At eight in the evening they came to the Chandler place, having rocked twenty-seven miles in the day. McGuire was forced to disappoint the Coleman Chandler family, which still busied itself preparing the finest parlors for the General. It seemed that some soldiers had died in “the big house,” Fairview, recently, with erysipelas. The doctor thought there was danger of infection. He was immediately satisfied with the frame office near by, a plain little building under three huge oaks. He soon had Jackson bedded down.
The patient had tea and bread for supper and ate hungrily. He went off to sleep just as a spring thunderstorm broke.
There was cooler weather in the morning, and some excitement; the wagons were being hurriedly packed for a trip to safety from raiding Union horsemen, said to be on their way. Some of the staff rode off, saying good-bye to the unsuspecting Jackson as if they returned to the front lines. Lacy, Smith and McGuire privately determined to return with Jackson if captured, in order to be able to care for him. The threat hung over the party most of the day.
Lacy went in at ten in the morning and held his devotional at the General’s request, a short prayer and a reading of the Bible. Jackson said he was ready to die if God willed it, but said he did not think the time was near. The thought must have struck home to him, for during McGuire’s examination of the wounds Jackson talked about his prospects, and wondered how long he might be absent from the army. He once said to Smith, “I suppose many would take these wounds as a great misfortune. To me they are one of the blessings of my life.”
“All things work together for good to them that love God,” Smith said.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s it.”
The wounds were in good condition. Healing had begun on the stump of the severed arm, and no infection had attacked the wounded hand, though McGuire applied splints to prevent movement of the shattered bones. Smith once thought Jackson’s mind might be wandering. He passed to the General the news that Hooker had intrenched himself north of Chancellorsville, and Jackson said, “That’s bad. Very bad.” Later he stirred from sleep to call out, “Major Pendleton, send in and see if there is higher ground back of Chancellorsville.”
Jackson seemed suddenly to have recalled that Smith was a divinity student, and he spoke long and often of religion, sometimes in a disconnected way.
“The Christian must carry his religion into everything, Smith,” the General would say. “Makes a man a better commander, a better shoemaker, a better tailor. Teaches him punctuality, fidelity … In the commander of an army, it calms his perplexities at a critical hour.”
Or he would say, “The Bread of Heaven … You will find precepts for everything in the Bible, Smith. Can you tell me where the Bible gives generals a model for their official reports on battles?” Smith laughed, shaking his head.
“Look at Joshua,” Jackson said seriously. “His narrative of the battle with the Amalekites; there you have one. Brevity, fairness, modesty, and it traces the victory to its proper source—the blessing of God.”
Once he interrupted a long silence with, “Oh, for infinite power!” and spoke of the healing powers of Christ. He put Smith through questioning, asking him what were the headquarters of Christianity after the Crucifixion, and afterward sending the officer to his old trunk to dig up an atlas and locate the ancient city of Iconium.
His mind went back often to the army, and he spoke with great clarity of his flank attack on the enemy: “Our movement was a great success; I think the most successful military movement of my life. But I expect to receive more credit for it than I deserve. Most men will think I planned it all from the first; but it was not so. I simply took advantage of circumstances as they were presented to me in the providence of God. I feel that His hand led me—let us give Him the glory.”
For another day his strength held out, but at one o’clock Thursday morning he roused, suffering from nausea, and asked Jim to get the wet towels once more. Jim said that Dr. McGuire should be consulted and that he was asleep in the next room. Jackson, saying that McGuire had not slept in three nights, refused to allow him to disturb the doctor. He asked Lacy to prepare the towels for him and lay for some hours under their cooling touch.
When McGuire rose at daylight and was told that Jackson was in severe pain, he went to the bedside and began an examination. He had not far to go before finding the trouble: pneumonia in the right lung.
There was some quiet discussion as to whether it had been brought on by the General’s fall from his litter, or the cold towels he insisted upon using. In the afternoon, Jackson seemed to improve and hopes rose slightly.
