General Jackson and several of his senior officers were examining the
valley with glasses, but Harry, with eyes trained to the open air and
long distances, could see clearly nearly all that was going on below.
He saw movement among the masses of men in blue, and he saw officers on
horseback, galloping along the banks of the river. Then he saw cannon
in trenches with their muzzles elevated toward the heights, and he knew
that the Union troops must have had warning of Jackson's coming. And he
saw, too, that the officers below also had glasses through which they
were looking.
There was a sudden blaze from the mouth of one of the cannon. A shell
shot upward, whistling and shrieking, and burst far above their heads.
Harry heard pieces of falling metal striking on the rocks behind them.
The mountains sent back the cannon's roar in a sinister echo.
A second gun flashed and again the shell curved over their heads.
But Jackson paid no heed. He was still watching intently through his
glasses.
“The enemy is up and alert,” whispered St. Clair to Harry. “I judge that
these are Western men used to sleeping with their eyes open.”
“Like as not a lot of them are mountain West Virginians,” said Harry.
“They are strong for the North, and it's likely, too, that they're the
men who have discovered Jackson's advance.”
“And they mean to make it warm for us. Listen to those guns! It's hard
shooting aiming at men on heights, but it shows what they could do on
level ground.”
Jackson presently retired with his officers, and Harry, parting from his
friends of the Invincibles, went with him. Back among the ridges all the
troops were under arms, the weary ones having risen from their blankets
which were now tied in rolls on their backs. They had not yet been able
to bring the artillery up the steeps. Harry saw that the faces of all
were eager as they heard the thunder of the guns in the valley below.
Among the most eager was a regiment of Georgians arrived but recently
with the reinforcements.
Many of the men, speaking from the obscurity of the crowded ranks, did
not scorn to hurl questions at their officers.
“Are we goin' to fight the Yankees at last?”
“I'd rather take my chances with the bullets than march any more.”
“Lead us down an' give us a chance at 'em.”
Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire were
among the officers who had gone with Jackson to the verge of the cliff,
and now when they heard the impertinent but eager questions from the
massed ranks they looked at each other and smiled. It was not according
to West Point, but these were recruits and here was enthusiasm which was
a pearl beyond price.
General Jackson beckoned to Harry and three other young staff officers.
“Take glasses,” he said, “go back to the verge of the cliff, and watch
for movements on the part of the enemy. If any is made be sure that you
see it, and report it to me at once.”
The words were abrupt, sharp, admitting of no question or delay, and
the four fairly ran. Harry and his comrades lay down at the edge of the
cliff and swept the valley with their glasses. The great guns were still
firing at intervals of about a minute. The gunners could not see the
Southern troops drawn back behind the ridges, but Harry believed that
they might be guided by signals from men on opposite slopes. But if
signalmen were there they were hidden by the forest even from his
glasses.
The smoke from the cannon was gathering heavily in the narrow valley, so
heavily that it began to obscure what was passing there in the Northern
army. But the four, remembering the injunction of Jackson, a man who
must be obeyed to the last and minutest detail, still sought to pierce
through the smoke both with the naked eye and with glasses. As a rift
appeared Harry saw a moving mass of men in blue. It was a great body of
troops and the sun shining through the rift glittered over bayonets and
rifle barrels. They were marching straight toward a slope which led at a
rather easy grade up the side of the mountain.
“They're not waiting to be attacked! They're attacking!” cried Harry,
springing to his feet and running to the point where he knew Jackson
stood. Jackson received his news, looked for himself, and then began to
push on the troops. A shout arose as the army pressed forward to meet
the enemy who were coming so boldly.
“We ought to beat 'em, as we have the advantage of the heights,”
exclaimed Sherburne, who was now on foot.
But the advantage was the other way. Those were staunch troops who were
advancing, men of Ohio and West Virginia, and while they were yet on the
lower slopes their cannon, firing over their heads, swept the crest with
shot and shell. The eager Southern youths, as invariably happens with
those firing downward, shot too high. The Northern regiments now opening
with their rifles and taking better aim came on in splendid order.
“What a magnificent charge!” Harry heard Sherburne exclaim.
The rifles by thousands were at work, and the unceasing crash sent
echoes far through the mountains. The Southerners at the edge of the
cliff were cut down by the fire of their enemy from below. Their loss
was now far greater than that of the North, and their officers sought to
draw them back from the verge, to a ridge where they could receive the
charge, just as it reached the crest and pour into them their full fire.
The eager young regiment from Georgia refused to obey.
“Have we come all these hundreds of miles from Georgia to run before
Yankees?” they cried, and stood there pulling trigger at the enemy,
while their own men fell fast before the bitter Northern hail.
Harry, too, was forced to admire the great resolution and courage with
which the Northern troops came upward, but he turned away to be ready
for any command that Jackson might give him. The general stood by a rock
attentively watching the fierce battle that was going on, but not yet
giving any order. But Harry fancied that he saw his eyes glisten as he
beheld the ardor of his troops.
A detachment of Virginians, posted in the rear, seeing a break in the
first line, rushed forward without orders, filled the gap and came
face to face with the men in blue. Harry thought he saw Jackson's eyes
glisten again, but he was not sure.
The crash of the battle increased fast. The Southern troops had no
artillery, but as the Northern charge came nearer the crest their
bullets ceased to fly over the heads of their enemies, but struck now in
the ranks. The ridges were enveloped in fire and smoke. A fresh Southern
regiment was thrown in and the valiant Northern charge broke. The brave
men of Ohio and West Virginia, although they fought desperately and
encouraged one another to stand fast, were forced slowly back down the
slope.
Harry and a half dozen others beside him heard Jackson say, apparently
to himself, “The battle will soon be over.” Harry knew instinctively
that it was true. He had got into the habit of believing every thing
Jackson said. The end came in fifteen minutes more, and with it came the
night.
The soldiers in their ardor had not noticed that the long shadows were
creeping over the mountains. The sun had already sunk in a blood-red
blur behind the ridges, and as the men in blue slowly yielded the last
slope darkness which was already heavy in the defiles and ravines swept
down over the valley.
Jackson had won, but his men had suffered heavily and moreover he had
stood on the defense. He could not descend into the valley in the face
of the Northern resistance which was sure to be fierce and enduring.
The Northern cannon were beginning to send curving shells again over the
cliffs, sinister warnings of what the Virginians might expect if they
came down to attack. Harry and the other staff officers peering over the
crest saw many fires burning along the banks of the river. Milroy seemed
to be still bidding Jackson defiance.
Harry saw no preparations for a return assault. Jackson was inspecting
the ground, but his men were going over the field gathering up the
wounded and burying the dead. The Georgians had suffered terribly--most
of all--for their rash bravery, and the whole army was subdued. There
was less of exuberant youth, and more of grim and silent resolve.
Harry worked far into the night carrying orders here and there. The
moon came out and clothed the strange and weird battlefield in a robe of
silver. The heavens were sown with starshine, but it all seemed mystic
and unreal to the excited nerves of the boy. The mountains rose to two,
three times their real height, and the valley in which the Northern
fires burned became a mighty chasm.
It was one o'clock in the morning before Jackson himself left the field
and went to his headquarters at a little farmhouse on the plateau.
His faithful colored servant was waiting for him with food. He had not
touched any the whole day, but he declined it saying that he needed
nothing but sleep. He flung himself booted and clothed upon a bed and
was sound asleep in five minutes.
There was a little porch on one side of the house, and here Harry, who
had received no instructions from his general, camped. He rolled himself
in his cavalry cloak, lay down on the hard floor which was not hard to
him, and slept like a little child.
He was awakened at dawn as one often is by a presence, even though that
presence be noiseless. He felt a great unwillingness to get up. That was
a good floor on which he slept, and the cavalry cloak wrapped around
him was the finest and warmest that he had ever felt. He did not wish
to abandon either. But will triumphed. He opened his eyes and sprang
quickly to his feet.
Stonewall Jackson was standing beside him looking intently toward the
valley. The edge of a blazing sun barely showed in the east, and in the
west all the peaks and ridges were yet in the dusk. Morning was coming
in silence. There was no sound of battle or of the voices of men.
“I beg your pardon. I fear that I have overslept myself!” exclaimed
Harry.
“Not at all,” said Jackson with a slight smile. “The others of the staff
are yet asleep. You might have come inside. A little room was left on
the floor there.”
“I never had a better bed and I never slept better.” The general smiled
again and gave Harry an approving glance.
“Soldiers, especially boys, learn quickly to endure any kind of
hardship,” he said. “Come, we'll see if the enemy is still there.”
Harry fancied from his tone that he believed Milroy gone, but knowing
better than to offer any opinion of his own he followed him toward the
edge of the valley. The pickets saluted as the silent figures passed.
The sun in the east was rising higher over the valley, and in the west
the peaks and ridges were coming out of the dusk.
The general carried his glasses slung over his shoulder, but he did
not need them. One glance into the valley and they saw that the army of
Milroy was gone. It had disappeared, horse, foot and guns, and Harry now
knew that the long row of camp fires in the night had been a show, but
only a brave show, after all.
The whole Southern army awoke and poured down the slopes. Yes, Milroy,
not believing that he was strong enough for another battle, had gone
down the valley. He had fought one good battle, but he would reach Banks
before he fought another.
The Southern troops felt that they had won the victory, and Jackson
sent a message to Richmond announcing it. Never had news come at a more
opportune time. The fortunes of the South seemed to be at the lowest
ebb. Richmond had heard of the great battle of Shiloh, the failure to
destroy Grant and the death of Albert Sidney Johnston. New Orleans,
the largest and richest city in the Confederacy, had been taken by the
Northern fleet--the North was always triumphant on the water--and the
mighty army of McClellan had landed on the Peninsula of Virginia for the
advance on Richmond.
It had seemed that the South was doomed, and the war yet scarcely a
year old. But in the mountains the strange professor of mathematics had
struck a blow and he might strike another. Both North and South realized
anew that no one could ever tell where he was or what he might do. The
great force, advancing by land to co-operate with McClellan, hesitated,
and drew back.
But Jackson's troops knew nothing then of what was passing in the minds
of men at Washington and Richmond. They were following Milroy and that
commander, wily as well as brave, was pressing his men to the utmost in
order that he might escape the enemy who, he was sure, would pursue with
all his power. He knew that he had fought with Stonewall Jackson and he
knew the character of the Southern leader.
Sherburne brought his horses through a defile into the valley and his
men, now mounted, led the pursuit. Jackson in his eagerness rode with
him and Harry was there, too. Behind them came the famous foot cavalry.
Thus pursuer and pursued rolled down the valley, and Harry exulted
when he looked at the path of the fleeing army. The traces were growing
fresher and fresher. Jackson was gaining.
But there were shrewd minds in Milroy's command. The Western men knew
many devices of battle and the trail, and Milroy was desperately bent
upon saving his force, which he knew would be overwhelmed, if overtaken
by Jackson's army. Now he had recourse to a singular device.
Harry, riding with Captain Sherburne, noticed that the trees were dry
despite the recent rains. On the slopes of the mountains the water ran
off fast, and the thickets were dry also. Then he saw a red light in the
forest in front of them. General Jackson saw it at the same time.
“What is that?” he exclaimed.
“It looks like a forest fire, general,” replied Sherburne.
“You're right, captain, and it's growing.”
As they galloped forward they saw the red light expand rapidly and
spread directly across their path. The whole forest was on fire. Great
flames rose up the trunks of trees and leaped from bough to bough.
Sparks flew in millions and vast clouds of smoke, picked up by the wind,
were whirled in their faces.
The troop of cavalry was compelled to pause and General Jackson,
brushing the smoke from his eyes, said:
“Clever! very clever! Milroy has put a fiery wall between us.”
The device was a complete success. The pursuing men in gray could pass
around the fire at points, and wait at other points for it to burn out,
but they lost so much time that their cavalry were able only to skirmish
with the Northern rear guard. Then when night came on Milroy escaped
under cover of the thick and smoky darkness.
Harry slept on the ground that night, but the precious cloak was around
him. He slept beyond the dawn as the pursuit was now abandoned, but
when he arose smoke was still floating over the valley and the burned
forests. He was stiff and sore, but the fierce hunger that assailed
him made him forget the aching of his bones. He had eaten nothing for
thirty-six hours. He had forgotten until then that there was such a
thing as food. But the sight of Langdon holding a piece of frying bacon
on a stick afflicted him with a raging desire.
“Give me that bacon, Tom,” he cried, “or I'll set the rest of the forest
on fire!”
