TURNER ASHBY
Farmer, noted horseman, age thirty, with little formal education, though born of good stock, he shows himself so bold and resourceful a leader, so flawlessly courageous in the presence of the enemy, that he attracts to him every boy in the Shenandoah Valley who loves horses and craves adventure. Soon Ashby gets more soldiers than he can direct well, but he performs some amazing feats before a certain day in June 1862. In appearance he is strange, almost mysterious—of the darkest olive complexion, “an Arab type” some insist, small but agile and of great strength. About him, while he is still living, myths gather.
RICHARD TAYLOR
Son of a President of the United States, he is a wealthy sugar-plantation owner, sometime student at Edinburgh and Harvard and graduate of Yale. At thirty-five he accepts election as colonel of a Louisiana regiment and comes to Virginia, where he has little fighting to do until he gets a brigade under Ewell and marches to join Stonewall Jackson in the Shenandoah. There a multitude of adventures befall him. Observant, he has a fine sense of the dramatic. He is absolutely self-reliant and indisposed to accept any judgment as sound merely because it is authoritative. This does not cost him either his admiration or affection for other men, nor, before he leaves the army for the western theater, does it deny him their friendship.
WILLIAM HENRY CHASE WHITING
Son of a lieutenant colonel in the United States army, he had a higher rating at West Point than any cadet ever had won prior to his time. Thereafter, until 1861, he had been a conspicuous younger officer in the Corps of Engineers. He is forty-seven, thoroughly conscious of his position, and somewhat disposed, perhaps, to lord it over men like Jackson, who had no distinction among his contemporaries at the Military Academy. Quite soon Whiting clashes with the President, on whose black books his name is entered. Somehow—none knows exactly how—he does not quite fulfill expectations. He is below middle height but handsome, martial, and aristocratic in appearance. His troops call him “Little Billy.”
ROBERDEAU CHATHAM WHEAT
Clergyman’s son, thirty-five, lawyer, soldier of fortune in Mexico and in Italy under Garibaldi, he has the dubious distinction of commanding the toughest battalion in the army and, ere his end, he shares in three of the most dramatic scenes in the drama.
JUBAL ANDERSON EARLY
Lawyer, prosecuting attorney of Franklin County, Virginia, West Point graduate, at age forty-four Early was notoriously a bachelor and at heart a lonely man. He comes from an unrenowned region, has no powerful family connections, and by a somewhat bitter tongue and rasping wit has isolated himself. He is about six feet in height, thin and stooped by arthritis. His eyes, his hair and beard are black. Amused by his odd name, soldiers call him “Old Jube,” or “Old Jubilee.” In the opening of the Confederate drama he has two scenes only. In one he distinguishes himself; in the other he raises a question of impetuosity: Is he too reckless to be entrusted with command he otherwise is qualified to discharge? Soon, however, he shows rapid development as a soldier. Stubbornness in combat takes the place of impetuosity. If he knew or cared a little more about the art of ingratiation, he would be something of a hero. Certainly, as an executive officer, his fighting record from Cedar Mountain to Salem Church is second only to that of Jackson himself. Fires of ambition burn behind those black eyes. He finds it easy to impress on generous Dick Ewell the views he never even thought of suggesting to the austere Stonewall. Perhaps, as he observes how Ewell is failing, he dreams of a corps command of his own. The next summer he receives the Second Corps and leads it in the very country where Jackson fought in ’62. Much that is bold and soldierly is credited to Old Jube, but he has a prejudice against the cavalry, whom he does not understand, and in a campaign against a Union cavalryman who has overwhelming superiority of force, he suffers defeat worse than his worst enemies could have wished for him. His sharp tongue is so critical of others that men refuse to see his excellences as a soldier.
