REVIEW OF THE VALLEY CAMPAIGN
In March, 1862, more than 200,000 Federals were prepared to invade
Virginia. McClellan, before McDowell was withheld, reckoned on placing
150,000 men at West Point. Frémont, in West Virginia, commanded 30,000,
including the force in the Kanawha Valley; and Banks had crossed the
Potomac with over 30,000.
Less than 60,000 Confederate soldiers were available to oppose this
enormous host, and the numerical disproportion was increased by the
vast material resources of the North. The only advantages which the
Southerners possessed were that they were operating in their own
country, and that their cavalry was the more efficient. Their leaders,
therefore, could count on receiving more ample and more accurate
information than their adversaries.[1] But, except in these respects,
everything was against them. In mettle and in discipline the troops
were fairly matched. On both sides the higher commands, with few
exceptions, were held by regular officers, who had received the same
training. On both sides the staff was inexperienced. If the Confederate
infantry were better marksmen than the majority of the Federals, they
were not so well armed; and the Federal artillery, both in materiel and
in handling, was the more efficient.
The odds against the South were great; and to those who believed that
Providence sides with the big battalions,
that numbers, armament, discipline, and tactical efficiency, are all
that is required to ensure success, the fall of Richmond must have
seemed inevitable.
But within three months of the day that McClellan started for the
Peninsula the odds had been much reduced. The Confederates had won no
startling victories. Except in the Valley, and there only small
detachments were concerned, the fighting had been indecisive. The North
had no reason to believe that her soldiers, save only the cavalry, were
in any way inferior to their adversaries. And yet, on June 26, where
were the “big battalions?” 105,000 men were intrenched within sight of
the spires of Richmond; but where were the rest? Where were the
70,000[2] that should have aided McClellan, have encircled the rebel
capital on every side, cut the communications, closed the sources of
supply, and have overwhelmed the starving garrison? How came it that
Frémont and Banks were no further south than they were in March? that
the Shenandoah Valley still poured its produce into Richmond? that
McDowell had not yet crossed the Rappahannock? What mysterious power
had compelled Lincoln to retain a force larger than the whole
Confederate army “to protect the national capital from danger and
insult?”
It was not hard fighting. The Valley campaign, from Kernstown to Port
Republic, had not cost the Federals more than 7,000 men; and, with the
exception of Cross Keys, the battles had been well contested. It was
not the difficulties of supply or movement. It was not absence of
information; for until Jackson vanished from the sight of both friend
and foe on June 17, spies and “contrabands“[3] (_i.e._ fugitive slaves)
had done good work. Nor was it want of will on the part of the Northern
Government. None
were more anxious than Lincoln and Stanton to capture Richmond, to
disperse the rebels, and to restore the Union. They had made stupendous
efforts to organise a sufficient army. To equip that army as no army
had ever been equipped before they had spared neither expense nor
labour; and it can hardly be denied that they had created a vast
machine, perhaps in part imperfect, but, considering the weakness of
the enemy, not ill-adapted for the work before it.
There was but one thing they had overlooked, and that was that their
host would require intelligent control. So complete was the mechanism,
so simple a matter it appeared to set the machine in motion, and to
keep it in the right course, that they believed that their untutored
hands, guided by common-sense and sound abilities, were perfectly
capable of guiding it, without mishap, to the appointed goal. Men who,
aware of their ignorance, would probably have shrunk from assuming
charge of a squad of infantry in action, had no hesitation whatever in
attempting to direct a mighty army, a task which Napoleon has assured
us requires profound study, incessant application, and wide
experience.[4]
They were in fact ignorant—and how many statesmen, and even soldiers,
are in like case?—that strategy, the art of manœuvring armies, is an
art in itself, an art which none may master by the light of nature, but
to which, if he is to attain success, a man must serve a long
apprenticeship.
The rules of strategy are few and simple. They may be learned in a
week. They may be taught by familiar illustrations or a dozen diagrams.
But such knowledge will no more teach a man to lead an army like
Napoleon
than a knowledge of grammar will teach him to write like Gibbon.
Lincoln, when the army he had so zealously toiled to organise, reeled
back in confusion from Virginia, set himself to learn the art of war.
He collected, says his biographer, a great library of military books;
and, if it were not pathetic, it would be almost ludicrous, to read of
the great President, in the midst of his absorbing labours and his
ever-growing anxieties, poring night after night, when his capital was
asleep, over the pages of Jomini and Clausewitz. And what was the
result? In 1864, when Grant was appointed to the command of the Union
armies, he said: “I neither ask nor desire to know anything of your
plans. Take the responsibility and act, and call on me for assistance.”
He had learned at last that no man is a born strategist.
The mistakes of Lincoln and Stanton are not to be condoned by pointing
to McClellan.
McClellan designed the plan for the invasion of Virginia, and the plan
failed. But this is not to say that the plan was in itself a bad one.
Nine times out of ten it would have succeeded. In many respects it was
admirable. It did away with a long line of land communications, passing
through a hostile country. It brought the naval power of the Federals
into combination with the military. It secured two great waterways, the
York and the James, by which the army could be easily supplied, which
required no guards, and by which heavy ordnance could be brought up to
bombard the fortifications of Richmond. But it had one flaw. It left
Washington, in the opinion of the President and of the nation,
insecure; and this flaw, which would have escaped the notice of an
ordinary enemy, was at once detected by Lee and Jackson. Moreover, had
McClellan been left in control of the whole theatre of war, Jackson’s
manœuvres would probably have failed to produce so decisive an effect.
The fight at Kernstown would not have induced McClellan to strike
40,000 men off the strength of the invading army. He had not been
deceived when Jackson threatened Harper’s Ferry at the end of May. The
reinforcements sent from Richmond after Port Republic
had not blinded him, nor did he for a moment believe that Washington
was in actual danger. There is this, however, to be said: had McClellan
been in sole command, public opinion, alarmed for Washington, would
have possibly compelled him to do exactly what Lincoln did, and to
retain nearly half the army on the Potomac.
So much for the leading of civilians. On the other hand, the failure of
the Federals to concentrate more than 105,000 men at the decisive
point, and even to establish those 105,000 in a favourable position,
was mainly due to the superior strategy of the Confederates. Those were
indeed skilful manœuvres which prevented McDowell from marching to the
Chickahominy; and, at the critical moment, when Lee was on the point of
attacking McClellan, which drew McDowell, Banks, and Frémont on a
wild-goose chase towards Charlottesville. The weak joint in the enemy’s
armour, the national anxiety for Washington, was early recognised.
Kernstown induced Lincoln, departing from the original scheme of
operations, to form four independent armies, each acting on a different
line. Two months later, when McClellan was near Richmond it was of
essential importance that the move of these armies should be combined,
Jackson once more intervened; Banks was driven across the Potomac, and
again the Federal concentration was postponed. Lastly, the battles of
Cross Keys and Port Republic, followed by the dispatch of Whiting and
Lawton to the Valley, led the Northern President to commit his worst
mistake. For the second time the plan of campaign was changed, and
McClellan was left isolated at the moment he most needed help.
The brains of two great leaders had done more for the Confederacy than
200,000 soldiers had done for the Union. Without quitting his desk, and
leaving the execution of his plans to Jackson, Lee had relieved
Richmond of the pressure of 70,000 Federals, and had lured the
remainder into the position he most wished to find them. The
Confederacy, notwithstanding the enormous disparity of force, had once
more gained the upper hand; and from this
instance, as from a score of others, it may be deduced that Providence
is more inclined to side with the big brains than with the big
battalions.
It was not mere natural ability that had triumphed. Lee, in this
respect, was assuredly not more highly gifted than Lincoln, or Jackson
than McClellan. But, whether by accident or design, Davis had selected
for command of the Confederate army, and had retained in the Valley,
two past masters in the art of strategy. If it was accident he was
singularly favoured by fortune. He might have selected many soldiers of
high rank and long service, who would have been as innocent of
strategical skill as Lincoln himself. His choice might have fallen on
the most dashing leader, the strictest disciplinarian, the best drill,
in the Confederate army; and yet the man who united all these qualities
might have been altogether ignorant of the higher art of war. Mr. Davis
himself had been a soldier. He was a graduate of West Point, and in the
Mexican campaign he had commanded a volunteer regiment with much
distinction. But as a director of military operations he was a greater
marplot than even Stanton. It by no means follows that because a man
has lived his life in camp and barrack, has long experience of command,
and even long experience of war, that he can apply the rules of
strategy before the enemy. In the first place he may lack the
character, the inflexible resolution, the broad grasp, the vivid
imagination, the power of patient thought, the cool head, and, above
all, the moral courage. In the second place, there are few schools
where strategy may be learned, and, in any case, a long and laborious
course of study is the only means of acquiring the capacity to handle
armies and outwit an equal adversary. The light of common-sense alone
is insufficient; nor will a few months’ reading give more than a
smattering of knowledge.
“Read and _re-read,_” said Napoleon, “the eighty-eight campaigns of
Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Gustavus, Turenne, Eugène, and Frederick.
Take them as your models, for it is the only means of becoming a great
leader, and of mastering the secrets of the art of war. Your
intelligence, enlightened by such study, will then reject methods
contrary to those adopted by these great men.”
