PART I. PERSONAL PORTRAITS.
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[figure description] Introduction.[end figure description]
These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design
of making better known and understood the great actors in the
recent struggle who are the subjects of them.
It is a matter of grave importance that the illustrious figures
of the war should not be obscured by the mists of ignorance or
falsehood. Nor can they be. Dulness and slander do not long
blind the eyes of men; and sooner or later the light of truth
makes all things visible in their natural colours and proportions.
To the good work of placing upon record the actual truth in
relation to the lives and characters of Stuart and some other
noble soldiers of the Southern army, the writer of this page has
here brought a few of his recollections—aiming to draw these
“worthies” rather as they lived and moved, following their
various idiosyncrasies, than as they performed their “official”
duties on the public stage. This seemed best calculated to display
their real individuality—the embodiment of their personal
characteristics in a portrait with the pen, as a painter draws the
form and features of his sitter with the brush.
Such personal details of the characters of these eminent men
will not be uninteresting to the lovers of noble natures of whatever
“faction;” nor is the fondness for such particulars either
trivial or ignoble. They elucidate biography and history—which
are the same—for they present the likeness of the actor in the
drama, his character and endowments; and to know what great
men are, is better than to know what they perform. What Lee,
Jackson, Johnston, Stuart, and their associates accomplished,
history will record; how they looked, and moved, and spoke,
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will attract much less attention from the “historian of the
future.” The august muse of history will make her partial and
passionate, or fair and dignified, summary of the events of the
late war; will discuss the causas resum with learned philosophy;
and mete out in rounded periods what she thinks the due
amount of glory or shame to the actors, in gray or in blue. But
mean while the real personages disappear, and the colours fade;
figures become historical personages, not men. And events, too,
“suffer change.” They are fused in the mass; generalization
replaces the particular incident as it does the impressive trait;—
the terrible dust of “official documents” obscures personages,
characters, and events.
This is trite, but it is true; and the fact thus lamely stated is
one of the “chiefest spites of fate.” For what is the picture
worth unless drawn in its actual colours?—what the value of the
figures unless they are likenesses? The war just ended was not
an “official transaction,” only to be calmly narrated with dignified
generalization, philosophic reasoning, and commonplace
comment upon peace conferences, grand tacties, and the political
bearing of the result. It was a mighty drama, all life, passion,
movement, incident, and romance—a singular mèlange, wherein
tears, laughter, sighs and smiles, rapidly followed each other,
communicating to the bitter and determined struggle all the profound
interest of a tragedy whose scenes sweep on before the
spectator to the catastrophe. Nor were the actors in the tragedy
blocks of wood, or merely “official personages” playing coldly
their stage parts. They were men of flesh and blood, full of
high resolve, vehement passion; subject to hope, fear, rejoicing,
depression; but faithful through all to the great principles which
drove them on—principles in which they believed, and for
which they were ready to die. They were noble types of the
great Norman race of which the Southern people come—brave,
honourable, courteous, social; quick in resentment, proud, but
placable; and these conspicuous traits were everywhere seen in
their actions and daily lives.
The portraits here presented of a few of these men may be
rude and incomplete, but they are likenesses. No personage is
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spoken of with whom the writer was not more or less acquainted;
and every trait and incident set down was either observed
by himself or obtained from good authority. Invention has
absolutely nothing to do with the sketches; the writer has recorded
his recollections, and not his fancies. The “picturesque”
is a poor style of art, when truth is sacrificed to it. To represent
General Lee decked out in a splendid uniform bedizzened
with gold lace, on a “prancing steed,” and followed by a numerous
and glittering staff, might “tickle the ears of the groundlings;”
but the picture would be apt to “make the judicious
grieve.” The latter class would much prefer the actual man, in
his old gray cape and plain brown coat, riding, unattended, on
his sober iron-gray along the lines; would rather hear him say
amid the storm of Gettysburg, in his calm brave voice, “Never
mind; it is not your fault, General; I am to blame,” than read
the most eloquent sentences which the imagination could invent
for him. And in regard to others, the truth would possess an
equal superiority over fiction. Jackson was a noble human
soul; pure, generous, fearless, of imperial genius for making
war; but why claim for him personal graces, and the charm of
social humour? Stuart ranked justly with the two or three
greatest cavalry commanders of the world, and in his character
combined gaiety, courage, resolution, winning manners, and the
purest traits of the gentleman and Christian; but why draw the
gallant cavalier as utterly faultless, never moved by anger, ever
serious and devout as was Jackson? By such a process the
actual characters disappear; the real men, with faults and virtues,
grand traits and foibles, become mere lay-figures to hang
uniforms upon. The pictures should either be made likenesses,
or not be painted; events should be represented in their real
colours, or not at all.
These few words will explain the character of the sketches
here presented, and the theory upon which the writer has proceeded
in drawing them. They are conscientious “studies,” and
the result of an honest desire to elucidate the characters of their
subjects, who are here described in rapid outline as they lived
and moved before all eyes upon the stage of the war. Eulogy
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has not magnified them, as partisan rancour has not blackened
their adversaries. They appeared as they are here drawn to the
eyes of the writer; if the portraits are unfaithful, it is not because
he lacked the fairness, but wanted the ability, to “denote
them truly.”
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Eng by H.G.Lawrence, N.Y.
Engraved expressly for “Wearing of the Grey.”
E.B. Treat & Co. Publishers, 654 Broadway, N.Y.
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts portraits of seven significant Confederate leaders: Gen. T. Ashby; Gen. G.T. Beauregard; Gen. J.A. Early; Gen. R.E. Lee; Major JNG. Pelham; Col. J.S. Mosby; Gen. W. Hampton. Scattered amongst the portraits are images of civil war battles.[end figure description]
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Stuart, chief of the Confederate cavalry in Virginia, was one
of the Dii Majores of the recent conflict—his career rather a
page from romance than a chapter of history. Everything
stirring, brilliant, and picturesque, seemed to centre in him.
There was about the man a flavour of chivalry and adventure
which made him more like a knight of the middle age than a
soldier of the prosaic nineteenth century, and it was less the
science than the poetry of war which he summed up and illustrated
in his character and career.
With the majority of those who took part in it, the late revolution
was a hard and bitter struggle, which they entered upon
resolutely, but with unconcealed distaste. To this soldier, however,
it seemed to be a splendid and exciting game, in which his
blood coursed joyously, and his immensely strong physical organization
found an arena for the display of all its faculties.
The affluent life of the man craved those perils and hardships
which flush the pulses and make the heart beat fast. A single
look at him was enough to convince anybody that Stuart loved
danger and adventure, and that the clear blue eyes of the soldier,
“with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine.”
He swung himself into the saddle, at the sound of the bugle, as
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the hunter springs on horseback; and at such moments his
cheeks glowed, and his huge moustache curled with enjoyment.
The romance and poetry of the hard trade of arms seemed first
to be inaugurated when this joyous cavalier, with his floating
plume and splendid laughter, appeared upon the great arena of
the war in Virginia.
This gay bearing of the man was plainly unaffected, and few
persons could resist its influence. There was about Stuart an
inspiration of joy and youth. The war was evidently like play
to him—and he accepted its most perilous scenes and cruellest
hardships with the careless abandon of a young knight-errant
seeking adventures. Nothing seemed strong enough to break
down his powerful organization of mind and body; and danger
only aroused and brought his full faculties into play. He greeted
it with ardour and defied it with his joyous laughter—leading his
column in desperate charges with a smile upon the lips. Others
might despond, but Stuart kept his good spirits; and while the
air around him was full of hissing balls and bursting shell, he
would hum his gay songs. In Culpeper the infantry were electrified
by the laughter and singing of Stuart as he led them in
the charge; and at Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's
corps after that great man's fall, the infantry veterans as
they swept on, carrying line after line of breastworks at the point
of the bayonet, saw his plume floating in front—“like Henry of
Navarre's,” one of them said—and heard his sonorous voice
singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”
This curious spirit of boyish gaiety did not characterize him on
certain occasions only, but went with him always, surrounding
every movement of the man with a certain atmosphere of frolic
and abandon. Immense animal health and strength danced in
his eyes, gave elasticity to the motions of his person, and rang
in his contagious laughter. It was hard to realize that anything
could hurt this powerful machine, or that death could ever come
to him; and the perilous positions from which he had so often
escaped unharmed, appeared to justify the idea of his invulnerability.