Mrs. Jackson arrived, coming from a heavily armed train that was prepared to blast its way through the Yankee cavalry, if necessary. Her big-eyed, gentle face was made old with anxiety, which deepened as she met officers of the staff on the porch, who detained her, saying the General’s wounds were being dressed. When she asked of his condition, one of the men said, “Pretty good.” She read danger in those words.
With her was Mrs. Moses Hoge of Richmond, who was to be her companion. The Reverend Hoge was abroad on a Confederate mission, to obtain a supply of Bibles for the soldiers. Behind was the Negro woman, Hetty, carrying the infant Julia in her arms. The women stood on the porch, ill at ease as they watched a team of soldiers digging a grave. They were astounded to see a coffin exhumed, and it was explained to Mrs. Jackson that General Paxton’s body was being sent to his home. It was a shock to her; Paxton was an old friend and neighbor from Lexington. It was a poor preparation for entering the sick room.
The sight of her husband stunned her, and she paused in the doorway summoning courage to approach him. She knew in that moment that she had lost him. The face was darkly flushed, and its cuts and scratches had the look of serious wounds to her. She had been told nothing that could prepare her for the shock of the missing arm and the huge bandaged hand. His face was sunken and bony. McGuire aroused him after a few gentle shakes, and when, with a remarkable recovery of his senses, he had come to himself, Jackson recognized Anna instantly. It was so unlike him, Anna reflected, to make such a demonstration of affection over her; it was as if he sought to compensate for his weakness. Finally, gravely, and with some effort, he said, “I know you would give your life for me. But I’m perfectly resigned. Don’t be sad. I hope I am going to recover. Pray for me, but always remember in your prayers the old petition, ‘Thy will be done.’”
Then, in a way that drained her restored confidence in his strength, he sank into a stupor and when he tried to speak, he could not be understood. He gave up, finally, to the effect of drugs.
When he swam upward to the surface of consciousness to greet her, he was uniformly cheerful. Once he said, “My darling, you must cheer up and not wear such a long face in the sickroom.”
He seemed to understand her every word, and two or three times, when she suggested that the baby be brought in to him, he refused. “Not yet,” he said. “Wait until I feel better.”
Through most of the hours when she sat with him it was only his labored breathing that she heard, and in his rare stirrings:
“My darling, you are very much loved.”
Or:
“You’re the most precious little wife in the world.”
McGuire had called in more doctors, and on Friday they came: Dr. S. B. Morrison, a kinsman of Mrs. Jackson (whom the General recognized with: “That’s a familiar old face”), Dr. David Tucker of Richmond, and a Dr. Breckenridge. These men consulted, and tried to give Jackson relief with a blister, but with little success. His wounds, dressed Friday, were healing well, and the pain in his side had disappeared. But though even his breathing seemed easier, he complained of an overpowering exhaustion, and he weakened noticeably.
On Saturday, Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Hoge and Hetty went in with Julia. He fondled the infant on his bed and held his wounded hand over her head, closing his eyes in silent prayer while the child cooed at him. Julia was taken away.
“McGuire,” the General said, “I
see from the number of physicians here that my condition is dangerous. But I thank God that, if it is His will, I am ready to go.”
In the evening, he shook his head at Anna’s suggestion that she read some Psalms to him, but then roused, repentant. “Yes. We must never refuse that. Get the Bible and read them.” He also asked her to sing for him, and with her brother Joe accompanying, she chanted some hymns in a low voice. He fell asleep.
Early Sunday, in the first daylight, Anna told him that he must prepare himself for the worst. He looked calmly at her, without surprise or any reaction that she could see. She repeated, and asked if he wanted God to have His will with him. “I prefer it,” he said. “Yes, I prefer it.” This was said with some emphasis, but she could not yet be sure that he understood.
“Before today is over you will be with God.”