In America, as elsewhere, it had not been recognised before the Civil
War, even by the military authorities, that if armies are to be handled
with success they must be directed by trained strategists. No
_Kriegsakademie_ or its equivalent existed in the United States, and
the officers whom common-sense induced to follow the advice of Napoleon
had to pursue their studies by themselves. To these the campaigns of
the great Emperor offered an epitome of all that had gone before; the
campaigns of Washington explained how the principles of the art might
be best applied to their own country, and Mexico had supplied them with
practical experience. Of the West Point graduates there were many who
had acquired from these sources a wide knowledge of the art of
generalship, and among them were no more earnest students than the
three Virginians, Lee, Jackson, and Johnston.
When Jackson accepted an appointment for the Military Institute, it was
with the avowed intention of training his intellect for war. In his
retirement at Lexington he had kept before his eyes the possibility
that he might some day be recalled to the Army. He had already acquired
such practical knowledge of his profession as the United States service
could afford. He had become familiar with the characteristics of the
regular soldier. He knew how to command, to maintain discipline, and
the regulations were at his fingers’ ends. A few years had been
sufficient to teach him all that could be learned from the routine of a
regiment, as they had been sufficient to teach Napoleon, Frederick, and
Lee. But there remained over and above the intellectual part of war,
and with characteristic thoroughness he had set himself to master it.
His reward came quickly. The Valley campaign practically saved
Richmond. In a few short months the quiet gentleman of Lexington
became, in the estimation of both friend and foe, a very thunderbolt of
war; and his name, which a year previous had hardly been known beyond
the Valley, was already famous.
It is, perhaps, true that Johnston and Lee had a larger share in
Jackson’s success than has been generally recognised. It was due to
Johnston that Jackson was retained in the Valley when McClellan moved
to the Peninsula; and his, too, was the fundamental idea of the
campaign, that the Federals in the Valley were to be prevented from
reinforcing the army which threatened Richmond. To Lee belongs still
further credit. From the moment he assumed command we find the
Confederate operations directed on a definite and well-considered plan;
a defensive attitude round Richmond, a vigorous offensive in the
Valley, leading to the dispersion of the enemy, and a Confederate
concentration on the Chickahominy. His operations were very bold. When
McClellan, with far superior numbers, was already within twenty miles
of Richmond, he had permitted Jackson to retain Ewell’s 8,000 in the
Valley, and he would have given him the brigades of Branch and Mahone.
From Lee, too, came the suggestion that a blow should be struck at
Banks, that he should be driven back to the Potomac, and that the North
should be threatened with invasion. From him, too, at a moment when
McClellan’s breastworks could be actually seen from Richmond, came the
7,000 men under Whiting and Lawton, the news of whose arrival in the
Valley had spread such consternation amongst the Federals. But it is to
be remembered that Jackson viewed the situation in exactly the same
light as his superiors. The instructions he received were exactly the
instructions he would have given had he been in command at Richmond;
and it may be questioned whether even he would have carried them out
with such whole-hearted vigour if he had not thoroughly agreed with
every detail.
Lee’s strategy was indeed remarkable. He knew McClellan and he knew
Lincoln. He knew that the former was over-cautious; he knew that the
latter was over-anxious. No sudden assault on the Richmond lines, weak
as they were, was to be apprehended, and a threat against Washington
was certain to have great results. Hence the audacity which, at a
moment apparently most critical, sent 17,000 of the best troops in the
Confederacy as
far northward as Harper’s Ferry, and, a fortnight later, weakened the
garrison of Richmond by 7,000 infantry. He was surely a great leader
who, in the face of an overwhelming enemy, dared assume so vast a
responsibility. But it is to be remembered that Lee made no suggestion
whatever as to the manner in which his ideas were to be worked out.
Everything was left to Jackson. The swift manœuvres which surprised in
succession his various enemies emanated from himself alone. It was his
brain that conceived the march by Mechum’s Station to M’Dowell, the
march that surprised Frémont and bewildered Banks. It was his brain
that conceived the rapid transfer of the Valley army from the one side
of the Massanuttons to the other, the march that surprised Kenly and
drove Banks in panic to the Potomac. It was his brain that conceived
the double victory of Cross Keys and Port Republic; and if Lee’s
strategy was brilliant, that displayed by Jackson on the minor theatre
of war was no less masterly. The instructions he received at the end of
April, before he moved against Milroy, were simply to the effect that a
successful blow at Banks might have the happiest results. But such a
blow was not easy. Banks was strongly posted and numerically superior
to Jackson, while Frémont, in equal strength, was threatening Staunton.
Taking instant advantage of the separation of the hostile columns,
Jackson struck at Milroy, and having checked Frémont, returned to the
Valley to find Banks retreating. At this moment he received orders from
Lee to threaten Washington. Without an instant’s hesitation he marched
northward. By May 28, had the Federals received warning of his advance,
they might have concentrated 80,000 men at Strasburg and Front Royal;
or, while Banks was reinforced, McDowell might have moved on
Gordonsville, cutting Jackson’s line of retreat on Richmond.
But Jackson took as little count of numbers as did Cromwell. Concealing
his march with his usual skill he dashed with his 16,000 men into the
midst of his enemies. Driving Banks before him, and well aware that
Frémont and McDowell were converging in his rear, he advanced
boldly on Harper’s Ferry, routed Saxton’s outposts, and remained for
two days on the Potomac, with 62,000 Federals within a few days’ march.
Then, retreating rapidly up the Valley, beneath the southern peaks of
the Massanuttons he turned fiercely at bay; and the pursuing columns,
mustering together nearly twice his numbers, were thrust back with
heavy loss at the very moment they were combining to crush him.[5] A
week later he had vanished, and when he appeared on the Chickahominy,
Banks, Frémont, and McDowell were still guarding the roads to
Washington, and McClellan was waiting for McDowell. 175,000 men
absolutely paralysed by 16,000! Only Napoleon’s campaign of 1814
affords a parallel to this extraordinary spectacle.[6]
Jackson’s task was undoubtedly facilitated by the ignorance of Lincoln
and the incapacity of his political generals. But in estimating his
achievements, this ignorance and incapacity are only of secondary
importance. The historians do not dwell upon the mistakes of Colli,
Beaulieu, and Wurmser in 1796, but on the brilliant resolution with
which Napoleon took advantage of them; and the salient features, both
of the Valley Campaign and of that of 1796, are the untiring vigilance
with which opportunities were looked for, the skill with which they
were detected, and the daring rapidity with which they were seized.
History often unconsciously injures the reputation of great soldiers.
The more detailed the narrative, the less brilliant seems success, the
less excusable defeat. When we are made fully acquainted with the
dispositions of both sides, the correct solution of the problem,
strategical or tactical, is generally so plain that we may easily be
led to believe that it must needs have spontaneously suggested itself
to the victorious leader; and, as a natural corollary, that success is
due rather to force of will than to force of intellect; to vigilance,
energy, and audacity, rather than
to insight and calculation. It is asserted, for instance, by
superficial critics that both Wellington and Napoleon, in the campaign
of 1815, committed unpardonable errors. Undoubtedly, at first sight, it
is inconceivable that the one should have disregarded the probability
of the French invading Belgium by the Charleroi road, or that the
other, on the morning of the great battle, should never have suspected
that Blücher was close at hand. But the critic’s knowledge of the
situation is far more ample and accurate than that of either commander.
Had either Wellington before Quatre Bras, or Napoleon on the fateful
June 18 known what we know now, matters would have turned out very
differently. “If,” said Frederick the Great, “we had exact information
of our enemy’s dispositions, we should beat him every time;” but exact
information is never forthcoming. A general in the field literally
walks in darkness, and his success will be in proportion to the
facility with which his mental vision can pierce the veil. His
manœuvres, to a greater or less degree, must always be based on
probabilities, for his most recent reports almost invariably relate to
events which, at best, are several hours old; and, meanwhile, what has
the enemy been doing? This it is the most essential part of his
business to discover, and it is a matter of hard thinking and sound
judgment. From the indications furnished by his reports, and from the
consideration of many circumstances, with some of which he is only
imperfectly acquainted, he must divine the intentions of his opponent.
It is not pretended that even the widest experience and the finest
intellect confer infallibility. But clearness of perception and the
power of deduction, together with the strength of purpose which they
create, are the fount and origin of great achievements; and when we
find a campaign in which they played a predominant part, we may fairly
rate it as a masterpiece of war. It can hardly be disputed that these
qualities played such a part on the Shenandoah. For instance; when
Jackson left the Valley to march against Milroy, many things might have
happened which would have brought about disaster:—
1. Banks, who was reported to have 21,000 men at Harrisonburg, might
have moved on Staunton, joined hands with Milroy, and crushed Edward
Johnson.
2. Banks might have attacked Ewell’s 8,000 with superior numbers.
3. Frémont, if he got warning of Jackson’s purpose, might have
reinforced Milroy, occupied a strong position, and requested Banks to
threaten or attack the Confederates in rear.
4. Frémont might have withdrawn his advanced brigade, and have
reinforced Banks from Moorefield.
5. Banks might have been reinforced by Blenker, of whose whereabouts
Jackson was uncertain.
6. Banks might have marched to join McDowell at Fredericksburg.
7. McClellan might have pressed Johnston so closely that a decisive
battle could not have been long delayed.
8. McDowell might have marched on Richmond, intervening between the
Valley army and the capital.
Such an array of possibilities would have justified a passive attitude
on Elk Run. A calculation of the chances, however, showed Jackson that
the dangers of action were illusory. “Never take counsel of your
fears,” was a maxim often on his lips. Unlike many others, he first
made up his mind what he wanted to do, and then, and not till then, did
he consider what his opponents might do to thwart him. To seize the
initiative was his chief preoccupation, and in this case it did not
seem difficult to do so. He knew that Banks was unenterprising. It was
improbable that McDowell would advance until McClellan was near
Richmond, and McClellan was very slow. To prevent Frémont getting an
inkling of his design in time to cross it was not impossible, and
Lincoln’s anxiety for Washington might be relied on to keep Banks in
the Valley.
It is true that Jackson’s force was very small. But the manifestation
of military genius is not affected by numbers. The handling of masses
is a mechanical art, of which knowledge and experience are the key; but
it is the manner in which the grand principles of
war are applied which marks the great leader, and these principles may
be applied as resolutely and effectively with 10,000 men as with
100,000.
“In meditation,” says Bacon, “all dangers should be seen; in execution
none, unless they are very formidable.” It was on this precept that
Jackson acted. Not a single one of his manœuvres but was based on a
close and judicial survey of the situation. Every risk was weighed.
Nothing was left to chance. “There was never a commander,” says his
chief of the staff, “whose foresight was more complete. Nothing emerged
which had not been considered before in his mind; no possibility was
overlooked; he was never surprised.”[7] The character of his opponent,
the _moral_ of the hostile troops, the nature of the ground, and the
manner in which physical features could be turned to account, were all
matters of the most careful consideration. He was a constant student of
the map, and his topographical engineer was one of the most important
officers on his staff. “It could readily be seen,” writes Major
Hotchkiss, “that in the preparations he made for securing success he
had fully in mind what Napoleon had done under similar circumstances;
resembling Napoleon especially in this, that he was very particular in
securing maps, and in acquiring topographical information. He furnished
me with every facility that I desired for securing topographical
information and for making maps, allowing me a complete transportation
outfit for my exclusive use and sending men into the enemy’s country to
procure copies of local maps when I expressed a desire to have them. I
do not think he had an accurate knowledge of the Valley previous to the
war. When I first reported to him for duty, at the beginning of March
1862, he told me that he wanted “a complete map of the entire
Shenandoah Valley from Harper’s Ferry to Lexington, one showing every
point of offence and defence,” and to that task I immediately addressed
myself. As a rule he did not refer to maps in the field, making his
study of them in advance. He undoubtedly had the power of retaining the
topography
of the country in his imagination. He had spent his youth among the
mountains, where there were but few waggon roads but many bridle and
foot paths. His early occupation made it necessary for him to become
familiar with such intricate ways; and I think this had a very
important bearing on his ability to promptly recognise the
topographical features of the country, and to recall them whenever it
became necessary to make use of them. He was quick in comprehending
topographical features. I made it a point, nevertheless, to be always
ready to give him a graphic representation of any particular point of
the region where operations were going on, making a rapid sketch of the
topography in his presence, and using different coloured pencils for
greater clearness in the definition of surface features. The carefully
prepared map generally had too many points of detail, and did not
sufficiently emphasise features apparently insignificant, but from a
military standpoint most important. I may add that Jackson not only
studied the general maps of the country, but made a particular study of
those of any district where he expected to march or fight, constantly
using sketch maps made upon the ground to inform him as to portions of
the field of operations that did not immediately come under his own
observation. I often made rough sketches for him when on the march, or
during engagements, in answer to his requests for information.”[8]
It is little wonder that it should have been said by his soldiers that
“he knew every hole and corner of the Valley as if he had made it
himself.”
But to give attention to topography was not all that Jackson had
learned from Napoleon. “As a strategist,” says Dabney, “the first
Napoleon was undoubtedly his model. He had studied his campaigns
diligently, and he was accustomed to remark with enthusiasm upon the
evidences of his genius. “Napoleon,” he said, “was the first to show
what an army could be made to accomplish. He had shown what was the
value of time as an element
of strategic combination, and that good troops, if well cared for,
could be made to march twenty-five miles daily, and win battles
besides.” And he had learned more than this. “We must make this
campaign,” he said at the beginning of 1868, “an exceedingly active
one. Only thus can a weaker country cope with a stronger; it must make
up in activity what it lacks in strength. A defensive campaign can only
be made successful by taking the aggressive at the proper time.
Napoleon never waited for his adversary to become fully prepared, but
struck him the first blow.”
It would perhaps be difficult, in the writings of Napoleon, to find a
passage which embodies his conception of war in terms as definite as
these; but no words could convey it more clearly. It is sometimes
forgotten that Napoleon was often outnumbered at the outset of a
campaign. It was not only in the campaigns of Italy, of Leipsic, of
1814, and of Waterloo, that the hostile armies were larger than his
own. In those of Ulm, Austerlitz, Eckmühl, and Dresden, he was
numerically inferior on the whole theatre of war; but while the French
troops were concentrated under a single chief, the armies of the Allies
were scattered over a wide area, and unable to support each other.
Before they could come together, Napoleon, moving with the utmost
rapidity, struck the first blow, and they were defeated in succession.
The first principle of war is to concentrate superior force at the
decisive point, that is, upon the field of battle. But it is
exceedingly seldom that by standing still, and leaving the initiative
to the enemy, that this principle can be observed, for a numerically
inferior force, if it once permits its enemy to concentrate, can hardly
hope for success. True generalship is, therefore, “to make up in
activity for lack of strength; to strike the enemy in detail, and
overthrow his columns in succession. And the highest art of all is to
compel him to disperse his army, and then to concentrate superior force
against each fraction in turn.
It is such strategy as this that “gains the ends of States and makes
men heroes.” Napoleon did not discover it. Every single general who
deserves to be entitled great
has used it. Frederick, threatened by Austria, France, Russia, Saxony,
and Sweden, used it in self-defence, and from the Seven Years’ War the
little kingdom of Prussia emerged as a first-class Power. It was such
strategy which won back the Peninsula; not the lines of Torres Vedras,
but the bold march northwards to Vittoria.[9] It was on the same lines
that Lee and Jackson acted. Lee, in compelling the Federals to keep
their columns separated, manœuvred with a skill which has seldom been
surpassed; Jackson, falling as it were from the skies into the midst of
his astonished foes, struck right and left before they could combine,
and defeated in detail every detachment which crossed his path.
It is when regarded in connection with the operations of the main
armies that the Valley campaign stands out in its true colours; but, at
the same time, even as an isolated incident, it is in the highest
degree interesting. It has been compared, and not inaptly, with the
Italian campaign of 1796. And it may even be questioned whether, in
some respects, it was not more brilliant. The odds against the
Confederates were far greater than against the French. Jackson had to
deal with a homogeneous enemy, with generals anxious to render each
other loyal support, and not with the contingents of different States.
His marches were far longer than Napoleon’s. The theatre of war was not
less difficult. His troops were not veterans, but, in great part, the
very rawest of recruits. The enemy’s officers and soldiers were not
inferior to his own; their leaders were at least equal in capacity to
Colli, Beaulieu, and Alvinzi, and the statesmen who directed them were
not more purblind than the Aulic Council. Moreover, Jackson was merely
the commander of a detached force, which might at any moment be
required at Richmond. The risks which Napoleon freely accepted he could
not afford. He dared not deliver battle unless he were certain of
success,
and his one preoccupation was to lose as few men as possible. But be
this as it may, in the secrecy of the Confederate movements, the
rapidity of the marches, and the skilful use of topographical features,
the Valley campaign bears strong traces of the Napoleonic methods.
Seldom has the value of these methods been more forcibly illustrated.
Three times was McDowell to have marched to join McClellan: first, at
the beginning of April, when he was held back by Kernstown; second, on
May 26, when he was held back by Front Royal and Winchester; third, on
June 25, when he was held back by Jackson’s disappearance after Port
Republic. Above all, the campaign reveals a most perfect appreciation
of the surest means of dealing with superior numbers. “In my personal
intercourse with Jackson,” writes General Imboden, “in the early part
of the war, he often said that there were two things never to be lost
sight of by a military commander. ‘Always mystify, mislead, and
surprise the enemy, if possible; and when you strike and overcome him,
never give up the pursuit as long as your men have strength to follow;
for an army routed, if hotly pursued, becomes panic-stricken, and can
then be destroyed by half their number. The other rule is, never fight
against heavy odds, if by any possible manœuvering you can hurl your
own force on only a part, and that the weakest part, of your enemy and
crush it. Such tactics will win every time, and a small army may thus
destroy a large one in detail, and repeated victory will make it
invincible.’[10] And again: ‘To move swiftly, strike vigorously, and
secure all the fruits of victory, is the secret of successful war.’ ”
These maxims were the outcome of his studies, “drawn absolutely and
merely,” says Lord Wolseley, “from his knowledge of war, as learned
from the great leaders of former days;”[11] and if he made war by rule,
as he had regulated his conduct as a cadet, it can hardly be denied
that his rules were of the soundest. They are a complete summary of the
tactics which wrought such havoc in the
Valley. The order in which they are placed is interesting. “To mystify,
mislead, and surprise,” is the first precept. How thoroughly it was
applied! The measures by which his adversaries were to be deceived were
as carefully thought out as the maps had been closely studied. The
troops moved almost as often by country roads and farm tracks as by the
turnpikes. The longer route, even when time was of importance, was
often preferred, if it was well concealed, to the shorter. No
precaution, however trivial, that might prevent information reaching
the enemy was neglected. In order that he might give his final
instructions to Colonel Munford before marching to Richmond, he told
that officer to meet him at ten o’clock at night in Mount Sidney. “I
will be on my horse,” he wrote, “at the north end of the town, so you
need not inquire after me.”[12] “_Le bon général ordinaire_” would have
scoffed at the atmosphere of mystery which enveloped the Confederate
camp. The march from Elk Run Valley to Port Republic, with its
accompaniments of continuous quagmire and dreary bivouacs, he would
have ridiculed as a most useless stratagem. The infinite pains with
which Jackson sought to conceal, even from his most trusted staff
officers, his movements, his intentions, and his thoughts, a commander
less thorough would have pronounced useless. The long night ride to
Richmond, on June 22, with its untoward delays and provoking
_contretemps,_ sounds like an excess of precaution which was absolutely
pedantic.[13] But war, according to Napoleon, is made up of accidents.
