Lee’s report on the Seven Days: “Under ordinary circumstances the Federal army should have been destroyed.”

  Such regret had a strange sound, perhaps, coming from a commander who in one week had sent a vastly superior invading army reeling back from Richmond’s gates to this beachhead on the river. But Lee, like the jealous, bickering officers who now raised a jackal’s chorus, saw beyond this temporary victory over McClellan; for they had glimpsed the dazzling opportunity to crush the military effort of the North, an opportunity dashed by human failures and unwieldly command.

  The week, of course, had been far from a failure. Richmond’s delivery was hailed by the Confederacy as a triumph. After all, the enemy was now only a disheartened fraction of the host of a week ago, cowering on the river bank in such fear that Lee dared to withdraw his infantry and post a cavalry watch on the invaders. In this week, to be sure, the Army of Northern Virginia had paid a fearful cost, more than twenty thousand casualties. There was reason to believe the enemy loss much greater, but the Confederacy could not bear such exchanges. Lee had taken some ten thousand prisoners, and seized fifty-two precious cannon and more than thirty thousand muskets.

  Of these grievous losses Jackson had borne few. His Valley army of three brigades had lost only 208 dead and wounded; and the total force he commanded before Richmond, though it was almost a quarter of the entire army, had suffered only twelve hundred casualties, or about 6 per cent of the total loss.

  Criticism was plentiful, and some of it did not spare Jackson, though Lee placed no blame on him for his part in the campaign. Longstreet, D. H.
Hill and others were critical of Jackson in varying degree, and a lesser officer, Robert Toombs of Georgia, scored both Lee and Jackson. This hotheaded officer, a prewar Senator, wrote after the Seven Days: “Stonewall Jackson and his troops did little or nothing in these battles of the Chickahominy, and Lee was far below the occasion.”

  There were now changes in command, and in light of the failures in the Seven Days, they seemed fortunate. General Magruder had his wish and was transferred to the West, though not until President Davis had consulted with him over army gossip that Magruder had been drunk in battle and had hidden from enemy fire. General Huger, at his request, was sent to South Carolina. D. H. Hill, though he had behaved bravely and well, was needed in North Carolina, and was moved there. The transfers of Magruder and Huger were accomplished with a great flurry of written reports by the generals, which stirred controversy in their wake.

  General Pendleton, the artillery chief, made a curious report as to the failure of the big guns at Malvern Hill: he had been slightly ill and had wandered over the field, unable first to find Lee, and then to find suitable spots for his guns. There was a tacit admission of his inability to handle the army’s ordnance in the field, though he had shown initiative in concentrating command of the artillery, and in making voluminous reports.

  Jackson did not, now or later, give a hint in official reports that his role in the Chickahominy country had been less effective than usual, but he hinted that his thoughts were on the subject in a letter to Anna: