Chapter XXI

THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA

“In war men are nothing; it is the man who is everything. The general

is the head, the whole of an army. It was not the Roman army that

conquered Gaul, but Cæsar; it was not the Carthaginian army that made

Rome tremble in her gates, but Hannibal; it was not the Macedonian army

that reached the Indus, but Alexander; it was not the French army that

carried the war to the Weser and the Inn, but Turenne; it was not the

Prussian army which, for seven years, defended Prussia against the

three greatest Powers of Europe, but Frederick the Great.” So spoke

Napoleon, reiterating a truth confirmed by the experience of successive

ages, that a wise direction is of more avail than overwhelming numbers,

sound strategy than the most perfect armament; a powerful will,

invigorating all who come within its sphere, than the spasmodic efforts

of ill-regulated valour.

Even a professional army of long standing and old traditions is what

its commander makes it; its character sooner or later becomes the

reflex of his own; from him the officers take their tone; his energy or

his inactivity, his firmness or vacillation, are rapidly communicated

even to the lower ranks; and so far-reaching is the influence of the

leader, that those who record his campaigns concern themselves but

little as a rule with the men who followed him. The history of famous

armies is the history of great generals, for no army has ever achieved

great things unless it has been well commanded. If the general be

second-rate the army also will be second-rate. Mutual confidence is the

basis of

success in war, and unless the troops have implicit trust in the

resolution and resources of their chief, hesitation and

half-heartedness are sure to mark their actions. They may fight with

their accustomed courage; but the eagerness for the conflict, the

alacrity to support, the determination to conquer, will not be there.

The indefinable quality which is expressed by the word _moral_ will to

some degree be affected. The history of the Army of the Potomac is a

case in point.

Between the soldiers of the North and South there was little

difference. Neither could claim a superiority of martial qualities. The

Confederates, indeed, at the beginning of the war possessed a larger

measure of technical skill; they were the better shots and the finer

riders. But they were neither braver nor more enduring, and while they

probably derived some advantage from the fact that they were defending

their homes, the Federals, defending the integrity of their native

land, were fighting in the noblest of all causes. But Northerner and

Southerner were of the same race, a race proud, resolute, independent;

both were inspired by the same sentiments of self-respect; _noblesse

oblige_—the _noblesse_ of a free people—was the motto of the one as of

the other. It has been asserted that the Federal armies were very

largely composed of foreigners, whose motives for enlisting were purely

mercenary. At no period of the war, however, did the proportion of

native Americans sink below seventy per cent.,[1] and at the beginning

of 1863 it was much greater. As a matter of fact, the Union army was

composed of thoroughly staunch soldiers.[2]

Nor was the alien element at this time a source of weakness. Ireland

and Germany supplied the greater number of those who have been called

“Lincoln’s hirelings;” and, judging from the official records, the

Irish regiments at least were not a whit less trustworthy than those

purely American. Moreover, even if the admixture of foreigners had been

greater, the Army of the Potomac, for the reason that it was always

superior in numbers, contained in its ranks many more men bred in the

United States than the Army of Northern Virginia.[3] For the consistent

ill-success of the Federals the superior marksmanship and finer

horsemanship of the Confederates cannot, therefore, be accepted as

sufficient explanation.

In defence the balance of endurance inclined neither to one side nor

the other. Both Southerner and Northerner displayed that stubborn

resolve to maintain their ground which is the peculiar attribute of the

Anglo-Saxon. To claim for any one race a pre-eminence of valour is

repugnant alike to good taste and to sound sense. Courage and endurance

are widely distributed over the world’s surface, and political

institutions, the national conception of duty, the efficiency of the

corps of officers, and love of country, are the foundation of vigour

and staunchness in the field. Yet it is a fact which can hardly be

ignored, that from Creçy to Inkermann there have been exceedingly few

instances where an English army, large or small, has been driven from a

position. In the great struggle with France, neither Napoleon nor his

marshals, although the armies of every other European nation had fled

before them, could boast of having broken the English infantry; and no

soldiers have ever received a prouder tribute than the admission of a

generous enemy, “They never know when they are beaten.” In America, the

characteristics of the parent race were as prominent in the Civil War

as they had been in the Revolution. In 1861–65, the side that stood on

the defensive, unless hopelessly outnumbered, was almost

invariably successful, just as it had been in 1776–82. “My men,” said

Jackson, “sometimes fail to drive the enemy from his position, but to

hold one, never!” The Federal generals might have made the same

assertion with almost equal truth. Porter had indeed been defeated at

Gaines’ Mill, but he could only set 35,000 in line against 55,000;

Banks had been overwhelmed at Winchester, but 6,500 men could hardly

have hoped to resist more than twice their strength; and Shields’

advanced guard at Port Republic was much inferior to the force which

Jackson brought against it; yet these were the only offensive victories

of the ’62 campaign. But if in defence the armies were well matched, it

must be conceded that the Northern attack was not pressed with the same

concentrated vigour as the Southern. McClellan at Sharpsburg had more

than twice as many men as Lee; Pope, on the first day of the Second

Manassas, twice as many as Jackson; yet on both occasions the smaller

force was victorious. But, in the first place, the Federal tactics in

attack were always feeble. Lincoln, in appointing Hooker to command the

Army of the Potomac, warned him “to put in all his men.” His sharp eye

had detected the great fault which had characterised the operations of

his generals. Their assaults had been piecemeal, like those of the

Confederates at Malvern Hill, and they had been defeated in detail by

the inferior numbers. The Northern soldiers were strangers to those

general and combined attacks, pressed with unyielding resolution, which

had won Winchester, Gaines’ Mill, and the Second Manassas, and which

had nearly won Kernstown. The Northern generals invariably kept large

masses in reserve, and these masses were never used. They had not yet

learned, as had Lee, Jackson, and Longstreet, that superior numbers are

of no avail unless they are brought into action, impelling the attack

forward by sheer weight, at the decisive point. In the second place,

none of the Federal leaders possessed the entire confidence either of

their generals or their troops. With all its affection for McClellan,

it may strongly be questioned whether his army gave him credit for dash

or resolution. Pope was

defeated in his first action at Cedar Run. Banks at Winchester, Frémont

west of Staunton, had both been out-manœuvred. Burnside had against him

his feeble conduct at Sharpsburg. Hence the Federal soldiers fought

most of their offensive battles under a terrible disadvantage. They

were led by men who had known defeat, and who owed their defeat, in

great measure, to the same fault—neglect to employ their whole force in

combination. Brave and unyielding as they were, the troops went into

battle mistrustful of their leader’s skill, and fearful, from the very

outset, that their efforts would be unsupported; and when men begin to

look over their shoulders for reinforcements, demoralisation is not far

off. It would be untrue to say that a defeated general can never regain

the confidence of his soldiers; but unless he has previous successes to

set off against his failure, to permit him to retain his position is

dangerous in the extreme. Such was the opinion of Jackson, always

solicitous of the _moral_ of his command. “To his mind nothing ever

fully excused failure, and it was rarely that he gave an officer the

opportunity of failing twice. ‘The service,’ he said, ‘cannot afford to

keep a man who does not succeed.’ Nor was he ever restrained from a

change by the fear of making matters worse. His motto was, get rid of

the unsuccessful man at once, and trust to Providence for finding a

better.”

Nor was the presence of discredited generals the only evil which went

to neutralise the valour of the Federal soldiers. The system of command

was as rotten in the Army of the Potomac as in the Armies of Northern

Virginia and of the Valley it was sound; and the system of command

plays a most important part in war. The natural initiative of the

American, the general fearlessness of responsibility, were as

conspicuous among the soldiers as in the nation at large. To those

familiar with the Official Records, where the doings of regiments and

even companies are preserved, it is perfectly apparent that, so soon as

the officers gained experience, the smaller units were as boldly and

efficiently handled as in the army of Germany under Moltke. But while

Lee and Jackson, by every means in

their power, fostered the capacity for independent action, following

therein the example of Napoleon,[4] of Washington, of Nelson, and of

Wellington, and aware that their strength would thus be doubled,

McClellan and Pope did their best to stifle it; and in the higher ranks

they succeeded. In the one case the generals were taught to wait for

orders, in the other to anticipate them. In the one case, whether

troops were supported or not depended on the word of the commanding

general; in the other, every officer was taught that to sustain his

colleagues was his first duty. It thus resulted that while the

Confederate leaders were served by scores of zealous assistants,

actively engaged in furthering the aim of their superiors, McClellan,

Pope, and Frémont, jealous of power reduced their subordinates, with

few exceptions, to the position of machines, content to obey the letter

of their orders, oblivious of opportunity, and incapable of

co-operation. Lee and Jackson appear to have realised the requirements

of battle far more fully than their opponents. They knew that the scope

of the commander is limited; that once his troops are committed to

close action it is impossible for him to exert further control, for his

orders can no longer reach them; that he cannot keep the whole field

under observation, much less observe every fleeting opportunity. Yet it

is by utilising opportunities that the enemy’s strength is sapped. For

these reasons the Confederate generals were exceedingly careful not to

chill the spirit of enterprise. Errors of judgment were never

considered in the light of crimes; while the officer who, in default of

orders, remained inactive, or who, when his orders were manifestly

inapplicable to a suddenly changed situation, and there was no time to

have them altered, dared not act for himself, was not long retained in

responsible command. In the Army of the Potomac, on the other hand,

centralisation was the rule. McClellan

expected blind obedience from his corps commanders, and nothing more,

and Pope brought Porter to trial for using his own judgment, on

occasions when Pope himself was absent, during the campaign of the

Second Manassas. Thus the Federal soldiers, through no fault of their

own, laboured for the first two years of the war under a disadvantage

from which the wisdom of Lee and Jackson had relieved the Confederates.