Although he exposed his person recklessly in more
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than a hundred hot engagements, he was never wounded in any.
The resobud in his button-hole, which some child or girl had
given him, or rather say his mother's Bible, which he always
carried, seemed to protect him. Death appeared to shrink before
him and avoid him; and he laughed in the grim face, and
dared it for three years of reckless fighting, in which he seemed
every day to be trying to get himself killed.
His personal appearance coincided with his character. Everything
about the man was youthful, picturesque, and brilliant.
Lee, Jackson, and other eminent soldiers of the South, seemed
desirous of avoiding, in their dress and accoutrements every
species of display, and to aim at making themselves resemble
as closely as possible their brave soldiers, whose uniforms were
sadly deficient in military gewgaws. Stuart's taste was exactly
the opposite. He was as fond of colours as a boy or a girl. His
fighting jacket shone with dazzling buttons and was covered
with gold braid; his hat was looped up with a golden star, and
decorated with a black ostrich plume; his fine buff gauntlets
reached to the elbow; around his waist was tied a splendid yellow
silk sash, and his spurs were of pure gold. The stern Ironsides
of Cromwell would have sneered at this “frivolous boy”
as they sneered at Prince Rupert, with his scarlet cloak, his waving
plume, his white dog, and his twenty-three years—all the
more as Stuart had a white dog for a pet, wore a cape lined with
scarlet, had a plume in his hat, and—to complete the comparison—
is said to have belonged to that royal family of Stuarts
from which Rupert sprang.* Many excellent people did not
hesitate to take the Ironside view. They regarded and spoke
of Stuart as a trifling military fop—a man who had in some
manner obtained a great command for which he was wholly
unfit. They sneered at his splendid costume, his careless laughter,
his “love of ladies;” at his banjo-player, his flower-wreathed
horses, and his gay verses. The enemy were wiser. Buford,
Bayard, Pleasanton, Stoneman, and their associates, did not commit
that blunder. They had felt the heavy arm too often; and
knew too well the weight of that flower-encircled weapon.
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There were three other men who could never be persuaded
that Stuart was no cavalry officer, and who persisted in regarding
this boyish cavalier as their right-hand man—the “eye and
ear” of their armies. These men were Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.
eaf521n1* Prince Rupert was the nephew of Charles I., and the son of Elizabeth Stuart
Stuart's great career can be alluded to but briefly here.
Years crammed with incident and adventure cannot be summed
up on a page.
He was twenty-seven when he resigned his first-lieutenancy
in the United States cavalry, and came to offer his sword to Virginia.
He was sprung from an old and honourable family there,
and his love of his native soil was strong. Upon his arrival he
was made lieutenant-colonel, and placed in command of the
cavalry on the Upper Potomac, where he proved himself so vigilant
a soldier that Johnston called him “the indefatigable Stuart,”
and compared him to “a yellow jacket,” which was “no
sooner brushed off than it lit back.” He had command of the
whole front until Johnston left the valley, when he moved with
the column to Manassas, and charged and broke the New York
Zouaves; afterwards held the front toward Alexandria, under
Beauregard; then came the hard falling back, the struggle upon
the Peninsula, the battle of Cold Harbour, and the advance which
followed into Maryland. Stuart was now a general, and laid
the foundation of his fame by the “ride around McClellan”
on the Chickahominy. Thenceforth he was the right hand of
Lee until his death.