“No need, you old war-horse. I was just bringing it to you. There's
plenty more where this came from. The foot cavalry took it at McDowell,
and like the wise boys they are brought it on with them. Come and join
us. Your general is already riding a bit up the valley, and, as he
didn't call you, it follows that he doesn't want you.”
Harry followed him gladly. The Invincibles had found a good place, and
were cooking a solid breakfast. They had bacon and ham and coffee
and bread in abundance, and for a while there was a great eating and
drinking.
To youth which had marched and fought without food it was not a
breakfast. It was a banquet and a feast. Young frames which recover
quickly responded at once. Now and then, the musical clatter of iron
spoons and knives on iron cups and plates was broken by deep sighs of
satisfaction. But they did not speak for a while. There was lost time
to be made up, and they did not know when they would get another such
chance--the odds were always against it.
“Enough is enough,” said Langdon at last. “It took a lot to make enough,
but it's enough. You have to be a soldier, Harry, to appreciate what
it is to eat, sleep and rest. I'm willing to wager my uniform against a
last winter's snowball that we don't get another such meal in a month.
Old Jack won't let us.”
“To my mind,” said St. Clair, “we're going right into the middle of big
things. We've chased the Yankees out of the mountains into the valley,
and we'll follow hot on their heels. We've already learned enough of
General Jackson to know that he doesn't linger.”
“Linger!” exclaimed Langdon indignantly. “Even if there was no fighting
to be done he'd march us from one end of the valley to the other just
to keep us in practice. Hear that bugle! Off we go! Five minutes to get
ready! Or maybe it is only three!”
It was more than five minutes, but not much more, when the whole army
was on the march again, but the foot cavalry forgot to grumble when
they came again into their beloved valley, across which, and up and down
which, they had marched so much.
They threw back their shoulders, their gait became more jaunty and they
burst into cheers, at the sight of the rich rolling country, now so
beautiful in spring's heavy green. Far off the mountains rose, dark
and blue, but they were only the setting for the gem and made it more
precious.
“It's ours,” said Sherburne proudly to Harry. “We left it to the Yankees
for a little while, but we've come back to claim it, and if the unbidden
tenant doesn't get out at once we'll put him out. Harry, haven't you got
Virginia kinfolks? We want to adopt you and call you a Virginian.”
“Lots of them. My great-grandfather, Governor Ware, was born in
Maryland, but all the people on my mother's side were of Virginia
origin.”
“I might have known it. Kentucky is the daughter of Virginia though a
large part of Kentucky takes sides with the Yankees. But that's not your
fault. Remember, for the time being you're a Virginian, one of us by
right of blood and deed.”
“Count me among 'em at once,” said Harry. He felt a certain pride in
this off-hand but none the less real adoption, because he knew that it
was a great army with which he marched, and it might immortalize itself.
“What's the news, Harry?” asked Sherburne. “You're always near Old Jack,
and if he lets anything come from under that old hat of his, which isn't
often, it's because he's willing for it to be known.”
“He's said this, and he doesn't mean it to be any secret. Banks is
at Strasburg with a big army, but he's fortified himself there and he
doesn't know just what to do. He doesn't for the life of him know which
way Jackson is coming, nor do I. But I do know that Ewell with his
division is going to join us at last and we'll have a sizable army.”
“And that means bigger things!” exclaimed Sherburne, joyously. “Between
you and me, Harry, Banks won't sleep soundly again for many a night!”
As they marched on the valley people came out joyously to meet them.
Even women and girls on horseback, galloping, reined in their horses to
tell them where the Union forces lay. Always they had information for
Jackson, never any for the North. Here scouts and spies were scarcely
needed by the Southern army. Before night Stonewall Jackson knew as much
of his enemy as any general needed to know.
They camped at dusk and Langdon, contrary to his prediction, enjoyed
another ample meal and plenty of rest. Jackson allowed no tent to be
set for himself. The night was warm and beautiful and the songs of birds
came from the trees. The general had eaten sparingly, and now he sat on
a log in deep thought. Presently he looked up and said:
“Lieutenant Kenton, do you and Lieutenant Dalton ride forward in that
direction and meet General Ewell. He is coming, with his staff, to see
me. Escort him to the camp.”
He pointed out the direction and in an instant Harry and Dalton, also of
the staff, were in the camp, following the line of that pointing finger.
They had the password and as they passed a little beyond the pickets
they saw a half dozen horsemen riding rapidly toward them in the dusk.
“General Ewell, is it not, sir?” said Harry, as he and Dalton gave the
salute.
“I'm General Ewell,” replied the foremost horseman. “Do you come from
General Jackson?”
“Yes, sir. His camp is just before you. You can see the lights now. He
has directed us to meet you and escort you.”
“Then lead the way.”
The two young lieutenants, guiding General Ewell and his staff, were
soon inside Jackson's camp, but Harry had time to observe Ewell well. He
had already heard of him as a man of great vigor and daring. He had made
a name for judgment and dash in the Indian wars on the border. Men
spoke of him as a soldier, prompt to obey his superior and ready to take
responsibility if his superior were not there. Harry knew that Jackson
expected much of him.
He saw a rather slender man with wonderfully bright eyes that smiled
much, a prominent and pronounced nose and a strong chin. When he took
off his hat at the meeting with Jackson he disclosed a round bald head,
which he held on one side when he talked.
Jackson had risen from the log as Ewell rode up and leaped from his
magnificent horse--his horses were always of the best--and he advanced,
stretching out his hand. Ewell clasped it and the two talked. The staffs
of the two generals had withdrawn out of ear shot, but Harry noticed
that Ewell did much the greater part of the talking, his head cocked on
one side in that queer, striking manner. But Harry knew, too, that
the mind and will of Jackson were dominant, and that Ewell readily
acknowledged them as so.
The conference did not last long. Then the two generals shook hands
again and Ewell sprang upon his horse. Jackson beckoned to Harry.
“Lieutenant Kenton,” he said, “ride with General Ewell to his camp.
You will then know the way well, and he may wish to send me some quick
dispatch.”
Harry, nothing loath, was in the saddle in an instant, and at the wish
of General Ewell rode by his side.
“You have been with him long?” said Ewell.
“From the beginning of the campaign here, sir.”
“Then you were at both Kernstown and McDowell. A great general, young
man.”
“Yes, sir. He will march anywhere and fight anything.”
“That's my own impression. We've heard that his men are the greatest
marchers in the world. My own lads under him will acquire the same
merit.”
“We know, sir, that your men are good marchers already.”
General Ewell laughed with satisfaction.
“It's true,” he said. “When I told my second in command that we were
going to march to join General Jackson he wanted to bring tents. I told
him that would load us up with a lot of tent poles and that he must
bring only a few, for the sick, perhaps. There must be no baggage, just
food and ammunition. I told 'em that when we joined General Jackson we'd
have nothing to do but eat and fight.”
He seemed now to be speaking to himself rather than to Harry, and the
boy said nothing. Ewell, relapsing into silence, urged his horse to a
gallop and the staff perforce galloped, too. Such a pace soon brought
them to the camp of the second army, and as they rode past the pickets
Harry heard the sound of stringed music.
“The Cajuns,” said one of the staff, a captain named Morton. Harry did
not know what “Cajuns” meant, but he was soon to learn. Meanwhile the
sound of the music was pleasant in his ear, and he saw that the camp,
despite the lateness of the hour, was vivid with life.
General Ewell gave Harry into Captain Morton's care, and walked away to
a small tent, where he was joined by several of his senior officers for
a conference. But after they had tethered their horses for the night,
Captain Morton took Harry through the camp.
Harry was full of eagerness and curiosity and he asked to see first the
strange “Cajuns,” those who made the music.
“They are Louisiana French,” said Morton, “not the descendants or the
original French settlers in that state, but the descendants of the
French by the way of Nova Scotia.”
“Oh, I see, the Acadians, the exiles.”
“Yes, that's it. The name has been corrupted into Cajuns in Louisiana.
They are not like the French of New Orleans and Baton Rouge and the
other towns. They are rural and primitive. You'll like them. Few of them
were ever more than a dozen miles from home before. They love music, and
they've got a full regimental band with them. You ought to hear it play.
Why, they'd play the heart right out of you.”
“I like well enough the guitars and banjos that they're playing now.
Seems to me that kind of music is always best at night.”
They had now come within the rim of light thrown out by the fires of
the Acadians, and Harry stood there looking for the first time at these
dark, short people, brought a thousand miles from their homes.