The country was full of spies; the Southern newspapers were sometimes
indiscreet; and the simple fact that Jackson had been seen near
Richmond would have warned McClellan that his right wing was in
jeopardy. Few men would have taken such infinite trouble to hide the
departure from the Valley and the march across Virginia to attack
McClellan. But soldiers of experience, alive to the full bearing of
seemingly petty details, appreciate his skill.[14] According to the
dictum of Napoleon, “there are no such things as trifles in war.”
It was not, however, on such expedients that Jackson principally relied
to keep his enemy in the dark. The use he made of his cavalry is
perhaps the most brilliant tactical feature of the campaign. Ashby’s
squadrons were the means whereby the Federals were mystified. Not only
was a screen established which perfectly concealed the movements of the
Valley army, but constant demonstrations, at far distant points,
alarmed and bewildered the Federal commanders. In his employment of
cavalry Jackson was in advance of his age. His patrols were kept out
two or three marches to front and flank; neither by day nor by night
were they permitted to lose touch of the enemy; and thus no movement
could take place without their knowledge. Such tactics had not been
seen since the days of Napoleon. The Confederate horsemen in the Valley
were far better handled than those of France or Austria in 1859, of
Prussia or Austria in 1866, of France in 1870, of England, France, or
Russia in the Crimea.
In the flank march on Sebastopol the hostile armies passed within a few
miles, in an open country, without either of them being aware of the
proximity of the other, and the English headquarter staff almost rode
into a Russian baggage-train. At Solferino and at Sadowa, armies which
were counted by hundreds of thousands encamped almost within sight of
each other’s watch-fires, without the slightest suspicion that the
enemy lay over the next ridge. The practice of Napoleon had been
forgotten. The great cloud of horsemen which, riding sometimes a
hundred miles to the front, veiled the march of the Grand Army had
vanished from memory. The vast importance ascribed by the Emperor to
procuring early information of his enemy and hiding his own movements
had been overlooked; and it was left to an American soldier to revive
his methods.
The application of Jackson’s second precept, “to hurl
your own force on the weakest part of the enemy’s,” was made possible
by his vigorous application of the first. The Federals, mystified and
misled by demonstrations of the cavalry, and unable to procure
information, never knew at what point they should concentrate, and
support invariably came too late. Jackson’s tactical successes were
achieved over comparatively small forces. Except at Cross Keys, and
there he only intended to check Frémont for the moment, he never
encountered more than 10,000 men on any single field. No great victory,
like Austerlitz or Salamanca, was won over equal numbers. No
Chancellorsville, where a huge army was overthrown by one scarce half
the size, is reckoned amongst the triumphs of the Valley campaign. But
it is to be remembered that Jackson was always outnumbered, and
outnumbered heavily, on the theatre of war; and if he defeated his
enemies in detail, their overthrow was not less decisive than if it had
been brought about at one time and at one place. The fact that they
were unable to combine their superior numbers before the blow fell is
in itself the strongest testimony to his ability. “How often,” says
Napier, “have we not heard the genius of Buonaparte slighted, and his
victories talked of as destitute of merit, because, at the point of
attack, he was superior in numbers to his enemies! This very fact,
which has been so often converted into a sort of reproach, constitutes
his greatest and truest praise. He so directed his attack as at once to
divide his enemy, and to fall with the mass of his own forces upon a
point where their division, or the distribution of their army, left
them unable to resist him. It is not in man to defeat armies by the
breath of his mouth; nor was Buonaparte commissioned, like Gideon, to
confound and destroy a host with three hundred men. He knew that
everything depended ultimately upon physical superiority; and his
genius was shown in this, that, though outnumbered on the whole, he was
always superior to his enemies at the decisive point.”[15]
The material results of the Valley campaign were by no means
inconsiderable. 8,500 prisoners were either paroled or sent to
Richmond. 3,500 Federals were killed or wounded. An immense quantity of
stores was captured, and probably as much destroyed. 9 guns were taken
and over 10,000 rifles, while the loss of the Confederates was no more
than 2,500 killed and wounded, 600 prisoners, and 3 guns. It may be
added that the constant surprises, together with the successive
conflict with superior numbers, had the worst effect on the _moral_ of
the Federal soldiers. The troops commanded by Frémont, Shields, Banks,
Saxton, and Geary were all infected. Officers resigned and men
deserted. On the least alarm there was a decided tendency to
“stampede.” The generals thought only of retreat. Frémont, after Cross
Keys, did not think that his men would stand, and many of his men
declared that it was “only murder” to fight without reinforcements.[16]
When to those results is added the strategical effect of the campaign,
it can hardly be denied that the success he achieved was out of all
proportion to Jackson’s strength. Few generals have done so much with
means so small. Not only were the Valley troops comparatively few in
numbers, but they were volunteers, and volunteers of a type that was
altogether novel. Even in the War of the Revolution many of the
regimental officers, and indeed many of the soldiers, were men who had
served in the Indian and French wars under the English flag. But there
were not more than half a dozen regular officers in the whole Army of
the Valley. Except Jackson himself, and his chief of artillery, not one
of the staff had more than a year’s service. Twelve months previous
several of the brigadiers had been civilians. The regimental officers
were as green as the men; and although military offences were few, the
bonds of discipline were slight. When the march to M’Dowell was begun,
which was to end five weeks later at Port Republic, a considerable
number of the so-called “effectives” had only been drilled for a few
hours. The cavalry on parade was little better than a mob; on the line
of march they kept or left the ranks as the humour took them. It is
true that the Federals were hardly more efficient. But Jackson’s
operations were essentially offensive, and offensive operations, as was
shown at Bull Run, are ill-suited to raw troops. Attack cannot be
carried to a triumphant issue unless every fraction of the force
co-operates with those on either hand; and co-operation is hardly to be
expected from inexperienced officers. Moreover, offensive operations,
especially when a small force is manœuvring against the fraction of a
larger, depend for success on order, rapidity, and endurance; and it is
in these qualities, as a rule, that raw troops are particularly
deficient. Yet Jackson, like Napoleon at Ulm, might have boasted with
truth that he had “destroyed the enemy merely by marches,” and his men
accomplished feats of which the hardiest veterans might well be proud.
From April 29 to June 5, that is, in thirty-eight days, they marched
four hundred miles, fought three battles and numerous combats, and were
victorious in all. Several of the marches exceeded twenty-five miles a
day; and in retreat, from the Potomac to Port Republic, the army made
one hundred and four miles between the morning of May 30 and the night
of June 5, that is, fifteen miles daily
without a rest day intervening. This record, if we take into
consideration the infamous roads, is remarkable; and it well may be
asked by what means these half-trained troops were enabled to
accomplish such a feat?[17]
Jackson’s rules for marching have been preserved. “He never broke down
his men by long-continued movement. He rested the whole column very
often, but only for a few minutes at a time. He liked to see the men
lie flat on the ground to rest, and would say, ‘A man rests all over
when he lies down.’ ’[18] Nor did he often call upon his troops for
extraordinary exertions. In the period between his departure from Elk
Run Mountain to the battle of Port Republic there were only four series
of forced marches.[19] “The hardships of forced marches,” he said, “are
often more painful than the dangers of battle.” It was only, in short,
when he intended a surprise, or when a rapid retreat was imperative,
that he sacrificed everything to speed. The troops marched light,
carrying only rifles, blankets, haversacks, and ammunition. When long
distances were to be covered, those men who still retained their
knapsacks were ordered to leave them behind. No heavy trains
accompanied the army. The ambulances and ammunition waggons were always
present; but the supply waggons were often far in rear. In their
haversacks the men carried several days’ rations; and when these were
consumed they lived either on the farmers, or on the stores they had
captured from the enemy.
It is not to be supposed, however, that the ranks
remained full. “I had rather,” said Jackson, “lose one man in marching
than five in fighting,” and to this rule he rigorously adhered. He
never gave the enemy warning by a deliberate approach along the main
roads; and if there was a chance of effecting a surprise, or if the
enemy was already flying, it mattered little how many men fell out. And
fall out they did, in large numbers. Between May 17 and the battle of
Cross Keys the army was reduced from 16,500 men to 18,000. Not more
than 500 had been killed or wounded, so there were no less than 3,000
absentees. Many were footsore and found no place in the ambulances.
Many were sick; others on detachment; but a large proportion had
absented themselves without asking leave. Two days after Winchester, in
a letter to Ewell, Jackson writes that “the evil of straggling has
become enormous.”
Such severe exertion as the march against Kenly, the pursuit of Banks,
and the retreat from the Potomac, would have told their tale upon the
hardiest veterans. When the German armies, suddenly changing direction
from west to north, pushed on to Sedan by forced marches, large numbers
of the infantry succumbed to pure exhaustion. When the Light Division,
in 1818, pressing forward after Sauroren to intercept the French
retreat, marched nineteen consecutive hours in very sultry weather, and
over forty miles of mountain roads, “many men fell and died convulsed
and frothing at the mouth, while others, whose spirit and strength had
never before been quelled, leant on their muskets and muttered in
sullen tones that they yielded for the first time.”[20]
But the men that fell out on the march to Sedan and in the passes of
the Pyrenees were physically incapable of further effort. They were not
stragglers in the true sense of the term; and in an army broken to
discipline straggling on the line of march is practically unknown. The
sickly and feeble may fall away, but every sound man may confidently be
relied upon to keep his place. The secret of full ranks is good
officers and strict discipline; and the most marked difference between
regular troops and those hastily
organised is this—with the former the waste of men will be small, with
the latter very great. In all armies, however constituted, there is a
large proportion of men whose hearts are not in the business.[21]
When hard marching and heavy fighting are in prospect the inclination
of such men is to make themselves scarce, and when discipline is
relaxed they will soon find the opportunity. But when their instincts
of obedience are strong, when the only home they know is with the
colours, when the credit of their regiment is at stake—and even the
most worthless have some feeling for their own corps—engrained habit
and familiar associations overcome their natural weakness. The
troop-horse bereft of his rider at once seeks his comrades, and pushes
his way, with empty saddle, into his place in the ranks. And so the
soldier by profession, faint-hearted as he may be, marches shoulder to
shoulder with his comrades, and acquires a fictitious, but not
unuseful, courage from his contact with braver men.
It is true that the want of good boots told heavily on the
Confederates. A pair already half-worn, such as many of the men started
with, was hardly calculated to last out a march of several hundred
miles over rocky tracks, and fresh supplies were seldom forthcoming.
There was a dearth both of shoe-leather and shoe-factories in the
South; and if Mr. Davis, before the blockade was established, had
indented on the shoemakers of Europe, he would have added very largely
to the efficiency of his armies. A few cargoes of good boots would have
been more useful than a shipload of rifled guns.
Nevertheless, the absentees from the ranks were not all footsore. The
vice of straggling was by no means confined to Jackson’s command. It
was the curse of both armies, Federal and Confederate. The Official
Records, as well as the memoirs of participants, teem with references
to it. It was an evil which the severest punishments seemed incapable
of checking. It was in vain that it was
denounced in orders, that the men were appealed to, warned, and
threatened. Nor were the faint-hearted alone at fault. The day after
Jackson’s victory at M’Dowell, Johnston, falling back before McClellan,
addressed General Lee as follows:—
“Stragglers cover the country, and Richmond is no doubt filled with the
absent without leave. . . . The men are full of spirit when near the
enemy, but at other times to avoid restraint leave their regiments in
crowds.”[22] A letter from a divisional general followed:—
“It is with deep mortification that I report that several thousand
soldiers and many individuals with commissions have fled to Richmond
under pretext of sickness. They have even thrown away their arms that
their flight might not be impeded. Cannot these miserable wretches be
arrested and returned to their regiments, where they can have their
heads shaved and be drummed out of the service?’[23]
Jackson, then, had to contend with difficulties which a general in
command of regular troops would not have been called on to provide
against; and in other respects also he suffered from the constitution
of his army. The one thing lacking in the Valley campaign was a
decisive victory over a considerable detachment of the Federal army,
the annihilation of one of the converging forces, and large capture of
guns and prisoners. A victory as complete as Rivoli would have
completed its dramatic interest. But for this Jackson himself was
hardly to blame. The misconduct of the Confederate cavalry on May 24
and 25 permitted Banks to escape destruction; and the delay at the
temporary bridge near Port Republic, due, mainly, to the disinclination
of the troops to face the ford, and the want of resolute obedience on
the part of their commanders, saved Frémont from the same fate. Had
Shields’ advanced brigades been driven back, as Jackson designed, while
the day was still young, the operations of the Valley army would in all
probability have been crowned by a brilliant triumph over nearly
equal forces. Frémont, already fearful and irresolute, was hardly the
man to withstand the vigour of Jackson’s onset; and that onset would
assuredly have been made if more careful arrangements had been made to
secure the bridge. This was not the only mistake committed by the
staff. The needlessly long march of the main body when approaching
Front Royal on May 28 might well have been obviated. But for this delay
the troops might have pushed on before nightfall to within easy reach
of the Valley turnpike, and Banks have been cut off from Winchester.
It is hardly necessary to say that, even with regular troops, the same
mistakes might have occurred. They are by no means without parallel,
and even those committed by the Federals have their exact counterpart
in European warfare. At the beginning of August, 1870, the French army,
like Banks’ division on May 28, 1862, was in two portions, divided by a
range of mountains. The staff was aware that the Germans were in
superior strength, but their dispositions were unknown. Like Banks,
they neglected to reconnoitre; and when a weak detachment beyond the
mountains was suddenly overwhelmed, they still refused to believe that
attack was imminent. The crushing defeats of Wörth and Spicheren were
the result.
The staff of a regular army is not always infallible. It would be hard
to match the extraordinary series of blunders made by the staffs of the
three armies—English, French, and Prussian—in the campaign of Waterloo,
and yet there was probably no senior officer present in Belgium who had
not seen several campaigns. But the art of war has made vast strides
since Waterloo, and even since 1870. Under Moltke’s system, which has
been applied in a greater or less degree to nearly all professional
armies, the chance of mistakes has been much reduced. The staff is no
longer casually educated and selected haphazard; the peace training of
both officers and men is far more thorough; and those essential details
on which the most brilliant conceptions, tactical and strategical,
depend for success stand much less chance of being overlooked than in
1815. It is by the standard of a modern army, and not of those
whose only school in peace was the parade-ground, that the American
armies must be judged.
That Jackson’s tactical skill, and his quick eye for ground, had much
to do with his victories can hardly be questioned. At Kernstown and
Port Republic he seized the key of the position without a moment’s
hesitation. At Winchester, when Ewell was checked upon the right, three
strong brigades, suddenly thrown forward on the opposite flank,
completely rolled up the Federal line. At Cross Keys the position
selected for Ewell proved too formidable for Frémont, despite his
superiority in guns. At Port Republic, Taylor’s unexpected approach
through the tangled forest was at once decisive of the engagement. The
cavalry charge at Front Royal was admirably timed; and the manner in
which Ashby was employed throughout the campaign, not only to screen
the advance but to check pursuit, was a proof of the highest tactical
ability. Nor should the quick insight into the direction of Shields’
march on June 1, and the destruction of the bridges by which he could
communicate with Frémont, be omitted. It is true that the operations in
the Valley were not absolutely faultless. When Jackson was bent on an
effective blow his impatience to bring the enemy to bay robbed him more
than once of complete success. On the march to M’Dowell Johnson’s
brigade, the advanced guard, had been permitted to precede the main
body by seven miles, and, consequently, when Milroy attacked there was
not sufficient force at hand for a decisive counterstroke. Moreover,
with an ill-trained staff a careful supervision was most essential, and
the waggon bridge at Port Republic should have been inspected by a
trustworthy staff officer before Winder rushed across to fall on Tyler.
Errors of this nature, however instructive they may be to the student
of war, are but spots upon the sun; and in finding in his subordinate
such breadth of view and such vigour of execution, Lee was fortunate
indeed. Jackson was no less fortunate when Ashby came under his
command. That dashing captain of free-lances was undoubtedly a most
valuable colleague. It was something to have a
cavalry leader who could not only fight and reconnoitre, but who had
sagacity enough to divine the enemy’s intentions. But the ideas that
governed the employment of the cavalry were Jackson’s alone. He it was
who placed the squadrons across Frémont’s road from Wardensville, who
ordered the demonstrations against Banks, before both M’Dowell and
Front Royal, and those which caused Frémont to retreat after Port
Republic. More admirable still was the quickness with which he
recognised the use that might be made of mounted riflemen. From the
Potomac to Port Republic his horsemen covered his retreat, dismounting
behind every stream and along the borders of every wood, checking the
pursuers with their fire, compelling them to deploy their infantry, and
then retreating rapidly to the next position. Day after day were the
Federal advanced guards held in check, their columns delayed, and the
generals irritated by their slippery foe. Meanwhile, the Confederate
infantry, falling back at their leisure, were relieved of all
annoyance. And if the cavalry was suddenly driven in, support was
invariably at hand, and a compact brigade of infantry, supported by
artillery, sent the pursuing horsemen to the right-about. The retreat
of the Valley army was managed with the same skill as its advance, and
the rear-guard tactics of the campaign are no less remarkable than
those of the attack.
To judge from the Valley campaign, Jackson handled his horsemen with
more skill than any other commander, Confederate or Federal. A cavalry
that could defend itself on foot as well as charge in the saddle was
practically a new arm, of far greater efficiency than cavalry of the
old type, and Jackson at once recognised, not only its value; but the
manner in which it could be most effectively employed. He was not led
away by the specious advantages, so eagerly urged by young and
ambitious soldiers, of the so-called raids. Even Lee himself,
cool-headed as he was, appears to have been fascinated by the idea of
throwing a great body of horsemen across his enemy’s communications,
spreading terror amongst his supply trains, cutting his
telegraphs, and destroying his magazines. In hardly a single instance
did such expeditions inflict more than temporary discomfort on the
enemy; and the armies were led more than once into false manœuvres, for
want of the information which only the cavalry could supply. Lee at
Malvern Hill and Gettysburg, Hooker at Chancellorsville, Grant at
Spotsylvania, owed defeat, in great measure, to the absence of their
mounted troops. In the Valley, on the contrary, success was made
possible because the cavalry was kept to its legitimate duty—that is,
to procure information, to screen all movements, to take part in battle
at the decisive moment, and to carry out the pursuit.