“I will be an infinite gainer, to be translated.” His breathing was swift, as if it demanded all his strength. He told her that she should go home to her father in North Carolina; and when she asked him where he would like to be buried, he said, “Charlotte.” Later, under her prodding, he said, “Yes, in Lexington, and in my own plot.”
Some of the men were at the doorway, and a few of them cried. Jim wept unashamedly, shaking his head to fling tears from his cheeks.
McGuire offered him brandy and water, but after a sip, with a wry face, Jackson said, “It tastes like fire, and can’t do me any good.”
Before noon, Anna tried once more to tell him that the end had come, but he lifted his hand to her shoulder. “Oh, no, you are frightened, my child. Death is not so near. I may yet get well.”
She flung herself across the bed, beating at the covers, weeping bitterly, and when she raised her head she told him again that the doctors had given up hope.
“Call McGuire,” he said.
She went to the door and returned with the doctor.
“Doctor, Anna tells me that you have told her I am to die today. Is it so?”
“I’m afraid so, General. I’m afraid …”
Jackson studied the ceiling as if trying to focus his attention on the problem at hand. “Very good,” he said primly. “Very good. It’s all right.” He told Anna he had a great deal to say to her, but his words became gibberish, and his lips finally ceased to move.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Sandie Pendleton was admitted. The General was awake. “Who preached at headquarters today?”
Pendleton told him that Lacy had preached, and that the entire army was praying for him. “Thank God,” Jackson said. “They are very kind … It is the Lord’s day, Pendleton. My wish is fulfilled. I always wanted to die on Sunday.”
Then there were only scraps of conscious talk, a wandering mind, babbling, as if he commanded on the field, or sat with his wife and child in Lexington, or held prayers with his staff, or sat at the mess table.
At one thirty, the doctors told him he had two hours to live, and he seemed to understand. Feebly he said, “All right. Very good. It’s all right.”
A short time later he shouted: “Tell A. P. Hill to prepare for action!… Pass the infantry to the front!… Tell Major Hawks …”
Soon a faint smile, almost sweet, passed across the pale lips under the beard. Anna and the men leaned forward to the bed.
“Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.”
He was gone. It was three fifteen in the afternoon.
In the bloody Wilderness, where he had fought his last, was the ruin of the greatest of American battles. For four days now, Joe Hooker had been back in his camps across the Rappahannock, looking down on Fredericksburg, his files badly torn. President Lincoln was recovering his composure from the bad moment when he had got the word of defeat from Chancellorsville: “My God, what will the country say?”
It was victory for Lee and Jackson and Stuart and the young commanders of the army, but it was another of those inconclusive blood baths with which the army was so familiar. It had fought, and it had won, and taken heavy toll of the enemy. But everything was as before.
In the six fierce days the Union had lost over seventeen thousand men, almost six thousand of them captured or missing. The Army of Northern Virginia had lost twelve thousand.
Yet the wail that went up in the South at the news from Guiney’s Station drowned out the mourning for the dead of Chancellorsville, as well as the shouts of victory. Something had now been lost that could not be replaced by conscription. It was not only Lee, saying with his grave flourishes, “I have lost my right arm,” or, “Such an executive officer the sun never shone on … straight as a needle to the pole he advanced to the execution of my purpose.” There was much more in the dirge that went up over the South. The unlettered in the ranks and back home knew unerringly that the greatest Yankee-killer of them all had gone, and they feared the future without him.
After Jackson, on the field at Chancellorsville, had been nothing for the Confederates but fierce refusal to be whipped. Disaster indeed fell upon Joe Hooker, but it was by no means fatal, though it exposed his lack of courage and his betrayal of his gallant brigades. He had become timorous in the midst of his grand design, partially, perhaps, because he had been stunned when a Rebel cannonball clipped a column at the Chancellor Mansion, where the Federal commander leaned smoking, playing the Viking warrior. In the end, though without accomplishing his purpose, Lee had caught Joe Hooker in his own trap.