The Army of the Potomac was an inert mass, the Army of Northern

Virginia a living organism, endowed with irresistible vigour.

It is to be noted, too, as tending to prove the equal courage of North

and South, that on the Western theatre of war the Federals were the

more successful. And yet the Western armies of the Confederacy were

neither less brave, less hardy, nor less disciplined than those in

Virginia. They were led, however, by inferior men, while, on the other

hand, many of the Northern generals opposed to them possessed

unquestionable ability, and understood the value of a good system of

command.

We may say, then, without detracting an iota from the high reputation

of the Confederate soldiers, that it was not the Army of Northern

Virginia that saved Richmond in 1862, but Lee; not the Army of the

Valley which won the Valley campaign, but Jackson.

It is related that a good priest, once a chaplain in Taylor’s Louisiana

brigade, concluded his prayer at the unveiling of the Jackson monument

in New Orleans with these remarkable words: “When in Thine inscrutable

decree it was ordained that the Confederacy should fail, it became

necessary for Thee to remove Thy servant Stonewall Jackson.”[5] It is

unnecessary, perhaps, to lay much forcible emphasis on the personal

factor, but, at the same time, it is exceedingly essential that it

should never be overlooked.

The Government which, either in peace or war, commits the charge of its

armed forces to any other than the ablest and most experienced soldier

the country can produce is but laying the foundation of national

disaster. Had the

importance of a careful selection for the higher commands been

understood in the North as it was understood in the South, Lee and

Jackson would have been opposed by foes more formidable than Pope and

Burnside, or Banks and Frémont. The Federal Administration, confident

in the courage and intelligence of their great armies, considered that

any ordinary general, trained to command, and supported by an efficient

staff, should be able to win victories. Mr. Davis, on the other hand,

himself a soldier, who, as United States Secretary of War, had enjoyed

peculiar opportunities of estimating the character of the officers of

the old army, made no such mistake. He was not always, indeed, either

wise or consistent; but, with few exceptions, his appointments were the

best that could be made, and he was ready to accept the advice, as

regarded selections for command, of his most experienced generals.

But however far-reaching may be the influence of a great leader, in

estimating his capacity the temper of the weapon that he wielded can

hardly be overlooked. In the first place, that temper, to a greater or

less degree, must have been of his own forging, it is part of his fame.

“No man,” says Napier, “can be justly called a great captain who does

not know how to organise and form the character of an army, as well as

to lead it when formed.” In the second place, to do much with feeble

means is greater than to do more with large resources. Difficulties are

inherent in all military operations, and not the least may be the

constitution of the army. Nor would the story of Stonewall Jackson be

more than half told without large reference to those tried soldiers,

subalterns and private soldiers as they were, whom he looked upon as

his comrades, whose patriotism and endurance he extolled so highly, and

whose devotion to himself, next to the approval of his own conscience,

was the reward that most he valued.

He is blind indeed who fails to recognise the unselfish patriotism

displayed by the citizen-soldiers of America, the stern resolution with

which the war was waged; the tenacity of the Northerner, ill-commanded

and

constantly defeated, fighting in a most difficult country and foiled on

every line of invasion; the tenacity of the Southerner, confronting

enormous odds, ill-fed, ill-armed, and ill-provided, knowing that if

wounded his sufferings would be great—for drugs had been declared

contraband of war, the hospitals contained no anæsthetics to relieve

the pain of amputation, and the surgical instruments, which were only

replaced when others were captured, were worn out with constant usage;

knowing too that his women-folk and children were in want, and yet

never yielding to despair nor abandoning hope of ultimate victory.

Neither Federal nor Confederate deemed his life the most precious of

his earthly possessions. Neither New Englander nor Virginian ever for

one moment dreamt of surrendering, no matter what the struggle might

cost, a single acre of the territory, a single item of the civil

rights, which had been handed down to him. “I do not profess,” said

Jackson, “any romantic sentiments as to the vanity of life. Certainly

no man has more that should make life dear to him than I have, in the

affection of my home; but I do not desire to survive the independence

of my country.” And Jackson’s attitude was that of his

fellow-countrymen. The words of Naboth, “Jehovah forbid that I should

give to thee the inheritance of my forefathers,” were graven on the

heart of both North and South; and the unknown and forgotten heroes who

fought in the ranks of either army, and who fought for a principle, not

on compulsion or for glory, are worthy of the highest honours that

history can bestow.

Nor can a soldier withhold his tribute of praise to the capacity for

making war which distinguished the American citizen. The intelligence

of the rank and file played an important _rôle_ in every phase of a

campaign. As skirmishers,—and modern battles, to a very great extent,

are fought out by lines of skirmishers—their work was admirable; and

when the officers were struck down, or when command, by reason of the

din and excitement, became impossible, the self-dependence of the

individual asserted itself with the best effect.[6] The same quality

which the German

training had sought to foster, and which, according to Moltke,[7] had

much to do with the victories of 1870, was born in both Northerner and

Southerner. On outpost and on patrol, in seeking information and in

counteracting the ruses of the enemy, the keen intelligence of the

educated volunteer was of the utmost value. History has hitherto

overlooked the achievements of the scouts, whose names so seldom occur

in the Official Records, but whose daring was unsurpassed, and whose

services were of vast importance. In the Army of Northern Virginia

every commanding general had his own party of scouts, whose business it

was to penetrate the enemy’s lines, to see everything and to hear

everything, to visit the base of operations, to inspect the line of

communications, and to note the condition and the temper of the hostile

troops. Attracted by a pure love of adventure, these private soldiers

did exactly the same work as did the English Intelligence officers in

the Peninsula, and did it with the same thoroughness and acuteness.

Wellington, deploring the capture of Captain Colquhoun Grant, declared

that the gallant Highlander was worth as much to the army as a brigade

of cavalry; Jackson had scouts who were more useful to him than many of

his brigadiers. Again, in constructing hasty intrenchments, the

soldiers needed neither assistance nor impulsion. The rough cover

thrown up by the men when circumstances demanded it, on their own

volition, was always adapted to the ground, and generally fulfilled the

main principles of fortification. For bridge-building, for road-making,

for the destruction, the repair, and even the making, of railroads,

skilled labour was always forthcoming from the ranks; and the soldiers

stamped the impress of their individuality on the tactics of the

infantry. Modern formations, to a very large extent, had their origin

on American battle-fields. The men realised very quickly the advantages

of shelter; the advance by rushes from one cover to another, and the

gradually working up, by this method, of the firing-line to effective

range—the method which all experience shows to be the true one—became

the general rule.

That the troops had faults, however, due in great part to the fact that

their intelligence was not thoroughly trained, and to the inexperience

of their officers, it is impossible to deny.

“I agree with you,” wrote Lee in 1868, “in believing that our army

would be invincible if it could be properly organised and officered.

There were never such men in an army before. They will go anywhere and

do anything if properly led. But there is the difficulty—proper

commanders. Where can they be obtained? But they are

improving—constantly improving. Rome was not built in a day, nor can we

expect miracles in our favour.”[8] Yet, taking them all in all, the

American rank and file of 1863, with their native characteristics,

supplemented by a great knowledge of war, were in advance of any

soldiers of their time.

In the actual composition of the Confederate forces no marked change

had taken place since the beginning of the war. But the character of

the army, in many essential respects, had become sensibly modified. The

men encamped on the Rappahannock were no longer the raw recruits who

had blundered into victory at the First Manassas; nor were they the

unmanageable divisions of the Peninsula. They were still, for the most

part, volunteers, for conscripts in the Army of Northern Virginia were

not numerous, but they were volunteers of a very different type from

those who had fought at Kernstown or at Gaines’ Mill. Despite their

protracted absence from their homes, the wealthy and well-born privates

still shouldered the musket. Though many had been promoted to

commissions, the majority were content to set an example of

self-sacrifice and sterling patriotism, and the regiments were thus

still leavened with a large admixture of educated and intelligent men.

It is a significant fact that during those months of 1863 which were

spent in winter quarters Latin, Greek, mathematical, and even Hebrew

classes were instituted by the soldiers. But all trace of social

distinction had long since vanished. Between the rich planter

and the small farmer or mechanic there was no difference either in

aspect or habiliments. Tanned by the hot Virginia sun, thin-visaged and

bright-eyed, gaunt of frame and spare of flesh, they were neither more

nor less than the rank and file of the Confederate army; the product of

discipline and hard service, moulded after the same pattern, with the

same hopes and fears, the same needs, the same sympathies. They looked

at life from a common standpoint, and that standpoint was not always

elevated. Human nature claimed its rights. When his hunger was

satisfied and, to use his own expression, he was full of hog and

hominy, the Confederate soldier found time to discuss the operations in

which he was engaged. Pipe in mouth, he could pass in review the

strategy and tactics of both armies, the capacity of his generals, and

the bearing of his enemies, and on each one of these questions, for he

was the shrewdest of observers, his comments were always to the point.

He had studied his profession in a practical school. The more delicate

moves of the great game were topics of absorbing interest. He cast a

comprehensive glance over the whole theatre; he would puzzle out the

reasons for forced marches and sudden changes of direction; his

curiosity was great, but intelligent, and the groups round the

camp-fires often forecast with surprising accuracy the manœuvres that

the generals were planning. But far more often the subjects of

conversation were of a more immediate and personal character. The

capacity of the company cook, the quality of the last consignment of

boots, the merits of different bivouacs, the prospect of the supply

train coming up to time, the temper of the captain and subaltern—such

were the topics which the Confederate privates spent their leisure in

discussing. They had long since discovered that war is never romantic

and seldom exciting, but a monotonous round of tiresome duties,

enlivened at rare intervals by dangerous episodes. They had become

familiar with its constant accompaniment of privations—bad weather, wet

bivouacs, and wretched roads, wood that would not kindle, and rations

that did not satisfy. They had learned that a soldier’s worst enemy

may be his native soil, in the form of dust or mud; that it is possible

to march for months without firing a shot or seeing a foe; that a

battle is an interlude which breaks in at rare intervals on the long

round of digging, marching, bridge-building, and road-making; and that

the time of the fiercest fire-eater is generally occupied in escorting

mule-trains, in mounting guard, in dragging waggons through the mud,

and in loading or unloading stores. Volunteering for perilous and

onerous duties, for which hundreds had eagerly offered themselves in

the early days, ere the glamour of the soldier’s life had vanished, had

ceased to be popular. The men were now content to wait for orders; and

as discipline crystallised into habit, they became resigned to the fact

that they were no longer volunteers, masters of their own actions, but

the paid servants of the State, compelled to obey and powerless to

protest.

To all outward appearance, then, in the spring of 1863 the Army of

Northern Virginia bore an exceedingly close resemblance to an army of

professional soldiers. It is true that military etiquette was not

insisted on; that more license, both in quarters and on the march, was

permitted than would be the case in a regular army; that officers were

not treated with the same respect; and that tact, rather than the

strict enforcement of the regulations, was the key-note of command.

Nevertheless, taken as a whole, the Confederate soldiers were

exceedingly well-conducted. The good elements in the ranks were too

strong for those who were inclined to resist authority, and the amount

of misbehaviour was wonderfully small. There was little neglect of

duty. Whatever the intelligence of the men told them was necessary for

success, for safety, or for efficiency, was done without reluctance.

The outposts were seldom caught napping. Digging and tree-felling—for

the men had learned the value of making fortifications and good

roads—were taken as a matter of course. Nor was the Southern soldier a

grumbler. He accepted half-rations and muddy camping-grounds without

remonstrance; if his boots wore out he made shift to march without

them; and when his uniform fell to pieces he waited for the next

victory to supply himself with a new outfit. He was enough of a

philosopher to know that it is better to meet misery with a smile than

with a scowl. Mark Tapley had many prototypes in the Confederate ranks,

and the men were never more facetious than when things were at their

worst. “The very intensity of their sufferings became a source of

merriment. Instead of growling and deserting, they laughed at their own

bare feet, ragged clothes, and pinched faces; and weak, hungry, cold,

wet and dirty, with no hope of reward or rest, they marched cheerfully

to meet the warmly clad and well-fed hosts of the enemy.”[9]

Indomitable indeed were the hearts that beat beneath the grey jackets,

and a spirit rising superior to all misfortune,

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine,

was a marked characteristic of the Confederate soldier. Nor was it only

in camp or on the march that the temper of the troops betrayed itself

in reckless gaiety.[10] The stress of battle might thin their ranks,

but it was powerless to check their laughter. The dry humour of the

American found a fine field in the incidents of a fierce engagement.

Nothing escaped without remark: the excitement of a general, the

accelerated movements of the non-combatants, the vagaries of the army

mule, the bad practice of the artillery—all afforded entertainment. And

when the fight became hotter and the Federals pressed

resolutely to the attack, the flow of badinage took a grim and peculiar

turn. It has already been related that the Confederate armies depended,

to a large degree, for their clothing and equipments on what they

captured. So abundant was this source of supply, that the soldier had

come to look upon his enemy as a movable magazine of creature comforts;

and if he marched cheerfully to battle, it was not so much because he

loved fighting, but that he hoped to renew his wardrobe. A victory was

much, but the spoils of victory were more. No sooner, then, did the

Federals arrive within close range, than the wild yells of the Southern

infantry became mingled with fierce laughter and derisive shouts. “Take

off them boots, Yank!” “Come out of them clothes; we’re gwine to have

them!” “Come on, blue-bellies, we want them blankets!” “Bring them

rations along! You’ve got to leave them!”—such were the cries, like the

howls of half-famished wolves, that were heard along Jackson’s lines at

Fredericksburg.[11] And they were not raised in mockery. The

battle-field was the soldier’s harvest, and as the sheaves of writhing

forms, under the muzzles of their deadly rifles, increased in length

and depth, the men listened with straining ears for the word to charge.

The counterstroke was their opportunity. The rush with the bayonet was

never so speedy but that deft fingers found time to rifle the

haversacks of the fallen, and such was the eagerness for booty that it

was with the greatest difficulty that the troops were dragged off from

the pursuit. It is said that at Fredericksburg, some North Carolina

regiments, which had

repulsed and followed up a Federal brigade, were hardly to be

restrained from dashing into the midst of the enemy’s reserves, and

when at length they were turned back their complaints were bitter. The

order to halt and retire seemed to them nothing less than rank

injustice. Half-crying with disappointment, they accused their generals

of favouritism! “They don’t want the North Car’linians to git

anything,” they whined. “They wouldn’t hev’ stopped Hood’s

Texicans—they’d hev’ let _them_ go on!”

But if they relieved their own pressing wants at the expense of their

enemies, if they stripped the dead, and exchanged boots and clothing

with their prisoners, seldom getting the worst of the bargain, no

armies—to their lasting honour be it spoken, for no armies were so

destitute—were ever less formidable to peaceful citizens, within the

border or beyond it, than those of the Confederacy. It was exceedingly

seldom that wanton damage was laid to the soldier’s charge. The rights

of non-combatants were religiously respected, and the farmers of

Pennsylvania were treated with the same courtesy and consideration as

the planters of Virginia. A village was none the worse for the vicinity

of a Confederate bivouac, and neither man nor woman had reason to dread

the half-starved tatterdemalions who followed Lee and Jackson. As the

grey columns, in the march through Maryland, swung through the streets

of those towns where the Unionist sentiment was strong, the women,

standing in the porches, waved the Stars and Stripes defiantly in their

faces. But the only retort of “the dust brown ranks” was a volley of

jests, not always unmixed with impudence. The personal attributes of

their fair enemies did not escape observation. The damsel whose locks

were of conspicuous hue was addressed as “bricktop” until she screamed

with rage, and threatened to fire into the ranks; while the maiden of

sour visage and uncertain years was saluted as “Ole Miss Vinegar” by a

whole division of infantry. But this was the limit of the soldier’s

resentment. At the same time, when in the midst of plenty he was not

impeccable. For highway robbery and housebreaking he had no

inclination, but he was by

no means above petty larceny. Pigs and poultry, fruit, corn, vegetables

and fence-rails, he looked upon as his lawful perquisites.

He was the most cunning of foragers, and neither stringent orders nor

armed guards availed to protect a field of maize or a patch of

potatoes; the traditional negro was not more skilful in looting a

fowl-house;[12] he had an unerring scent for whisky or “apple-jack;”

and the address he displayed in compassing the destruction of the

unsuspecting porker was only equalled, when he was caught _flagrante

delicto,_ by the ingenuity of his excuses. According to the Confederate

private, the most inoffensive animals, in the districts through which

the armies marched, developed a strange pugnacity, and if bullet and

bayonet were used against them, it was solely in self-defence.