JAMES EWELL BROWN STUART
By training and by preference a cavalryman, though not without an affection for artillery, Stuart at twenty-eight years of age, with an excellent army record, is still a good deal of a boy, with a loud, exhibitionist manner, a fondness for spectacular uniforms and theatrical appearance, and a vast love of praise. Soon he shows, also, that he is disposed to somewhat reckless adventure, but he has remarkable powers of observation, great physical strength, and immense endurance. He is about five feet nine inches, massive and nearly square. His troopers call him “Jeb.” As chief of cavalry he has only one large opportunity between Malvern Hill and the end of April 1863. He makes the most of that in a fast, horse-killing raid. Spectacular raids, in fact, are becoming his specialty, but he continues to learn the arts of reconnaissance, observation, and military intelligence. Unexpectedly, at midnight, he is called to the largest command he ever has exercised, and over infantry, not cavalry. While he fulfills the expectations of his friends, somehow he does not get quite the measure of praise he seems to have expected. That remains one of his peculiarities—that love of praise, and it does not diminish as his solid fame increases. At heart, this noisy, ostentatious young man fears God and loves country. He may be a courtier; his most depreciative critic never denies he is a fighter. He also develops a new distinction—he becomes a remarkable instructor of cavalrymen. In the cavalry there are always more men capable of leading brigades than there are brigades to lead. It is fortunately so, because Jeb’s days of shining success are over. The blue cavalry knows how to fight now. It counts too many sabers. One humiliation leads Stuart to a reckless adventure in Pennsylvania and then to a long verbal defense. He is absent on the day of all days when he could reconnoiter the Federal position. He continues to be an unexcelled reconnaissance officer with a vast aptitude for analyzing intelligence reports. His end is hard, though it is curiously like that of his friend Jackson.
AMBROSE POWELL HILL
Almost five years of Powell Hill’s career as a professional soldier have been spent in the office of the United States Coastal Survey. That has given him a certain knowledge of the inner workings of the machinery of government but it has not improved his temper. At thirty-five years of age, and a Confederate colonel of the line, he trains what proves to be an excellent regiment and in his first battle he shows good brigade leading. He then wins promotion to the grade of major general and almost immediately shows certain explosive qualities. In person he is thin, of average height and frail health, with heavy beard and hair of an auburn brown. He dresses picturesquely but not so conspicuously as Jeb Stuart. Proud and sensitive, he displeases Jackson and until the end is at odds with his chief. He harbors his feeling of injustice but is as quick to demand fair play for his subordinates as for himself; perhaps there is something of the army politician in him. None of this affects Hill’s division, which under his intelligent administration probably is the best in the army. At Second Manassas, Sharpsburg, and Chancellorsville he has three great days. At the close of the third of them, a trivial injury cheats him of his rightful part in the glory of the army’s high noon. As commander of the new Third Corps he holds the affection of his staff and the admiration of his men. After Jackson’s death, Hill engages in no more controversies, but he is not the same man who impetuously led the fighting Light Division. He does not fail beyond excuse or explanation; he does not succeed. Although few say it in plain words, he is not fulfilling the hopes of the army. It may be because of ill health or a sense of larger, overburdening responsibility.
WILLIAM NELSON PENDLETON
A clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church, he is fifty-two years of age and is on friendly footing with the President and with Generals Lee and Johnston because he was at West Point with them. Circumstance and a certain aptitude for organization give him advancement to the post of chief of artillery, but he does not appear prominently until the last scene on the Peninsula. Then he makes the younger men of the artillery wonder if he has the basic qualities of command. Pendleton looks and dresse
s like the commanding general, for whom he is sometimes mistaken. He suffers from a curious form of that unhappy disease cacoëthes scribendi, which produces some remarkable distortions. After Sharpsburg, some ridicule and contempt are visited on him for mishandling an operation that might have had disastrous consequences. Then he earns solid credit for sound reasoning, hard work, and the tactful adjustment of posts and personalities in an admirable reorganization of the artillery. Before he can expand in the satisfaction he deserves, doubtful disposition of his guns on a difficult day at Chancellorsville brings new humiliation. His is a curious fate: While young professional artillerists and infantrymen laugh at him, most of them have high admiration and proudly admitted affection for his son, Sandie Pendleton.