They were wholly unlike Virginians and Kentuckians. They had black eyes
and hair, and their naturally dark faces were burned yet darker by the
sun of the Gulf. Yet the dark eyes were bright and gay, sparkling with
kindliness and the love of pleasure. The guitars and banjos were playing
some wailing tune, with a note of sadness in the core of it so keen and
penetrating that it made the water come to Harry's eyes. But it changed
suddenly to something that had all the sway and lilt of the rosy South.
Men sprang to their feet and clasping arms about one another began to
sway back and forth in the waltz and the polka.
Harry watched with mingled amazement and pleasure. Most of the South
was religious and devout. The Virginians of the valley were nearly all
staunch Presbyterians, and Stonewall Jackson, staunchest of them all,
never wanted to fight on Sunday. The boy himself had been reared in a
stern Methodist faith, and the lightness in this French blood of the
South was new to him. But it pleased him to see them sing and dance, and
he found no wrong in it, although he could not have done it himself.
Captain Morton noticed Harry's close attention and he read his mind.
“They surprised me, too, at first,” he said, “but they're fine soldiers,
and they've put cheer into this army many a time when it needed it
most. Taylor, their commander, is a West Pointer and he's got them into
wonderful trim. They're well clothed and well shod. They never straggle
and they're just about the best marchers we have. They'll soon be rated
high among Jackson's foot cavalry.”
Harry left the Acadians with reluctance, and when he made the round of
the camp General Ewell, who had finished the conference, told him that
he would have no message to send that night to Jackson. He might go to
sleep, but the whole division would march early in the morning. Harry
wrapped himself again in his cloak, found a place soft with moss under a
tree, and slept with the soft May wind playing over his face and lulling
him to deeper slumber.
He rode the next morning with General Ewell and the whole division to
join Jackson's army. It was a trim body of men, well clad, fresh and
strong, and they marched swiftly along the turnpike, on both sides of
which Jackson was encamped further on.
Harry felt a personal pride in being with Ewell when the junction was
to be made. He felt that, in a sense, he was leading in this great
reinforcement himself, and he looked back with intense satisfaction at
the powerful column marching so swiftly along the turnpike.
They came late in the day to Jackson's pickets, and then they saw his
army, scattered through the fields on either side of the road.
Harry rejoiced once more in the grand appearance of the new division.
Every coat or tunic sat straight. Every shoe-lace was tied, and they
marched with the beautiful, even step of soldiers on parade. They
were to encamp beyond Jackson's old army, and as they passed along the
turnpike it was lined on either side by Jackson's own men, cheering with
vigor.
The colonel who was in immediate charge of the encampment, a man who had
never seen General Jackson, asked Harry where he might find him. Harry
pointed to a man sitting on the top rail of a fence beside the road.
“But I asked for General Jackson,” said the colonel.
“That's General Jackson.”
The colonel approached and saluted. General Jackson's clothes were
soiled and dusty. His feet, encased in cavalry boots that reached beyond
the knees, rested upon a lower rail of the fence. A worn cap with a
dented visor almost covered his eyes. The rest of his face was concealed
by a heavy, dark beard.
“General Jackson, I believe,” said the officer, saluting.
“Yes. How far have those men marched?” The voice was kindly and
approving.
“We've come twenty-six miles, sir.”
“Good. And I see no stragglers.”
“We allow no stragglers.”
“Better still. I haven't been able to keep my own men from straggling,
and you'll have to teach them.”
At that moment the Acadian band began to play, and it played the
merriest waltz it knew. Jackson gazed at it, took a lemon from his
pocket and began to suck the juice from it meditatively. The officer
stood before him in some embarrassment.
“Aren't they rather thoughtless for such serious work as war?” asked the
Presbyterian general.
“I am confident, sir, that their natural gayety will not impair their
value as soldiers.”
Jackson put the end of the lemon back in his mouth and drew some juice
from it. The colonel bowed and retired. Then Jackson beckoned to Harry,
who stood by.
“Follow him and tell him,” he said, “that the band can play as much as
it likes. I noticed, too, that it plays well.”
Jackson smiled and Harry hurried after the officer, who flushed with
gratification, when the message was delivered to him.
“I'll tell it to the men,” he said, “and they'll fight all the better
for it.”
That night it was a formidable army that slept in the fields on either
side of the turnpike, and in the silence and the dark, Stonewall Jackson
was preparing to launch the thunderbolt.