But such venial faults, common to every army, and almost justified by

the deficiencies of the Southern commissariat, were more than atoned

for when the enemy was met. Of the prowess of Lee’s veterans sufficient

has been said. Their deeds speak for themselves. But it was not the

battle-field alone that bore witness to their fortitude. German

soldiers have told us that in the war of 1870, when their armies,

marching on Paris, found, to their astonishment, the great city

strongly garrisoned, and hosts gathering in every quarter for its

relief, a singular apathy took possession of the troops. The

explanation offered by a great military writer is that “after a certain

period even the victor becomes tired of war;” and “the more civilised,”

he adds, “a people is, the more quickly will this weakness become

apparent.”[13] Whether this explanation be adequate is not easy to

decide. The fact remains, however, that the Confederate volunteer was

able to overcome that longing for home which chilled the enthusiasm of

the German conscript. And this is the more remarkable, inasmuch as his

career was not one of unchequered victory. In the spring of 1863, the

Army of the Potomac, more numerous than ever, was still before

him, firmly established on Virginian soil; hope of foreign

intervention, despite the assurances of the politicians, was gradually

fading, and it was but too evident that the war was far from over. Yet

at no time during their two years of service had the soldiers shown the

slightest sign of that discouragement which seized the Germans after

two months. And who shall dare to say that the Southerner was less

highly civilised than the Prussian or the Bavarian? Political liberty,

freedom of speech and action, are the real elements of civilisation,

and not merely education. But let the difference in the constitution of

the two armies be borne in mind. The Confederates, with few exceptions,

were volunteers, who had become soldiers of their own choice, who had

assumed arms deliberately and without compulsion, and who by their own

votes were responsible that war had been declared. The Germans were

conscripts, a dumb, powerless, irresponsible multitude, animated, no

doubt, by hereditary hatred of the enemy, but without that sense of

moral obligation which exists in the volunteer. We may be permitted,

then, to believe that this sense of moral obligation was one reason why

the spirit of the Southerners rose superior to human weakness, and that

the old adage, which declares that one volunteer is better than three

pressed men, is not yet out of date. Nor is it an unfair inference that

the armies of the Confederacy, allied by the “crimson thread of

kinship” to those of Wellington, of Raglan, and of Clyde, owed much of

their enduring fortitude to “the rock whence they were hewn.”

And yet, with all their admirable qualities, the Southern soldiers had

not yet got rid of their original defects. Temperate, obedient, and

well-conducted, small as was the percentage of bad characters and

habitual misdoers, their discipline was still capable of improvement.

The assertion, at first sight, seems a contradiction in terms. How

could troops, it may be asked, who so seldom infringed the regulations

be other than well-disciplined? For the simple reason that discipline

in quarters is an absolutely different quality from discipline in

battle. No large body of

intelligent men, assembled in a just cause and of good character, is

likely to break out into excesses, or, if obedience is manifestly

necessary, to rebel against authority. Subordination to the law is the

distinguishing mark of all civilised society. But such subordination,

however praiseworthy, is not the discipline of the soldier, though it

is often confounded with it. A regiment of volunteers, billeted in some

country town, would probably show a smaller list of misdemeanours than

a regiment of regulars. Yet the latter might be exceedingly

well-disciplined, and the former have no real discipline whatever.

Self-respect—for that is the discipline of the volunteer—is not battle

discipline, the discipline of the cloth, of habit, of tradition, of

constant association and of mutual confidence. Self-respect, excellent

in itself, and by no means unknown amongst regular soldiers, does not

carry with it a mechanical obedience to command, nor does it merge the

individual in the mass, and give the tremendous power of unity to the

efforts of large numbers.

It will not be pretended that the discipline of regular troops always

rises superior to privation and defeat. It is a notorious fact that the

number of deserters from Wellington’s army in Spain and Portugal, men

who wilfully absented themselves from the colours and wandered over the

country, was by no means inconsiderable; while the behaviour of the

French regulars in 1870, and even of the Germans, when they rushed back

in panic through the village of Gravelotte, deaf to the threats and

entreaties of their aged sovereign, was hardly in accordance with

military tradition. Nevertheless, it is not difficult to show that the

Southerners fell somewhat short of the highest standard. They were

certainly not incapable of keeping their ranks under a hot fire, or of

holding their ground to the last extremity. Pickett’s charge at

Gettysburg is one of the most splendid examples of disciplined valour

in the annals of war, and the endurance of Lee’s army at Sharpsburg has

seldom been surpassed. Nor was the disorder into which the attacking

lines were sooner or later thrown a proof of inferior training. Even in

the

days of flint-lock muskets, the admixture of not only companies and

battalions, but even of brigades and divisions, was a constant feature

of fierce assaults over broken ground. If, under such conditions, the

troops still press forward, and if, when success has been achieved,

order is rapidly restored, then discipline is good; and in neither

respect did the Confederates fail. But to be proof against disorder is

not everything in battle. It is not sufficient that the men should be

capable of fighting fiercely; to reap the full benefit of their weapons

and their training they must be obedient to command. The rifle is a far

less formidable weapon when every man uses it at his own discretion

than when the fire of a large body of troops is directed by a single

will. Precision of movement, too, is necessary for the quick

concentration of superior forces at the decisive point, for rapid

support, and for effective combination. But neither was the fire of the

Confederate infantry under the complete control of their officers, nor

were their movements always characterised by order and regularity. It

was seldom that the men could be induced to refrain from answering shot

with shot; there was an extraordinary waste of ammunition, there was

much unnecessary noise, and the regiments were very apt to get out of

hand. It is needless to bring forward specific proof; the admissions of

superior officers are quite sufficient. General D. H. Hill, in an

interesting description of the Southern soldier, speaks very frankly of

his shortcomings. “Self-reliant always, obedient when he chose to be,

impatient of drill and discipline. He was unsurpassed as a scout or on

the skirmish line. Of the shoulder-to-shoulder courage, bred of drill

and discipline, he knew nothing and cared less. Hence, on the

battle-field, he was more of a free lance than a machine. Who ever saw

a Confederate line advancing that was not crooked as a ram’s horn? Each

ragged rebel yelling on his own hook and aligning on himself! But there

is as much need of the machine-made soldier as of the self-reliant

soldier, and the concentrated blow is always the most effective blow.

The erratic effort of the Confederate, heroic though it was, yet failed

to

achieve the maximum result just because it was erratic. Moreover, two

serious evils attended that excessive egotism and individuality which

came to the Confederate through his training, association, and habits.

He knew when a movement was false and a position untenable, and he was

too little of a machine to give in such cases the wholehearted service

which might have redeemed the blunder. The other evil was an

ever-growing one. His disregard of discipline and independence of

character made him often a straggler, and by straggling the fruit of

many a victory was lost.[14]

General Lee was not less outspoken. A circular issued to his troops

during the last months of the war is virtually a criticism on their

conduct. “Many opportunities,” he wrote, “have been lost and hundreds

of valuable lives uselessly sacrificed for want of a strict observance

of discipline. Its object is to enable an army to bring promptly into

action the largest possible number of men in good order, and under the

control of their officers. Its effects are visible in all military

history, which records the triumph of discipline and courage far more

frequently than that of numbers and resources. The importance and

utility of thorough discipline should be impressed on officers and men

on all occasions by illustrations taken from the experience of the

instructor or from other sources of information. They should be made to

understand that discipline contributes no less to their safety than to

their efficiency. Disastrous surprises and those sudden panics which

lead to defeat and the greatest loss of life are of rare occurrence

among disciplined troops. It is well known that the greatest number of

casualties occur when men become scattered, and especially when they

retreat in confusion, as the fire of the enemy is then more deliberate

and fatal. The experience of every officer shows that those troops

suffer least who attack most vigorously, and that a few men, retaining

their organisation and acting in concert, accomplish far more with

smaller loss than a larger number scattered and disorganised.

“The appearance of a steady, unbroken line is more formidable to the

enemy, and renders his aim less accurate and his fire less effective.

Orders can be readily transmitted, advantage can be promptly taken of

every opportunity, and all efforts being directed to a common end, the

combat will be briefer and success more certain.

“Let officers and men be made to feel that they will most effectually

secure their safety by remaining steadily at their posts, preserving

order, and fighting with coolness and vigour. . . . Impress upon the

officers that discipline cannot be attained without constant

watchfulness on their part. They must attend to the smallest

particulars of detail. Men must be habituated to obey or they cannot be

controlled in battle, and the neglect of the least important order

impairs the proper influence of the officer.”[15]

That such a circular was considered necessary after the troops had been

nearly four years under arms establishes beyond all question that the

discipline of the Confederate army was not that of the regular troops

with whom General Lee had served under the Stars and Stripes; but it is

not to be understood that he attributed the deficiencies of his

soldiers to any spirit of resistance on their part to the demands of

subordination. Elsewhere he says: “The greatest difficulty I find is in

causing orders and regulations to be obeyed. This arises not from a

spirit of disobedience, but from ignorance.”[16] And here, with his

usual perspicacity, he goes straight to the root of the evil. When the

men in the ranks understand all that discipline involves, safety,

health, efficiency, victory, it is easily maintained; and it is because

experience and tradition have taught them this that veteran armies are

so amenable to control. “Soldiers,” says Sir Charles Napier, “must obey

in all things. They may and do laugh at foolish orders, but they

nevertheless obey, not because they are blindly obedient, but because

they know that to disobey is to break the backbone of their

profession.”