CHARLES S. WINDER
Somewhat belatedly, this Marylander and professional soldier, age thirty-three, is beginning, by August 1862, to be credited with the abilities he had demonstrated in the Valley campaign the previous spring; but Fate outruns Fame. At Cedar Mountain, before he wins formal command of Jackson’s old division, he fights his last battle. Like Robert Garnett, he seemed to have the mold and the hallmark of the true soldier.
FITZHUGH LEE
This rollicking nephew of the commanding general is twenty-five and a West Pointer with some experience as a lieutenant in the United States cavalry. He begins his Confederate service as a captain and rises steadily until in July 1862 he wears the wreath and three stars of a brigadier general. Florid, after the manner of the Lees, he is strong and already too fat; but he is active, cheerful, and on terms of companionable intimacy with Stuart. Those in the army who do not enviously attribute to “family influences” his rapid rise say he is a typical cavalryman. He has some dazzling adventures, and in the serious business of covering the rear of a retreating army he wins many plaudits. If there were a Confederate Frans Hals, he would paint Fitz Lee, but would ask this laughing cavalier of the South to trim that patriarchal beard. Fitz would laugh more boisterously than ever, but would say, “No.” That beard conceals his youth. A man who is named a major general before he is twenty-eight needs to look old to be the companion of Jeb Stuart and the rival of Wade Hampton, the only two men who outrank him. Although arthritis hampers him, he fights hard and learns much of the art of command. Lack of mounts weakens the cavalry during the last winter of the war, but circumstance places him honorably at the head of the corps. From the final scene he rides off in the hope of fighting in North Carolina.
WADE HAMPTON
Probably the richest planter in the entire South, forty-two years of age, he has had no previous military education but possesses high intelligence, superb physique, and the training of a thorough sportsman. He is fighting from a sense of duty, not from love of combat, but by the time the smoke clears from Malvern Hill, he shows distinct promise as a cavalry commander. By standards of the youthful cavalry, the grand seigneur of South Carolina is mature, almost old. He shares in most of Stuart’s raids and proudly conducts two of his own without the help, thank you, of any of those Virginians who act as if they discovered horsemanship. He receives some ugly wounds at Gettysburg, where the rivalry between himself and Fitz Lee almost leads to an open quarrel. Hampton’s defiant physique and his unconquerable spirit bring him back to field duty with a major general’s commission and a new responsibility when his senior falls. There is hesitation at headquarters about assigning Hampton to command the cavalry corps, because he is not a professional soldier; but he directs victories so shining that the old troopers are proud to call him Jeb Stuart’s successor. His men say he is a “born soldier.” They do not know that he thinks more often of the fallen, one of his own sons among them, than of command and power and glory. This much his troopers realize—that he believes in superior force and that he does not ask the impossible of hungry men on feeble horses.
RICHARD HERON ANDERSON
Like Hampton, he is a South Carolinian of high station. Age forty and a West Pointer, he proves himself capable of handling troops in battle and of hitting hard; but he is of a kindly, generous, and easy-going nature and, though he receives promotion to the grade of major general after the Seven Days, he has no inclination to advertise or to advance himself. At Sharpsburg he receives a wound which is not altogether misfortune because it demonstrates how much of the efficiency of his division is due to his personal influence and leadership. He has no subsequent opportunity till Chancellorsville. Then he shows himself willing that Stuart shall have the glory and he the sense of duty done; but Lee has seen what happened and, in the list of those who may lead a corps if need be, the name of Anderson is entered. He does not thrive in the Third Corps to which he is assigned in the reorganization after Chancellorsville. Perhaps he misses the guiding hand of Longstreet. It may be that Powell Hill does not know how to deal with the South Carolinian at Gettysburg. Ten sterile months follow. Then, by a simple decision, promptly executed, Anderson thrills the army and probably saves it from a defeat at Spotsylvania. His reward is promotion and continuing command of the First Corps until the return of the wounded Longstreet in the autumn of 1864. Lee sees to it that he retains his temporary rank of lieutenant general, but the corps assigned him is little more than a division. Part of it loses heart. So does Anderson. Among the hills that run down to Sayler’s Creek most of his men are captured. That last scene would be blackest tragedy if the memory of Chancellorsville and Spotsylvania did not linger.