The incidents of his career from the spring of 1862 to May,
1864, would fill whole volumes. The ride around McClellan;
the fights on the Rapidan; the night march to Catlett's, where
he captured General Pope's coat and official papers; the advance
to Manassas; the attack on Flint Hill; the hard rear-guard work
at South Mountain; holding the left at Sharpsburg; the circut
of McClellan again in Maryland; the bitter conflicts near Upperville
as Lee fell back; the fighting all along the slopes of the
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Blue Ridge; the “crowding 'em with artillery” on the night at
Fredericksburg; the winter march upon Dumfries; the battle
of Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's corps; the
advance thereafter, and the stubbron conflict at Fleetwood Hill
on the 9th of June; the hard, obstinate fighting once more to
guard the flanks of Lee on his way to Gettysburg; the march
across the Potomac; the advance to within sight of Washington,
and the invasion of Pennsylvania, with the determined fights
at Hanovertown, Carlisle, and Gettysburg, where he met and
drove before him the crack cavalry of the Federal army; the
retreat thereafter before an enraged enemy; the continuous combats
of the mountain passes, and in the vicinity of Boonsboro';
the obstinate stand he made once more on the old ground around
Upperville as Lee again fell back; the heavy petites guerres of
Culpeper; the repulse of Custer when he attacked Charlottesville;
the expedition to the rear of General Meade when he
came over to Mine Run; the bitter struggle in the Wilderness
when General Grant advanced; the fighting all along the Po in
Spotsylvania; the headlong gallop past the South Anna, and
the bloody struggle near the Yellow Tavern, where the cavalier,
who had passed through a hundred battles untouched, came to
his end at last—these are a few of the pictures which rise up
before the mind's eye at those words, “the career of Stuart.” In
the brief space of a sketch like this, it is impossible to attempt
any delineation of these crowding scenes and events. They
belong to history, and will sooner or later be placed upon record—
for a thousand octavos cannot bury them as long as one forefinger
and thumb remains to write of them. All that is here
designed is a rough cartoon of the actual man—not a fancy
figure, the work of a eulogist, but a truthful likeness, however
poorly executed.
I have supposed that the reader would be more interested in
Stuart the man than in Stuart the Major-General commanding.
History will paint the latter—my page deals with the
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former chiefly. It is in dress, habits, the tone of the voice,
the demeanour in private, that men's characters are read; and
I have never seen a man who looked his character more perfectly
than Stuart.
He was the cavalier par excellence; and everything which
he did, or said, was “in character.” We know a clergyman
sometimes by his moderation, mild address, black coat, and
white cravat; a merchant by his quick movements and “business-like”
manner; a senator by his gravity; and a poet by
his dreamy eye. You saw in the same manner, at a single
glance, that Stuart was a cavalry-man—in his dress, voice, walk,
manner, everything. All about him was military; and, fine
as his costume undoubtedly was, it “looked like work.” There
was no little fondness, as I have said, for bright colours and
holiday display in his appearance; and he loved the parade,
the floating banner, the ring of the bugle, “ladies' eyes”—
all the glory, splendour, and brilliant colouring of life; but
the solider of hard fibre and hard work was under the gallant.
Some day a generation will come who will like to know all
about the famous “Jeb Stuart”—let me therefore limn him
as he appeared in the years 1862 and 1863.
His frame was low and athletic—close knit and of very great
strength and endurance, as you could see at a glance. His
countenance was striking and attracted attention—the forehead
broad, lofty, and indicating imagination; the nose prominent,
and inclining to “Roman,” with large and mobile nostrils;
the lips covered with a heavy brown moustache, curled upward
at the ends; the chin by a huge beard of the same colour,
which descended upon the wearer's breast. Such was the rather
brigandish appearance of Stuart—but I have omitted to notice
the eyes. They were clear, penetrating, and of a brilliant blue.