Such knowledge, however, is long in coming, even to the regular, and it

may be questioned whether it ever really came home to the Confederates.

In fact, the Southern soldier, ignorant, at the outset, of what may be

accomplished by discipline, never quite got rid of the belief that the

enthusiasm of the individual, his goodwill and his native courage, was

a more than sufficient substitute. “The spirit which animates our

soldiers,” wrote Lee, “and the natural courage with which they are so

liberally endowed, have led to a reliance upon those good qualities, to

the neglect of measures which would increase their efficiency and

contribute to their safety.”[17] Yet the soldier was hardly to blame.

Neither he nor his regimental officers had any previous knowledge of

war when they were suddenly launched against the enemy, and there was

no time to instil into them the habits of discipline. There was no

regular army to set them an example; no historic force whose traditions

they would unconsciously have adopted; the exigencies of the service

forbade the retention of the men in camps of instruction, and trained

instructors could not be spared from more important duties.

Such ignorance, however, as that which prevailed in the Southern ranks

is not always excusable. It would be well if those who pose as the

friends of the private soldier, as his protectors from injustice,

realised the mischief they may do by injudicious sympathy. The process

of being broken to discipline is undoubtedly gaffing to the instincts

of free men, and it is beyond question that among a multitude of

superiors, some will be found who are neither just nor considerate.

Instances of hardship must inevitably occur. But men and officers—for

discipline presses as hardly on the officers as on the men—must obey,

no matter at what cost to their feelings, for obedience to orders,

instant and unhesitating, is not only the life-blood of armies but the

security of States; and the doctrine that under any conditions whatever

deliberate disobedience can be justified is treason to the

commonwealth. It is to be remembered that the

end of the soldier’s existence is not merely to conduct himself as a

respectable citizen and earn his wages, but to face peril and

privations, not of his own free will, but at the bidding of others;

and, in circumstances where his natural instincts assert themselves

most strongly, to make a complete surrender of mind and body. If he has

been in the habit of weighing the justice or the wisdom of orders

before obeying them, if he has been taught that disobedience may be a

pardonable crime, he will probably question the justice of the order

that apparently sends him to certain death; if he once begins to think;

if he once contemplates the possibility of disobedience; if he permits

a single idea to enter his head beyond the necessity of instant

compliance, it is unlikely that he will rise superior to the promptings

of his weaker nature. _“Men must be habituated to obey or they cannot

be controlled in battle;”_ and the slightest interference with the

habit of subordination is fraught, therefore, with the very greatest

danger to the efficiency of an army.

It has been asserted, and it would appear that the idea is widespread,

that patriotism and intelligence are of vastly more importance than the

habit of obedience, and it was certainly a very general opinion in

America before the war. This idea should have been effectually

dissipated, at all events in the North, by the battle of Bull Run.

Nevertheless, throughout the conflict a predilection existed in favour

of what was called the “thinking bayonet;” and the very term

“machine-made soldier,” employed by General D. H. Hill, proves that the

strict discipline of regular armies was not held in high esteem.

It is certainly true that the “thinking bayonet” is by no means to be

decried. A man can no more be a good soldier without intelligence and

aptitude for his profession than he can be a successful poacher or a

skilful jockey. But it is possible, in considering the value of an

armed force, to rate too highly the natural qualities of the individual

in the ranks. In certain circumstances, especially in irregular

warfare, where each man fights for his own hand, they doubtless play a

conspicuous part. A thousand skilled riflemen, familiar with the

“moving accidents by flood and field,” even if they have no regular

training and are incapable of precise manœuvres, may prove more than a

match for the same number of professional soldiers. But when large

numbers are in question, when the concentration of superior force at a

single point, and the close co-operation of the three arms, infantry,

artillery, and cavalry, decide the issue, then the force that can

manœuvre, that moves like a machine at the mandate of a single will,

has a marked advantage; and the power of manœuvring and of combination

is conferred by discipline alone. “Two Mamelukes,” said Napoleon, “can

defeat three French horsemen, because they are better armed, better

mounted, and more skilful. A hundred French horse have nothing to fear

from a hundred Mamelukes, three hundred would defeat a similar number,

and a thousand French would defeat fifteen hundred Mamelukes. So great

is the influence of tactics, order, and the power of manœuvring.”

It may be said, moreover, that whatever may have been the case in past

times, the training of the regular soldier to-day neither aims at

producing mere machines nor has it that effect. As much attention is

given to the development of self-reliance in the rank and file as to

making them subordinate. It has long been recognised that there are

many occasions in war when even the private must use his wits; on

outpost, or patrol, as a scout, an orderly, or when his immediate

superiors have fallen, momentous issues may hang on his judgment and

initiative; and in a good army these qualities are sedulously fostered

by constant instruction in field duties. Nor is the fear justified that

the strict enforcement of exact obedience, whenever a superior is

present, impairs, under this system of training, the capacity for

independent action when such action becomes necessary. In the old days,

to drill and discipline the soldier into a machine was undoubtedly the

end of all his training. To-day his officers have the more difficult

task of stimulating his intelligence, while, at the same time, they

instil the habits of subordination; and that such task

may be successfully accomplished we have practical proof. The regiments

of the Light Brigade, trained by Sir John Moore nearly a century ago on

the system of to-day, proved their superiority in the field over all

others. As skirmishers, on the outpost, and in independent fighting,

they were exceedingly efficient; and yet, when they marched shoulder to

shoulder, no troops in Wellington’s army showed a more solid front,

manœuvred with greater precision, or were more completely under the

control of their officers.

Mechanical obedience, then, is perfectly compatible with the freest

exercise of the intelligence, provided that the men are so trained that

they know instinctively when to give the one and to use the other; and

the Confederates, had their officers and non-commissioned officers been

trained soldiers, might easily have acquired this highest form of

discipline. As it was, and as it always will be with improvised troops,

the discipline of battle was to a great degree purely personal. The men

followed those officers whom they knew, and in whom they had

confidence; but they did not always obey simply because the officer had

the right to command; and they were not easily handled when the wisdom

of an order or the necessity of a movement was not apparent. The only

way, it was said by an Englishman in the Confederacy, in which an

officer could acquire influence over the Southern soldiers was by his

personal conduct under fire. “Every ounce of authority,” was his

expression, “had to be purchased by a drop of my blood.”[18] Such being

the case, it is manifest that Jackson’s methods of discipline were well

adapted to the peculiar constitution of the army in which he served.

With the officers he was exceedingly strict. He looked to them to set

an example of unhesitating obedience and the precise performance of

duty. He demanded, too—and in this respect his own conduct was a

model—that the rank and file should be treated with tact and

consideration. He remembered that his citizen soldiers were utterly

unfamiliar with the forms and customs of military life, that what to

the regular would

be a mere matter of course, might seem a gross outrage to the man who

had never acknowledged a superior. In his selection of officers,

therefore, for posts upon his staff, and in his recommendations for

promotion, he considered personal characteristics rather than

professional ability. He preferred men who would win the confidence of

others—men not only strong, but possessing warm sympathies and broad

minds—to mere martinets, ruling by regulation, and treating the soldier

as a machine. But, at the same time, he was by no means disposed to

condone misconduct in the volunteers. Never was there a more striking

contrast than between Jackson the general and Jackson off duty. During

his sojourn at Moss Neck, Mr. Corbin’s little daughter, a child of six

years old, became a special favourite. “Her pretty face and winsome

ways were so charming that he requested her mother that she might visit

him every afternoon, when the day’s labours were over. He had always

some little treat in store for her—an orange or an apple—but one

afternoon he found that his supply of good things was exhausted.

Glancing round the room he eye fell on a new uniform cap, ornamented

with a gold band. Taking his knife, he ripped off the braid, and

fastened it among the curls of his little playfellow.” A little later

the child was taken ill, and after his removal from Moss Neck he heard

that she had died. “The general,” writes his aide-de-camp, “wept freely

when I brought him the sad news.” Yet in the administration of

discipline Jackson was far sterner than General Lee, or indeed than any

other of the generals in Virginia. “Once on the march, fearing lest his

men might stray from the ranks and commit acts of pillage, he had

issued an order that the soldiers should not enter private dwellings.