LAFAYETTE MCLAWS
Stout, short, and more intense than his round face would indicate, this Georgian, age forty, had a good record as an officer in the “old army” and he shows administrative capacity as a soldier of the Confederacy By the summer of 1862 he is entrusted with divisional command, but is not yet appraised finally because his opportunities in combat are few. He encounters bad luck on Maryland Heights and drags slowly along on the road to Sharpsburg when he should be demanding the last energies of weary men. At Fredericksburg he easily holds a strong position with ample force, but in the spring, when he has a chance to deliver a hammerstroke at Chancellorsville, he hesitates. McLaws does not progress. He has no luster in the red glare of Gettysburg, though the fault is scarcely his. He goes with Longstreet to Tennessee and there, he avers, he comes under the wrath of his chief because he will not share in an attempt to oust Braxton Bragg. An unhappy story of bitterness and court-martial is shaped with difficulty to Longstreet’s purpose in this particular: McLaws never commands a First Corps division again.
JOHN BELL HOOD
By birth a Kentuckian and by choice a Texan, he appears as a somewhat ungainly lieutenant of cavalry, age thirty, but he develops amazingly as a commander and as an individual. There is reason to believe his magnificent personality, his blond, towering, blue-eyed, and handsome good looks, will advance him as surely as his fighting will. He is altogether promising as a combat officer; as an administrator and a strategist, he is inexperienced. In divisional command, his soldiers are, man for man, perhaps the best combat troops in the army, though in numbers they never approach and in fame do not equal, as yet, Powell Hill’s Light Division. Hood is conspicuous in the Seven Days, at Second Manassas, and at Sharpsburg. Later, on a quiet front, he has only one ambition: to get back to the fight. As the fighting quality of his troops is, in a measure, of his making, he appears to have a brilliant future. With a wound received in a great hour at Gettysburg he passes from the scene to return no more, but his old comrades in the Army of Northern Virginia read with pride of his feats at Chickamauga and of his appointment to command the Army of Tennessee. His new responsibility is beyond the resources of a crippled general. He has a winter of catastrophe. Perhaps he never should have been assigned an army. At heart he is an executive officer, not a strategist.
ROBERT EMMETT RODES
A graduate of the Virginia Military Institute, a teacher there, and a former civil engineer for an Alabama railroad, Rodes is thirty-two years old, more than six feet in height, blond, with a drooping sandy mustache and a fiery, imperious manner on the
field of battle. As if he stepped from the pages of Beowulf, Rodes stalks through the camps and fights always as if his battle were to decide a great cause. He has alternating fortune, now good, now bad, in the Maryland expedition, but at Chancellorsville he wins in an afternoon fame that brings him the closest approach the army can offer to promotion for valor on the field. He is the personification of the new type of Confederate leader, but he does not retain as division commander the consistent distinction that had been his as a brigadier. Perhaps on July 1 at Gettysburg—the first day he ever had led his own division in battle—he tries too hard with feeble instruments. The next day he halts his advance before it attempts to scale Cemetery Hill. Doubtless he is right, but it is not like the Rodes of Chancellorsville. When he gets back to the Wilderness in 1864, he has the furious old-time dash, and at the Bloody Angle he rivals his comrades Gordon and Ramseur. With them, under Jube Early, he goes to the Shenandoah Valley, and there, at a moment when he did not know the battle was lost, he leaves unanswered the question whether he would have realized fully his promise as a soldier.
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