With all his regard for Napoleon’s maxims, Jackson was no slave to
rule. In war, circumstances vary to such an extent that a manœuvre,
which at one time is manifestly unsound, may at another be the most
judicious. The so-called rules are never binding; they merely point out
the risks which are generally entailed by some particular course of
action. There is no principle on which Napoleon lays more stress than
that a general should never divide his force, either on the field of
battle or the theatre of war. But when he marched to M’Dowell and left
Ewell at Swift Run Gap, Jackson deliberately divided his forces and
left Banks between them, knowing that the apparent risk, with an
opponent like Banks, was no risk at all. At the battle of Winchester,
too, there was a gap of a mile between the brigades on the left of the
Kernstown road and Ewell on the right; and owing to the intervening
hills, one wing was invisible to the other. Here again, like Moltke at
Königgrätz, Jackson realised that the principle might be disregarded
not only with impunity but with effect. He was not like Lord Galway, “a
man who was in war what Molière’s doctors were in medicine, who thought
it much more honourable to fail according to rule than to succeed by
innovation.”[24]
But the triumphs of the Valley campaign were not due alone to the
orders issued by Lee and Jackson. The Confederate troops displayed
extraordinary endurance. When
the stragglers were eliminated their stauncher comrades proved
themselves true as steel. In every engagement the regiments fought with
stubborn courage. They sometimes failed to break the enemy’s line at
the first rush; but, except at Kernstown, the Federals never drove them
from their position, and Taylor’s advance at Winchester, Trimble’s
counterstroke at Cross Keys, the storming of the battery at Port
Republic, and the charge of the cavalry at Cedarville, were the deeds
of brave and resolute men.
A retreat is the most exhausting of military movements. It is costly in
men, “more so,” says Napoleon, “than two battles,” and it shakes the
faith of the soldiers in their general and in themselves. Jackson’s
army retreated for seven days before Frémont, dwindling in numbers at
every step, and yet it never fought better than when it turned at bay.
From first to last it believed itself superior to its enemies; from
first to last it was equal to the tasks which its exacting commander
imposed upon it, and its spirit was indomitable throughout. “One male a
week and three foights a day,” according to one of Jackson’s Irishmen,
was the rule in the campaigns of 1862. The forced marches were not made
in luxury. Not seldom only half-rations were issued, and more often
none at all. The weather, for many days in succession, was abominable,
and the forest bivouacs were comfortless in the extreme. On May 25
twenty per cent of Trimble’s brigade went into action barefoot; and had
it not been for the stores captured in Winchester, the march to the
Potomac, and the subsequent unmolested retreat to Woodstock, would have
been hardly possible.
If the troops were volunteers, weak in discipline and prone to
straggling, they none the less bore themselves with conspicuous
gallantry. Their native characteristics came prominently to the front.
Patient under hardships, vigorous in attack, and stubborn in defence,
they showed themselves worthy of their commander. Their enthusiastic
patriotism was not without effect on their bearing before the enemy.
Every private in the ranks believed that he was fighting in the sacred
cause of liberty, and the spirit
which nerved the resolution of the Confederate soldier was the same
which inspired the resistance of their revolutionary forefathers. His
hatred of the Yankee, as he contemptuously styled the Northerner, was
even more bitter than the wrath which Washington’s soldiers felt
towards England; and it was intensified by the fact that his detested
foeman had not only dared to invade the South, but had proclaimed his
intention, in no uncertain tones, of dealing with the Sovereign States
exactly as he pleased.
But it was something more than native courage and enthusiastic
patriotism which inspired the barefooted heroes of Winchester. It would
be difficult to prove that in other parts of the theatre of war the
Confederate troops were inferior to those that held the Valley. Yet
they were certainly less successful, and in very many instances they
had failed to put forth the same resolute energy as the men who
followed Jackson.
But it is hardly possible to discuss the spirit of an army apart from
that of its commander. If, in strategy wholly, and in tactics in great
part, success emanates from a single brain, the _moral_ of the troops
is not less dependent on the influence of one man. “Better an army of
stags,” runs the old proverb, “led by a lion, than an army of lions led
by a stag.”
Their leader’s character had already made a sensible impression on the
Valley soldiers. Jackson was as untheatrical as Wellington. He was
hardly to be distinguished, even by his dress, from the private in the
ranks. Soon after his arrival at Richmond he called on Mrs. Pendleton,
the wife of the reverend captain of the Rockbridge battery. The negro
servant left him standing in the hall, thinking that this quiet
soldier, clad in a faded and sunburnt uniform, need not be treated with
further ceremony.[25] Headquarters in camp were an ordinary bell-tent,
or a room in the nearest cottage, and they were often without guard or
sentry. In bivouac the general rolled himself in his blankets, and lay
down under a tree or in a fence corner. He could sleep
anywhere, in the saddle, under fire, or in church; and he could compel
sleep to come to him when and where he pleased. He cared as little for
good quarters as a mountain hunter, and he was as abstemious as a Red
Indian on the war-path. He lived as plainly as the men, and often
shared their rations. The majority of the cavalry were better mounted,
and many of his officers were better dressed. He was not given to
addressing his troops, either in mass or as individuals. His praises he
reserved for his official reports, and then he was generous. In camp he
was as silent as the Sphinx, and he never posed, except in action, as
the commander of an army. Off duty he was the gentlest and most
unpretentious of men, and the most approachable of generals. He was
always scrupulously polite; and the private soldier who asked him a
question might be sure of a most courteous reply. But there was no man
with whom it was less safe to take liberties; and where duty was
concerned he became a different being. The gentle tones grew curt and
peremptory, and the absent demeanour gave place to a most purposeful
energy. His vigilance was marvellous: his eye was everywhere; he let
nothing pass without his personal scrutiny. The unfortunate officer
accused of indolence or neglect found the shy and quiet professor
transformed into the most implacable of masters. No matter how high the
rank of the offender, the crime met with the punishment it deserved.
The scouts compared him with Lee. The latter was so genial that it was
a pleasure to report to him. Jackson cross-questioned them on every
detail, treating them as a lawyer does a hostile witness, and his keen
blue eyes seemed to search their very souls.
Nor did the men escape when they misbehaved. Ashby’s cavalry were
reprimanded in general orders for their indiscipline at Middletown, and
again at Port Republic; and if either officer or regiment displeased
the general, it was duly mentioned in his published reports.[26]
But the troops knew that their grave leader, so uncommunicative in
camp, and so unrelenting to misconduct, was constantly occupied with
their well-being. They knew that he spared them, when opportunity
offered, as he never spared himself. His _camaraderie_ was expressed in
something more than words. The hospitals constructed in the Valley
excited the admiration even of the Federals, and Jackson’s wounded were
his first care. Whatever it might cost the army, the ambulances must be
got safely away, and the sick and disabled soldiers transferred to
their own people. But, at the same time, the troops had long since
learned that, as administered by Jackson, the military code was a stern
reality. They had seen men shot for striking their officers, and they
knew that for insubordination or disobedience it was idle to plead
excuse. They had thought their general harsh, and even cruel; but as
their experience increased they recognised the wisdom of his severity,
and when they looked upon that kindly face, grave and determined as it
was, they realised how closely his firmness was allied to tenderness.
They had learned how highly he esteemed them. Once, in his twelve
months of command, he had spoken from his heart. When, on the heights
near Centreville, he bade farewell to his old brigade, his pride in
their achievements had broken through the barriers of his reserve, and
his ringing words had not yet been forgotten. If he was swift to blame,
his general orders and official dispatches gave full credit to every
gallant action, and each man felt himself a hero because his general so
regarded him.
They had learned, too, that Jackson’s commendation was worth having.
They had seen him in action, the coolest of them all, riding along the
line of battle with as much composure as if the hail of bullets was no
more than summer rain. They had seen him far in advance of the charging
lines, cheering them to the pursuit; and they knew the tremendous
vigour of his flank attacks.
But it was not only confidence in the skill of their
commander that inspired the troops. It was impossible not to admire the
man who, after a sleepless night, a long march, and hard fighting,
would say to his officers, “We must push on—we must push on!” as
unconcernedly as if his muscles were of steel and hunger an unknown
sensation. Such fortitude was contagious. The men caught something of
his resolution, of his untiring energy, and his unhesitating audacity.
The regiments which drove Banks to the Potomac were very different from
those that crawled to Romney through the blinding sleet, or that fell
back with the loss of one-sixth their number from the Kernstown Ridge.
It has been related of Jackson that when he had once made up his mind,
“he seemed to discard all idea of defeat, and to regard the issue as
assured. A man less open to the conviction that he was beaten could not
be imagined.” To this frame of mind he brought his soldiers. Jackson’s
brigade at Bull Run, Jackson’s division in the Valley, Jackson’s army
corps later in the war, were all imbued with the characteristics of
their leader. The exertions that he demanded of them seemed beyond the
powers of mortal men, but with Jackson leading them the troops felt
themselves able to accomplish impossibilities. “I never saw one of
Jackson’s couriers approach,” said Ewell, “without expecting an order
to assault the North Pole!” But had the order been given neither Ewell
nor the Valley troops would have questioned it.