Disregarding the order, a soldier entered a house, and even used

insulting language to the women of the family. This was reported to

Jackson, who had the man arrested, tried by drum-head court-martial,

and shot in twenty minutes.”[19] He never failed to confirm the

sentences of death passed by courts-martial on deserters. It was in

vain that his oldest

friends, or even the chaplains, appealed for a mitigation of the

extreme penalty. “While he was in command at Winchester, in December

1861, a soldier who was charged with striking his captain was tried by

court-martial and sentenced to be shot. Knowing that the breach of

discipline had been attended with many extenuating circumstances, some

of us endeavoured to secure his pardon. Possessing ourselves of all the

facts, we waited upon the general, who evinced the deepest interest in

the object of our visit, and listened with evident sympathy to our

plea. There was moisture in his eyes when we repeated the poor fellow’s

pitiful appeal that he be allowed to die for his country as a soldier

on the field of battle, and not as a dog by the muskets of his own

comrades. Such solicitude for the success of our efforts did he

manifest that he even suggested some things to be done which we had not

thought of. At the same time he warned us not to be too hopeful. He

said: ‘It is unquestionably a case of great hardship, but a pardon at

this juncture might work greater hardship. Resistance to lawful

authority is a grave offence in a soldier. To pardon this man would be

to encourage insubordination throughout the army, and so ruin our

cause. Still,’ he added, ‘I will review the whole case, and no man will

be happier than myself if I can reach the same conclusions as you have

done.’ The soldier was shot.”[20]

On another occasion four men were to be executed for desertion to the

enemy. The firing party had been ordered to parade at four o’clock in

the afternoon, and shortly before the hour a chaplain, not noted for

his tact, made his way to the general’s tent, and petitioned earnestly

that the prisoners might even now be released. Jackson, whom he found

pacing backwards and forwards, in evident agitation, watch in hand,

listened courteously to his arguments, but made no reply, until at

length the worthy minister, in his most impressive manner, said,

“General, consider your responsibility before the Lord. You are sending

these men’s souls to hell!” With a look of intense

disgust at such empty cant, Jackson made one stride forward, took the

astonished divine by his shoulders, and saying, in his severest tones,

“That, sir, is my business—do you do yours!” thrust him forcibly from

the tent.

His severity as regards the more serious offences did not, however,

alienate in the smallest degree the confidence and affection of his

soldiers. They had full faith in his justice. They were well aware that

to order the execution of some unfortunate wretch gave him intense

pain. But they recognised, as clearly as he did himself, that it was

sometimes expedient that individuals should suffer. They knew that not

all men, nor even the greater part, are heroes, and that if the

worthless element had once reason to believe that they might escape the

legitimate consequences of their crimes, desertion and insubordination

would destroy the army. By some of the senior officers, however, his

rigorous ideas of discipline were less favourably considered. They were

by no means disposed to quarrel with the fact that the sentences of

courts-martial in the Second Army Corps were almost invariably

confirmed; but they objected strongly to the same measure which they

meted out to the men being consistently applied to themselves. They

could not be brought to see that neglect of duty, however trivial, on

the part of a colonel or brigadier was just as serious a fault as

desertion or insubordination on the part of the men; and the conflict

of opinion, in certain cases, had unfortunate results.

To those whose conduct he approved he was more than considerate.

General Lane, who was under him as a cadet at Lexington, writes as

follows:—

“When in camp at Bunker Hill, after the battle of Sharpsburg, where the

gallant Branch was killed, I, as colonel commanding the brigade, was

directed by General A. P. Hill to hold my command in readiness, with

three days’ rations, for detached service, and to report to General

Jackson for further orders. That was all the information that Hill

could give me. I had been in Jackson’s corps since the battles round

Richmond, and had been very derelict in not paying my respects to my

old professor.

As I rode to his headquarters I wondered if he would recognise me. I

certainly expected to receive his orders in a few terse sentences, and

to be promptly dismissed with a military salute. He knew me as soon as

I entered his tent, though we had not met for years. He rose quickly,

with a smile on his face, took my hand in both of his in the warmest

manner, expressed his pleasure at seeing me, chided me for not having

been to see him, and bade me be seated. His kind words, the tones of

his voice, his familiarly calling me Lane, whereas it had always been

Mr. Lane at the Institute, put me completely at my ease. Then, for the

first time, I began to love that reserved man whom I had always

honoured and respected as my professor, and whom I greatly admired as

my general.

“After a very pleasant and somewhat protracted conversation, he ordered

me to move at once, and as rapidly as possible, to North Mountain

Depôt, tear up the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and put myself in

communication with General Hampton (commanding cavalry brigade), who

would cover my operations. While we were there General Jackson sent a

member of his staff to see how we were progressing. That night I

received orders to move at once and quickly to Martinsburg, as there

had been heavy skirmishing near Kerneysville. Next morning, when I

reported to General Jackson, he received me in the same cordial,

warm-hearted manner, complimented me on the thoroughness of my work,

told me that he had recommended me for promotion to take permanent

charge of Branch’s brigade, and that as I was the only person

recommended through military channels, I would be appointed in spite of

the two aspirants who were trying to bring political influence to bear

in Richmond in their behalf. When I rose to go he took my hand in both

of his, looked me steadily in the face, and in the words and tones of

friendly warmth, which can never be forgotten, again expressed his

confidence in my promotion, and bade me good-bye, with a ‘God bless

you, Lane!’”[21]

On the other hand, Jackson’s treatment of those who

failed to obey his orders was very different. No matter how high the

rank of the offender, Jackson never sought to screen the crime.[22] No

thought that the public rebuke of his principal subordinates might

impair their authority or destroy their cordial relations with himself

ever stayed his hand; and it may well be questioned whether his

disregard of consequences was not too absolutely uncompromising. Men

who live in constant dread of their chief’s anger are not likely to

render loyal and efficient service, and the least friction in the

higher ranks is felt throughout the whole command. When the troops

begin taking sides and unanimity disappears, the power of energetic

combination at once deteriorates. That Jackson was perfectly just is

not denied; the misconduct of his subordinates was sometimes flagrant;

but it may well be questioned whether to keep officers under arrest for

weeks, or even months, marching without their swords in rear of the

column, was wholly wise. There is but one public punishment for a

senior officer who is guilty of serious misbehaviour, and that is

instant dismissal. If he is suffered to remain in the army his presence

will always be a source of weakness. But the question will arise, Is it

possible to replace him? If he is trusted by his men they will resent

his removal, and give but halfhearted support to his successor; so in

dealing with those in high places tact and consideration are essential.

Even Dr. Dabney admits that in this respect Jackson’s conduct is open

to criticism.

As already related, he looked on the blunders of his officers, if those

blunders were honest, and due simply to misconception of the situation,

with a tolerant eye. He knew too much of war and its difficulties to

expect that their judgment would be unerring. He never made the mistake

of reprehending the man who had done his best to succeed, and contented

himself with pointing out, quietly and courteously, how failure might

have been avoided. “But if he believed,” says his chief of the

staff, “that his subordinates were self-indulgent or contumacious, he

became a stern and exacting master; . . . and during his career a

causeless friction was produced in the working of his government over

several gallant and meritorious officers who served under him. This was

almost the sole fault of his military character: that by this jealousy

of intentional inefficiency he diminished the sympathy between himself

and the general officers next his person by whom his orders were to be

executed. Had he been able to exercise the same energetic authority,

through the medium of a zealous personal affection, he would have been

a more perfect leader of armies.”[23]

This system of command was in all probability the outcome of deliberate

calculation. No officer, placed in permanent charge of a considerable

force, least of all a man who never acted except upon reflection, and

who had a wise regard for human nature, could fail to lay down for

himself certain principles of conduct towards both officers and men. It

may be, then, that Jackson considered the course he pursued the best

adapted to maintain discipline amongst a number of ambitious young

generals, some of whom had been senior to himself in the old service,

and all of whom had been raised suddenly, with probably some

disturbance to their self-possession, to high rank. It is to be

remembered, too, that during the campaigns of 1862 his pre-eminent

ability was only by degrees made clear. It was not everyone who, like

General Lee, discerned the great qualities of the silent and unassuming

instructor of cadets, and other leaders, of more dashing exterior, with

a well-deserved reputation for brilliant courage, may well have doubted

whether his capacity was superior to their own.

Such soaring spirits possibly needed a tight hand; and, in any case,

Jackson had much cause for irritation. With Wolfe and Sherman he shared

the distinguished honour of being considered crazy by hundreds of

self-sufficient mediocrities. It was impossible that he should have

been ignorant, although not one word of complaint ever passed

his lips, how grossly he was misrepresented, how he was caricatured in

the press, and credited with the most extravagant and foolhardy ideas

of war. Nor did his subordinates, in very many instances, give him that

loyal and ungrudging support which he conceived was the due of the

commanding general. More than one of his enterprises fell short of the

full measure of success owing to the shortcomings of others; and these

shortcomings, such as Loring’s insubordination at Romney, Steuart’s

refusal to pursue Banks after Winchester, Garnett’s retreat at

Kernstown, A. P. Hill’s tardiness at Cedar Run, might all be traced to

the same cause—disdain of his capacity, and a misconception of their

own position. In such circumstances it is hardly to be wondered at if

his wrath blazed to a white heat. He was not of a forgiving nature.