There were moments, after Jackson was carried away, when the war might have hung in the balance. When, for example, John Sedgwick came lumbering in on the flank, having been loosed by Early’s retreat from Fredericksburg. If Hooker had been equal to his rhetoric, he would not then have dug himself into his trenches before Lee, but would have attacked in cooperation with Sedgwick, crushing the Confederates between two wings. Instead, his own troops crawled behind the breastworks, and Lee, thankful, put a small guard on them and turned to deal with Sedgwick alone. For a bad day and night, Sedgwick’s men were hemmed against the river by the Rebels, hammered on every hand, losing forty-seven hundred men. Sedgwick at last, with little help from Hooker, escaped over the river, and by then Hooker was ready to be frightened by his shadow.
It began to rain on May fifth, and the Wilderness was gloomy. Behind were still the pontoon bridges over the Rappahannock to safety; the supply trains were already there. During the day, a false report came in that Longstreet’s corps had come up from the east, reinforcing Lee. Unfortunately for Hooker, it was a Rebel trick, a planted rumor brought by pretended deserters. Longstreet was still in the Tidewater beyond Richmond.
But this was enough for Hooker. He called for a retreat, in fact sternly ordered it, overriding his generals in an unhappy council of war which found Couch, Reynolds and Meade openly hostile and speaking for an attack. Hooker still outnumbered Lee by two to one, but he marched away, his troops slow in the rain, committing more depredations than usual and deserting in droves. Hooker’s guards and provost marshals could not even keep account of the hundreds who streamed away north through Alexandria and homeward.
Jackson’s attack had done it—overcome the Yankee host—but as he fell, the army somehow had faltered and slowed, the country thought. From Richmond southward men did not debate the courage or cowardice of the Union troops; they began to understand for the first time in the months of blood the true worth of a general who knew how to hurl his columns like saber sweeps, and how to make weapons of the men in ranks. The general had been found, and was now gone, at the very moment when he was showing the nation that the little victories of the Valley were only the most elementary phases of warfare.
At Guiney’s Station the staff officers prepared the body in a suit of civilian clothes Jim had found, for the once-splendid coat Stuart had given the General had been slashed to shreds. Jackson was wrapped in a dark military cloak and placed in a coffin. Anna went to him in the parlor of the Chandler house; she sobbed most of the night, slept toward dawn, and then rose to see the body once more. The General�
��s face showed fewer traces of suffering now than in his last hours, she thought. The men had covered the casket with spring flowers and banked lily of the valley about the head.
The funeral party left for Richmond on Monday, with most of the General’s staff and Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Chandler and Mrs. Hoge in a special car. Kyd Douglas went to Lee, asking permission for the Stonewall Brigade to march in the funeral procession. Lee refused sadly:
“I cannot even leave my headquarters long enough to ride to the depot and pay my dear friend the poor honor of seeing his body placed upon the cars.… Those people over the river are showing signs of movement.”
The commander in chief wrote his wife:
… In addition to the death of officers and friends … you will see that we have to mourn the loss of the great and good Jackson. Any victory would be dear at such a price. His remains go to Richmond today. I know not how to replace him; but God’s will be done! I trust He will raise up someone in his place. The papers will give you all the particulars. I have no time to narrate them.
On the same day, Lee issued an order to the army:
General Orders No. 61.
With deep grief the commanding general announces to the army the death of Lieutenant General T. J. Jackson, who expired on the 10th instant, at a quarter past 3 P.M. The daring, skill, and energy, of this great and good soldier are now, by the decree of an all-wise Providence, lost to us.
But while we mourn his death we feel that his spirit still lives, and will inspire the whole army with his indomitable courage and unshaken confidence in God as our hope and strength. Let his name be a watchword to his corps, who have followed him to victory on so many fields. Let his officers and soldiers emulate his invincible determination to do every thing in the defense of our beloved country.
They Called Him Stonewall Page 47