With the senior officers of his little army Jackson’s relations were in
some instances less cordial than with the men. His staff was devoted to
him, for they had learned to know him. At the beginning of the Valley
campaign some of them thought him mad; before it was over they believed
him to be a genius. He lived with his military family on the most
intimate terms, and his unfailing courtesy, his utter absence of
self-assertion, his sweet temper, and his tactful consideration for
others, no matter how humble their rank, were irresistible. On duty,
indeed, his staff officers fared badly. Tireless himself, regardless of
all personal comforts, he seemed to think that others were fashioned in
the same mould. After
a weary day’s marching or fighting, it was no unusual thing for him to
send them for a ride of thirty or forty miles through the night. And he
gave the order with no more thought than if he were sending them with a
message to the next tent. But off duty he was simply a personal friend,
bent on making all things pleasant. “Never,” says Dr. Hunter McGuire,
“can I forget his kindness and gentleness to me when I was in great
sorrow and trouble. He came to my tent and spent hours with me,
comforting me in his simple, kindly, Christian way, showing a depth of
friendship and affection which can never be forgotten. There is no
measuring the intensity with which the very soul of Jackson burned in
battle. Out of it he was very gentle. Indeed, as I look back on the two
years that I was daily, indeed hourly, with him, his gentleness as a
man, his tenderness to those in trouble or affliction—the tenderness
indeed of a woman—impress me more than his wonderful prowess as a
warrior.”
It was with his generals and colonels that there was sometimes a lack
of sympathy. Many of these were older than himself. Ewell and Whiting
were his seniors in point of service, and there can be little doubt
that it was sometimes a little hard to receive peremptory orders from a
younger man. Jackson’s secrecy was often irritating. Men who were
over-sensitive thought it implied a want of confidence. Those
overburdened with dignity objected to being treated like the private
soldiers; and those over-conscious of superior wisdom were injured
because their advice was not asked. Before the march to Richmond there
was much discontent. General Whiting, on reaching Staunton with his
division, rode at once to Port Republic to report. “The distance,” says
General Imboden, “was twenty miles, and Whiting returned after
midnight. He was in a towering passion, and declared that Jackson had
treated him outrageously. I asked, ‘How is that possible, General?—he
is very polite to everyone.’
“‘Oh, hang him! he was polite enough. But he didn’t say one word about
his plans. I finally asked him for orders, telling him what troops I
had. He
simply told me to go back to Staunton, and he would send me orders
to-morrow. I haven’t the slightest idea what they will be. I believe he
has no more sense than my horse.’”[27]
The orders, when they came, simply directed him to take his troops by
railway to Gordonsville, through which they had passed two days before,
and gave no reason whatever for the movement.
General Whiting was not the only Confederate officer who was mystified.
When the troops left the Valley not a single soul in the army, save
Jackson alone, knew the object of their march. He had even gone out of
his way to blind his most trusted subordinates.
“During the preceding afternoon,” says Major Hotchkiss, “he sent for me
to his tent, and asked me to bring maps of the country from Port
Republic to Lexington (at the head of the Valley), as he wished to
examine them. I took the map to his tent, and for about half an hour we
talked concerning the roads and streams, and points of offence and
defence of that region, just as though he had in mind a march in that
direction. After this interval had passed he thanked me and said that
that would do. About half an hour later he sent for me again, and
remarked that there had been some fighting down about Richmond,
referring, of course, to the battle of Seven Pines, and that he would
like to see the map of the field of the operations. I brought the maps
of the district round Richmond, and we spent nearly twice as much time
over those, talking about the streams, the roads, the condition of the
country, and so forth. On retiring to my tent I said to myself, “Old
Jack” is going to Richmond.”[28]
Even the faithful Dabney was left in the dark till the troops had
reached Mechum’s Station. There, calling him into a room in the hotel,
the general locked the door and explained the object of his march. But
it was under seal of secrecy; and Ewell, the second in command,
complained to the chief of the staff that Jackson had gone off by
train, leaving him without orders, or even a hint of what was in
the wind. In fact, a few days after the battle of Port Republic, Ewell
had sent some of his staff on leave of absence, telling them that large
reinforcements were coming up, and that the next move would be “to beat
up Banks’ quarters about Strasburg.”
When Jackson was informed of the irritation of his generals he merely
smiled, and said, “If I can deceive my own friends I can make certain
of deceiving the enemy.” Nothing shook his faith in Frederick the
Great’s maxim, which he was fond of quoting: “If I thought my coat knew
my plans, I would take it off and burn it.” An anecdote told by one of
his brigadiers illustrates his reluctance to say more than necessary.
Previous to the march to Richmond this officer met Jackson riding
through Staunton. “Colonel,” said the general, “have you received the
order?” “No, sir.” “Want you to march.” “When, sir?” “Now.” “Which
way?” “Get in the cars—go with Lawton.” “How must I send my train and
the battery?” “By the road.” “Well, General, I hate to ask questions,
but it is impossible to send my waggons off without knowing which road
to send them.” “Oh!”—laughing—“send them by the road the others go.”
At last, when they saw how constant fortune was to their reticent
leader, his subordinates ceased to complain; but unfortunately there
was another source of trouble. Jackson had no regard whatever for
persons. Reversing the usual procedure, he held that the choleric word
of the soldier was rank blasphemy in the captain; the higher the rank
of the offender the more severe, in his opinion, should be the
punishment. Not only did he hold that he who would rule others must
himself set the example of punctiliousness, but that to whom much is
given, from him much is to be expected. Honour and promotion fall to
the lot of the officer. His name is associated in dispatches with the
valorous deeds of he command, while the private soldier fights on
unnoticed in the crowd. To his colonels, therefore, Jackson was a
strict master, and stricter to his generals. If he had reason to
believe that his subordinates were indolent or disobedient, he visited
their shortcomings with
a heavy hand. No excuse availed. Arrest and report followed immediately
on detection, and if the cure was rude, the plague of incompetency was
radically dealt with. Spirited young soldiers, proud of their high
rank, and in no way underrating their own capacity, rebelled against
such discipline; and the knowledge that they were closely watched, that
their omissions would be visited on their heads with unfaltering
severity, sometimes created a barrier between them and their commander.
But it was only wilful disobedience or actual insubordination that
roused Jackson’s wrath. “If he found in an officer,” says Dabney, “a
hearty and zealous purpose to do all his duty, he was the most tolerant
and gracious of superiors, overlooking blunders and mistakes with
unbounded patience, and repairing them through his own exertions,
without even a sign of vexation.” The delay at the bridge on the
morning of Port Republic, so fatal to his design of crushing Frémont,
caused no outburst of wrath. He received his adjutant-general’s report
with equanimity, regarding the accident as due to the will of
Providence, and therefore to be accepted without complaint.[29]
Whether the nobler side of Jackson’s character had a share in creating
the confidence which his soldiers already placed in him must be matter
of conjecture. It was well known in the ranks that he was superior to
the frailties of human nature; that he was as thorough a Christian as
he was a soldier; that he feared the world as little as he did the
enemy.[30] In all things he was consistent; his sincerity was as clear
as the noonday sun, and his faith as firmly rooted as the Massanuttons.
Publicly and privately, in official dispatches and in ordinary
conversation, the success of his army was ascribed to the Almighty.
Every victory, as
soon as opportunity offered, was followed by the order: “The chaplains
will hold divine service in their respective regiments.” “The General
Commanding,” ran the order after Winchester, “would warmly express to
the officers and men under his command his joy in their achievements,
and his thanks for their brilliant gallantry in action, and their
patient obedience under the hardships of forced marches, often more
painful to the brave soldier than the danger of battle. The explanation
of the severe exertions to which the commanding general called the
army, which were endured by them with such cheerful confidence in him,
is now given in the victory of yesterday. He receives this proof of
their confidence in the past with pride and gratitude, and asks only a
similar confidence in the future.
“But his chief duty of to-day and that of the army is to recognise
devoutly the hand of a protecting Providence in the brilliant successes
of the last three days (which have given us the results of a great
victory without great losses), and to make the oblation of our thanks
to God for His service to us and our country in heartfelt acts of
religious worship. For this purpose the troops will remain in camp
to-day, suspending, as far as possible, all military exercises; and the
chaplains of regiments will hold divine service in their several
charges at 4 o’clock p.m.”[31]
Whenever it was possible Sunday was always set apart for a day of rest;
and the claims of the day were seldom altogether disregarded.[32] On
the morning of Cross Keys it is related that a large portion of Elzey’s
brigade were at service, and that the crash of the enemy’s artillery
interrupted the “thirdly” of the chaplain’s sermon.
It has been sometimes asserted that Jackson was of the same type as the
saints militant who followed Cromwell, who, when they were not
slaughtering their enemies, would expound the harsh tenets of their
unlovely creed to the grim circle of belted Ironsides. He has been
described
as taking the lead at religious meetings, as distributing tracts from
tent to tent, as acting as aide-de-camp to his chaplains, and as
consigning to perdition all those “whose doxy was not his doxy.”
Nothing is further from the truth. “His views of each denomination,”
says his wife, “had been obtained from itself, not from its opponents.
Hence he could see excellences in all. Even of the Roman Catholic
Church he had a much more favourable impression than most Protestants,
and he fraternised with all Evangelical denominations. During a visit
to New York, one Sabbath morning, we chanced to find ourselves at the
door of an Episcopal Church at the hour of worship. He proposed that we
should enter; and as it was a day for the celebration of the Communion,
he remained for that service, and it was with the utmost reverence and
solemnity that he walked up the chancel and knelt to receive the
elements.”