Once roused, resentment took possession of his whole being, and it may

be questioned whether it was ever really appeased. At the same time,

the fact that Jackson lacked the fascination which, allied to lofty

intellect, wins the hearts of men most readily, and is pre-eminently

the characteristic of the very greatest warriors, can hardly be denied.

His influence with men was a plant of slow growth. Yet the glamour of

his great deeds, the gradual recognition of his unfailing sympathy, his

modesty and his truth, produced in the end the same result as the

personal charm of Napoleon, of Nelson, and of Lee. His hold on the

devotion of his troops was very sure: “God knows,” said his

adjutant-general, weeping the tears of a brave man, “I would have died

for him!” and few commanders have been followed with more implicit

confidence or have inspired a deeper and more abiding affection. Long

years after the war a bronze statue, in his habit as he lived, was

erected on his grave at Lexington. Thither, when the figure was

unveiled, came the survivors of the Second Army Corps, the men of

Manassas and of Sharpsburg, of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and

of many another hard-fought field; and the younger generation looked on

the relics of an army whose peer the world has seldom seen. When the

guns had fired a salute, the wild rebel yell, the music which the great

Virginian had

loved so well, rang loud above his grave, and as the last

reverberations died away across the hill, the grey-haired ranks stood

still and silent. “See how they loved him!” said one, and it was spoken

with deepest reverence. Two well-known officers, who had served under

Jackson, were sitting near each other on their horses. Each remarked

the silence of the other, and each saw that the other was in tears.

“I’m not ashamed of it, Snowden!” “Nor I, old boy,” replied the other,

as he tried to smile.

When, after the unveiling, the columns marched past the monument, the

old fellows looked up, and then bowed their uncovered heads and passed

on. But one tall, gaunt soldier of the Stonewall Brigade, as he passed

out of the cemetery, looked back for a moment at the life-like figure

of his general, and waving his old grey hat towards it, cried out,

“Good-bye, old man, good-bye; we’ve done all we could for you;

good-bye!”

It is not always easy to discern why one general is worshipped, even by

men who have never seen him, while another, of equal or even superior

capacity, fails to awaken the least spark of affection, except in his

chosen friends. Grant was undoubtedly a greater soldier than McClellan,

and the genius of Wellington was not less than that of Nelson. And yet,

while Nelson and McClellan won all hearts, not one single private had

either for Wellington or Grant any warmer sentiment than respect. It

would be as unfair, however, to attribute selfishness or want of

sympathy to either Wellington or Grant, as to insinuate that Nelson and

McClellan were deliberate bidders for popularity. It may be that in the

two former the very strength of their patriotism was at fault. To them

the State was everything, the individual nothing. To fight for their

country was merely a question of duty, into which the idea of glory or

recompense hardly entered, and, indifferent themselves either to praise

or blame, they considered that the victory of the national arms was a

sufficient reward for the soldier’s toils. Both were generous and

open-handed, exerting themselves incessantly to provide for the comfort

and well-being of their troops.

Neither was insensible to suffering, and both were just as capable of

self-sacrifice as either Nelson or McClellan. But the standpoint from

which they looked at war was too exalted. Nelson and McClellan, on the

other hand, recognised that they commanded men, not stoics. Sharing

with Napoleon the rare quality of captivating others, a quality which

comes by nature or comes not at all, they made allowance for human

nature, and identified themselves with those beneath them in the

closest _camaraderie._ And herein, to a great extent, lay the secret of

the enthusiastic devotion which they inspired.

If the pitiless dissectors of character are right we ought to see in

Napoleon the most selfish of tyrants, the coldest end most crafty of

charlatans. It is difficult, however, to believe that the hearts of a

generation of hardy warriors were conquered merely by ringing phrases

and skilful flattery. It should be remembered that from a mercenary

force, degraded and despised, he transformed the Grand Army into the

terror of Europe and the pride of France. During the years of his

glory, when the legions controlled the destinies of their country, none

was more honoured than the soldier. His interests were always the first

to be considered. The highest ranks in the peerage, the highest offices

of State, were held by men who had carried the knapsack, and when

thrones were going begging their claims were preferred before all

others. The Emperor, with all his greatness, was always “the Little

Corporal” to his grenadiers. His career was their own. As they shared

his glory, so they shared his reward. Every upward step he made towards

supreme power he took them with him, and their relations were always of

the most cordial and familiar character. He was never happier than

when, on the eve of some great battle, he made his bivouac within a

square of the Guard; never more at ease than when exchanging rough

compliments with the veterans of Rivoli or Jena. He was the

representative of the army rather than of the nation. The men knew that

no civilian would be preferred before them; that their gallant deeds

were certain of his recognition; that their claims to the cross, to

pension, and to promotion, would be as carefully considered as the

claims of their generals. They loved Napoleon and they trusted him; and

whatever may have been his faults, he was “the Little Corporal,” the

friend and comrade of his soldiers, to the end.

It was by the same hooks of steel that Stonewall Jackson grappled the

hearts of the Second Army Corps to his own. His men loved him, not

merely because he was the bravest man they had ever known, the

strongest, and the most resolute, not because he had given them glory,

and had made them heroes whose fame was known beyond the confines of

the South, but because he was one of themselves, with no interests

apart from their interests; because he raised them to his own level,

respecting them not merely as soldiers, but as comrades, the tried

comrades of many a hard fight and weary march. Although he ruled them

with a rod of iron, he made no secret, either officially or privately,

of his deep and abiding admiration for their self-sacrificing valour.

His very dispatches showed that he regarded his own skill and courage

as small indeed when compared with theirs. Like Napoleon’s, his

congratulatory orders were conspicuous for the absence of all reference

to himself; it was always “we, ” not “I, ” and he was among the first

to recognise the worth of the rank and file. “One day, ” says Dr.

McGuire, “early in the war, when the Second Virginia Regiment marched

by, I said to General Johnston, “If these men will not fight, you have

no troops that will. ” He expressed the prevalent opinion of the day in

his reply, saying, “I would not give one company of regulars for the

whole regiment. ” When I returned to Jackson I had occasion to quote

General Johnston’s opinion. “Did he say that? ” he asked, “and of those

splendid men?” And then he added: “The patriot volunteer, fighting for

his country and his rights, makes the most reliable soldier upon earth.

” And his veterans knew more than that their general believed them to

be heroes. They knew that thia great, valiant man, beside whom all

others, save Lee himself, seemed small and feeble, this mighty captain,

who held the hosts of the enemy in the hollow of his hand, was the

kindest and the most considerate of human beings. To them he was “Old

Jack” in the same affectionate sense as he had been “Old Jack” to his

class-mates at West Point. They followed him willingly, for they knew

that the path he trod was the way to victory; but they loved him as

children do their parents, because they were his first thought and his

last.

In season and out of season he laboured for their welfare. To his

transport and commissariat officers he was a hard master. The

unfortunate wight who had neglected to bring up supplies, or who

ventured to make difficulties, discovered, to his cost, that his quiet

commander could be very terrible; but those officers who did their

duty, in whatever branch of the service they might be serving, found

that their zeal was more than appreciated. For himself he asked

nothing; on behalf of his subordinates he was a constant and persistent

suitor. He was not only ready to support the claims to promotion of

those who deserved it, but in the case of those who displayed special

merit he took the initiative himself: and he was not content with one

refusal. His only difference with General Lee, if difference it can be

called, was on a question of this nature. The Commander-in-Chief, it

appears, soon after the battle of Fredericksburg, had proposed to

appoint officers to the Second Army Corps who had served elsewhere.

After some correspondence Jackson wrote as follows:—“My rule has been

to recommend such as were, in my opinion, best qualified for filling

vacancies. The application of this rule has prevented me from even

recommending for the command of my old brigade one of its officers,

because I did not regard any of them as competent as another of whose

qualifications I had a higher opinion. This rule has led me to

recommend Colonel Bradley T. Johnson for the command of Taliaferro’s

brigade. . . . I desire the interest of the service, and no other

interest, to determine who shall be selected to fill the vacancies.

Guided by this principle, I cannot go outside of my command for persons

to fill vacancies in it, unless by so doing a more competent officer is

secured. This same principle leads me to oppose

having officers who have never served with me, and of whose

qualifications I have no knowledge, forced upon me by promoting them to

fill vacancies in my command, and advancing them over meritorious

officers well qualified for the positions, and of whose qualifications

I have had ample opportunities of judging from their having served with

me.