Jackson, then, was by no means imbued with the belief that the
Presbyterian was the one true Church, and that all others were in
error. Nor did he attempt, in the very slightest degree, to usurp the
functions of his chaplains. Although he invariably went to sleep during
their sermons, he was deeply interested in their endeavours, and gave
them all the assistance in his power. But he no more thought of taking
their duties on himself than of interfering with the treatment of the
men in hospital. He spoke no “words in season,” even to his intimates.
He had no “message” for them. Where religion was concerned, so long as
duly qualified instructors were available, he conceived it his business
to listen and not to teach. Morning and evening prayers were the rule
at his headquarters, but if any of his staff chose to remain absent,
the general made no remark. Yet all suspicion of indifference to vice
was effectually removed. Nothing ungenerous or unclean was said in his
presence without incurring his displeasure, always unmistakably
expressed, and although he made no parade of his piety he was far too
manly to hide it.
Yet he was never a prominent figure at the camp services. Rather than
occupy a conspicuous place he
would seat himself amongst the privates; and the only share he took in
directing the proceedings was to beckon men to the seats that respect
had left empty beside him. Those who picture him as an enthusiastic
fanatic, invading, like the Puritan dragoons, the pulpits of the
chaplains, and leading the devotions of his troops with the same
fervour that he displayed in battle, have utterly misread his
character. The humblest soldier in the Confederate army was not more
modest and unassuming than Stonewall Jackson.
NOTE
_The Federal strength at M’Dowell._
Frémont’s return of April 30 is as follows:—
Milroy’s Brigade Schenck’s Brigade 4,307 3,335
of May 10:—
Milroy Schenck 3,694 3,335
of May 31:—
Milroy Schenck 2,914 3,335
Schenck reports that the total force _engaged_ at M’Dowell was 1,768 of
Milroy’s brigade, and about 500 of his own, total 2,268; and that he
himself brought to M’Dowell 1,300 infantry, a battery, and 250
cavalry—say, 1,600 men.
Milroy’s command may fairly be estimated at 3,500; Schenck brought
1,600 men; there were therefore available for action at M’Dowell 5,100
Federals.
_Frémont’s strength at Cross Keys._
The return of May 31 gives:—13,520 officers and men.
Frémont, in his report of the battle, says that on May 29 he had over
11,000 men, which, deducting guards, garrisons, working parties and
stragglers, were reduced to 10,500 combatants at Cross Keys.
But he does not include in this last estimate Bayard’s cavalry, which
joined him at Strasburg.
On May 31 Bayard had 1,844 officers and men; he had suffered some loss
in fighting Ashby, and his strength at the battle may be put down as
1,750.
All garrisons, guards and working parties are included in the
Confederate numbers, so they should be added to the Federal estimate.
We may fairly say, then, that at Cross Keys the following troops were
available:—
Frémont Bayard 11,000 1,750 ——— Total 12,750
NOTE
_Strength of the Federals, May 17–25._
On April 30 Banks’ “effective” numbers were as follows:—
Donnelly’s Brigade
Gordon’s Brigade
Artillery (26 guns)
Cavalry (General Hatch)
Body-guard 2,747 3,005 492 2,834 70 ——— 9,148 ———
On May 23 he had:—
At Strasburg: Infantry Cavalry Artillery (18 guns) 4,476 2,600 350 At
Front Royal, Buckton, &c. At Front Royal, Body-guard 1,300 70
From the Harper’s Ferry Garrison:—
At Strasburg: Cavalry At Winchester: Infantry
Cavalry 300 856 600 ——— 10,552 ———
On May 31, after losing 2,019 men at Front Royal and Winchester, he
had, the Harper’s Ferry troops having been added to his command:—
Infantry Cavalry Artillery (16 guns) Miscellaneous 5,124 3,230 286 82
——— 8,722 Add 2,019 ——— 10,741 ———
10,500 effectives on May 23 is therefore a fair estimate.
Geary’s 2,000 at Rectortown, as they were acting under Mr. Stanton’s
orders, have not been included.
[1] “If I were mindful only of my own glory, I would choose always to
make war in my own country, for there every man is a spy, and the
enemy can make no movement of which I am not informed.”—Frederick the
Great’s _Instructions to his Generals._
[2] At the date of the action at Front Royal, May 23, the following
was the strength of the detached forces: Banks, 10,000; Frémont,
25,000; McDowell (including Shields, but excluding McCall), 35,000.
[3] The blacks, however, appear to have been as unreliable as regards
numbers as McClellan’s detectives. “If a negro were asked how many
Confederates he had seen at a certain point, his answer was very
likely to be: ‘I dunno, Massa, but I guess about a
million.’”—_McClellan’s Own Story,_ p. 254.
[4] “In consequence of the excessive growth of armies tactics have
lost in weight, and the strategical design, rather than the detail of
the movements, has become the decisive factor in the issue at a
campaign. The strategical design depends, as a rule, upon the decision
of cabinets, and upon the resources placed at the disposal of the
commander. Consequently, either the leading statesmen should have
correct views of the science of war, or should make up for their
ignorance by giving their entire confidence to the man to whom the
supreme command of the army is entrusted. Otherwise, the germs of
defeat and national ruin may be contained in the first preparations
for war.”—_The Archduke Charles of Austria._
[5] “An operation which stamps him as a military genius of the highest
order.”—Lord Wolseley, _North American Review,_ vol. 149, No. 2, p.
166.
[6] “These brilliant successes appear to me models of their kind, both
in conception and execution. They should be closely studied by all
officers who wish to learn the art and science of war.”—_Ibid._
[7] Dabney, vol. i, p. 76.
[8] Letter to the author.
[9] “In six weeks, Wellington marched with 100,000 men six hundred
miles, passed six great rivers, gained one decisive battle, invested
two fortresses, and drove 120,000 veteran troops from Spain.”—_The War
in the Peninsula,_ Napier, vol. v, p. 132.
[10] _Battles and Leaders,_ vol. ii, p. 297.
[11] _North American Review,_ vol. 149, p. 168.
[12] O.R., vol. xii, part iii, p. 914.
[13] He instructed the orderly that accompanied him, and who knew the
roads, to call him “Colonel’
[14] “The manner,” says Lord Wolseley, “in which he thus mystified his
enemy regarding this most important movement is a masterpiece.”—_North
American Review,_ vol. 149, pp. 166, 167.
[15] The following table, of which the idea is borrowed from _The
Principles of Strategy,_ by Captain Bigelow, U.S.A., may be found
interesting. Under the heading “Strategic” appear the numbers
available on the theatre of operations; under the heading “Tactical”
the numbers present on the field of battle. See also note at the end
of the volume.
STRATEGIC TACTICAL _M’Dowell_ Federal Confederate 30,000
17,000 2,500 6,000 _Winchester_ Federal Confederate 60,000
16,000 7,500 16,000 _Cross Keys_ Federal Confederate 23,000
13,000 12,750 8,000 _Port Republic_ Federal
Confederate 22,000 12,700 4,500 6,000
[16] O.R., vol. xii, part iii, p. 402.
[17] “Campaigning in France,” says General Sheridan, who was with the
Prussian Headquarter Staff in 1870, “that is, the marching, camping,
and subsisting of an army, is an easy matter, very unlike anything we
had in the War of the Rebellion. To repeat: the country is rich,
beautiful, and densely populated, subsistence abundant, and the roads
all macadamised highways; thus the conditions are altogether different
from those existing with us. . . . I can but leave to conjecture how
the Germans would have got along on bottomless roads—often none at
all—through the swamps and quicksands of Northern
Virginia.”—_Memoirs,_ vol. ii, p. 450.
[18] _Battles and Leaders,_ vol. ii, pp. 297, 298.
[19] From April 17 to April 19, when he moved to Elk Run Valley; May 6
to May 8, when he moved against Milroy; May 18 to May 25, when he
moved against Banks; and May 29 to June 1, when he passed south
between Frémont and Shields.
[20] _The War in the Peninsula,_ Napier, vol. v, p. 244.
[21] General Sheridan is said to have declared that 25 per cent of the
Federal soldiers lacked the military spirit.
[22] O.R., vol. xi, part iii,p. 503.
[23] _Ibid,_ p. 506.
[24] Macaulay.
[25] _Memoirs of W. N. Pendleton, D.D., Brigadier-General, C.S.A.,_ p.
201.
[26] It is worth remark that Jackson’s methods of punishment showed
his deep knowledge of his soldiers. The sentence on the men who were
tempted from their duty, during Banks’ retreat, by the plunder on the
Winchester road was that they should not be allowed to serve with the
advanced guard until further orders. It was considered terribly
severe. O.R., vol. xii, part iii, p. 902.
[27] _Battles and Leaders,_ p. 297.
[28] Letter to the author.
[29] Dabney, _Southern Historical Society Papers,_ vol. xi, p. 152.
[30] His devout habits were no secret in the camp. Jim, most faithful
of servants, declared that he could always tell when there was going
to be a battle. “The general,” he said, “is a great man for prayin’.
He pray night and morning—all times. But when I see him git up several
times in the night, an’ go off an’ pray, _den I know there is goin’ to
be somethin’ to pay,”_ an’ I go right away and pack his haversack!”
[31] Dabney, vol. ii, pp. 114–5.
[32] “Sometimes,” says Major Hotchkiss, “Jackson would keep two or
three Sundays running, so as to make up arrears, and balance the
account!’