“In my opinion, the interest of the service would be injured if I

should quietly consent to see officers with whose qualifications I am

not acquainted promoted into my command to fill vacancies, regardless

of the merits of my own officers who are well qualified for the

positions. The same principle leads me, when selections have to be made

outside of my command, to recommend those (if there be such) whose

former service with me proved them well qualified for filling the

vacancies. This induced me to recommend Captain Chew, who does not

belong to this army corps, but whose well-earned reputation when with

me has not been forgotten.”

And as he studied the wishes of his officers, working quietly and

persistently for their advancement, so he studied the wishes of the

private soldiers. It is well known that artillerymen come, after a

time, to feel a personal affection for their guns, especially those

which they have used in battle. When in camp near Fredericksburg

Jackson was asked to transfer certain field-pieces, which had belonged

to his old division, to another portion of the command. The men were

exasperated, and the demand elicited the following letter:—

“December 3, 1862.

“General R. E. LEE,

“Commanding Army of Northern Virginia.

“General,—Your letter of this date, recommending that I distribute the

rifle and Napoleon guns ‘so as to give General D. H. Hill a fair

proportion’ has been received. I respectfully request, if any such

distribution is to be made, that you will direct your chief of

artillery or some other officer to do it; but I hope that none of the

guns which belonged to the Army of the Valley before it became part of

the Army of Northern Virginia, after the battle of Cedar Run,

will be taken from it. If since that time any artillery has improperly

come into my command, I trust that it will be taken away, and the

person in whose possession it may be found punished, if his conduct

requires it. So careful was I to prevent an improper distribution of

the artillery and other public property captured at Harper’s Ferry,

that I issued a written order directing my staff officers to turn over

to the proper chiefs of staff of the Army of Northern Virginia all

captured stores. A copy of the order is herewith enclosed.

“General D. H. Hill’s artillery wants existed at the time he was

assigned to my command, and it is hoped that the artillery which

belonged to the Army of the Valley will not be taken to supply his

wants.

“I am, General, your obedient servant,

“T. J. JACKSON, _Lieutenant-General._”

No further correspondence is to be found on the subject, so it may be

presumed that the protest was successful.

Jackson’s relations with the rank and file have already been referred

to, and although he was now commander of an army corps, and universally

acknowledged as one of the foremost generals of the Confederacy, his

rise in rank and reputation had brought no increase of dignity. He

still treated the humblest privates with the same courtesy that he

treated the Commander-in-Chief. He never repelled their advances, nor

refused, if he could, to satisfy their curiosity; and although he

seldom went out of his way to speak to them, if any soldier addressed

him, especially if he belonged to a regiment recruited from the Valley,

he seldom omitted to make some inquiry after those he had left at home.

Never, it was said, was his tone more gentle or his smile more winning

than when he was speaking to some ragged representative of his old

brigade. How his heart went out to them may be inferred from the

following. Writing to a friend at Richmond he said: “Though I have been

relieved from command in the Valley, and may never again be assigned to

that important trust, yet I feel deeply when I see the patriotic people

of that region under the heel of a

hateful military despotism. There are all the hopes of those who have

been with me from the commencement of the war in Virginia, who have

repeatedly left their homes and families in the hands of the enemy, to

brave the dangers of battle and disease; and there are those who have

so devotedly laboured for the relief of our suffering sick and

wounded.”

NOTE

_Table showing the Nationality and Average Measurements of 346,744

Federal Soldiers examined for Military Service after March 6, 1863._

Number Height ft. in. Chest at Inspiration in.

United States

(69 per cent.) Germany Ireland Candada England France Scotland

Other nationalities including Wales and five British

Colonies 237, 391

35,935 32,473 15,507 11,479 2,630 2,127

9,202 ———— 5 7.40

5 5.54 5 5.54 5 5.51 5 6.02 5 5.81 5 6.13

— 35.61

35.88 35.24 35.42 35.41 35.29 35.97

— 346,744

Report of the Provost Marshal General, 1866, p. 698.

The Roll of the 35th Massachusetts, which may be taken as a typical

Northern regiment, shows clearly enough at what period the great influx

of foreigners took place. Of 104 officers the names of all but four—and

these four joined in 1864—are pure English. Of the 964 rank and file of

which the regiment was originally composed, only 50 bore foreign names.

In 1864, however, 495 recruits were received, and of these over 400

were German immigrants.—_History of the 35th Regiment, Massachusetts

Volunteers,_ 1862–65.

[1] See Note at end of chapter.

[2] “Throughout New England,” wrote the Special Correspondent of an

English newspaper, “you can scarcely enter a door without being aware

that you are in a house of mourning. Whatever may be said of Irish and

German mercenaries, I must bear witness that the best classes of

Americans have bravely come forth for their country. I know of

scarcely a family more than one member of which has not been or is not

in the ranks of the army. The maimed and crippled youths I meet on the

highroad certainly do not for the most part belong to the immigrant

rabble of which the Northern regiments are said to consist; and even

the present conscription is now in many splendid instances most

promptly and cheerfully complied with by the wealthy people who could

easily purchase exemption, but who prefer to set a good example.”

Letter from Rhode Island, the _Times,_ August 8, 1863.

[3] John Mitchell, the Irish Nationalist, said in a letter to the

Dublin Nation that there were 40,000 Irishmen in the Southern armies.

The _Times,_ February 7, 1863.

[4] In the opinion of the author, the charge of centralisation

preferred against Napoleon can only be applied to his leading in his

later campaigns. In his earlier operations he gave his generals every

latitude, and be maintamed that loose but effective system of tactics,

in which much was left to the individual, adopted by the French army

just previous to the wars of the Revolution.

[5] _Bright Skies and Dark Shadows,_ p. 294. H. M. Field, D.D.

[6] The historical student may profitably compare with the American

soldier the Armies of Revolutionary France, in which education and

intelligence were also conspicuous.

[7] _Official Account of the Franco-German War,_ vol. ii, p. 168.

[8] Lee to Hood, May 21, 1863; _Advance and Retreat,_ p. 58.

[9] _Soldier Life in the Army of Northern Virginia._

[10] General Longstreet relates an amusing story: “One of the

soldiers, during the investment of Suffolk (April 1863), carefully

constructed and equipped a full-sized man, dressed in a new suit of

improved ‘butternut’ clothing; and christening him Julius Cæsar took

him to a signal platform which overlooked the works, adjusted him to a

graceful position, and made him secure to the framework by strong

cords. A little after sunrise ‘Julius Cæsar’ was discovered by some of

the Federal battery officers, who prepared for the target so inviting

to skilful practice. The new soldier sat under the hot fire with

irritating indifference until the Confederates, unable to restrain

their hilarity, exposed the joke by calling for ‘Three cheers for

Julius Cæsar!’ The other side quickly recognised the situation, and

good-naturedly added to ours their cheers for the old hero.” _From

Manassas to Apomattox._

[11] “During the truce on the second day of Fredericksburg,” says

Captain Smith, “a tall, fine-looking Alabama soldier, who was one of

the litter-bearers, picked up a new Enfield rifle on the neutral

ground, examined it, tested the sights, shouldered it, and was walking

back to the Confederate lines, when a young Federal officer, very

handsomely dressed and mounted, peremptorily ordered him to throw it

down, telling him he had no right to take it. The soldier, with the

rifle on his shoulder, walked very deliberately round the officer,

scanning him from head to foot, and then started again towards our

lines. On this the Federal Lieutenant, drawing his little sword,

galloped after him, and ordered him with an oath to throw down the

rifle. The soldier halted, then walked round the officer once again,

very slowly, looking him up and down, and at last said, pointing to

his fine boots: ‘I shall shoot you tomorrow, and get them boots;’ then

strode away to his command. The Lieutenant made no attempt to follow.”

[12] Despite Lee’s proclamations against indiscriminate foraging, “the

hens,” he said, “had to roost mighty high when the Texans were about.”

[13] _The Conduct of War._ Von der Goltz.

[14] _Southern Historical Society Papers,_ vol. xiii, p. 261.

[15] _Memoirs of General Robert E. Lee._ By A. L. Long, Military

Secretary and Brigadier-General, pp. 685–6.

[16] _Memoirs, etc.,_ p. 619. Letter dated March 21, 1863.

[17] _Memoirs, etc.,_ p. 684. By A. L. Long.

[18] _Three Months in the Southern States._ General Sir Arthur

Fremantle, G.C.B.

[19] _Bright Skies and Dark Shadows._ Rev. H. M. Field, D.D., p. 286.

[20] Communicated by the Rev. Dr. Graham.

[21] _Memoirs,_ pp. 536–7.

[22] The five regimental commanders of the Stonewall Brigade were once

placed under arrest at the same time for permitting their men to burn

fence-rails; they were not released until they had compensated the

farmer.

[23] Dabney, vol. II, pp. 519–520.