They could be soft or fiery—would fill with laughter or dart
flame. Anything more menacing than that flame, when Stuart
was hard pressed, it would be difficult to conceive; but the
prevailing expression was gay and laughing. He wore a brown
felt hat looped up with a star, and ornamented with an ebon
feather; a double-breasted jacket always open and buttoned
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back; gray waistcoat and pantaloons; and boots to the knee,
decorated with small spurs, which he wore even in dancing. To
proceed with my catalogue of the soldier's accoutrements: on
marches he threw over his shoulders his gray cavalry cape, and
on the pommel of his saddle was strapped an oil-cloth overall,
used as a protection in rain, which, instead of annoying him,
seemed to raise his spirits. In the midst of rain-storms, when
everybody was riding along grum and cowering beneath the
flood pouring down, he would trot on, head up, and singing
gaily. His arms were, a light French sabre, balanced by a pistol
in a black holster; his covering at night, a red blanket, strapped
in an oil-cloth behind the saddle. Such was the “outer man”
of Stuart in camp and field. His fondness for bright colours,
however, sometimes made him don additional decorations.
Among these was a beautiful yellow sash, whose folds he would
carefully wrap around his waist, skilfully tying the ends on the
left side so that the tassels fell full in view. Over this he would
buckle his belt; his heavy boots would be changed for a pair
equally high, but of bright patent leather, decorated with gold
thread; and then the gallant Jeb Stuart was ready to visit somebody.
This love of gay colours was shown in other ways. He
never moved on the field without his splendid red battle-flag; and
more than once this prominent object, flaunting in the wind,
drew the fire of the enemy's artillery on himself and staff.
Among flowers, he preferred the large dazzling “Giant of Battles,”
with its blood-red disk. But he loved all blooms for their
brilliance. Lent was not his favourite season. Life in his eyes
was best when it was all flowers, bright colours, and carnival.
He was a bold and expert rider, and stopped at nothing.
Frequently the headlong speed with which he rode saved him
from death or capture—as at Sharpsburg, where he darted close
along the front of a Federal regiment which rose and fired on
him. The speed of his horse was so great that not a ball struck
him. At Hanovertown, in 1863, and on a hundred occasions,
he was chased, when almost unattended, by Federal cavalry; but,
clearing fence and ravine, escaped. He was a “horse-man” in
his knowledge of horses, but had no “passion” for them;
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preferred animals of medium size, which wheeled, leaped, and
moved rapidly; and, mounted upon his “Skylark,” “Star of the
East,” “Lady Margaret,” or “Lily of the Valley,” he was the
picture of a bold cavalier, prepared to go into a charge, or to
take a gallop by moonlight—ready for a fight or a frolic.
It was out of the saddle, however, that Stuart was most attractive.
There he was busy; in his tent, when his work was once
over, he was as insouciant as a boy. Never was there a human
being of readier laughter. He dearly loved a joke, and would
have one upon everybody. They were not mild either. He
loved a horse-joke, and a horse-laugh. But the edge of his
satire, although keen, was never envenomed. The uproarious
humour of the man took away anything like sarcasm from his
wit, and he liked you to “strike back.” What are called “great
people” sometimes break their jests upon lesser personages, with
a tacit understanding that the great personage shall not be jested
at in return. Such deference to his rank was abhorrent to Stuart.
He jested roughly, but you were welcome to handle him
as roughly in return. If you could turn the laugh upon him,
you were perfectly welcome so to do, and he never liked you
the less for it. In winter-quarters his tent was a large affair,
with a good chimney and fireplace; in the summer, on active
service, a mere breadth of canvas stretched over rails against a
tree, and open at both ends. Or he had no tent, and slept under
a tree. The canvas “fly” only came into requisition when he
rested for a few days from the march. Under this slight shelter,
Stuart was like a king of rangers. On one side was his chair
and desk; on the other, his blankets spread on the ground:
at his feet his two setters, “Nip” and “Tuck,” whom he had
brought out of Culpeper, on the saddle, as he fell back before
the enemy. When tired of writing, he would throw himself
upon his blankets, play with his pets, laugh at the least provocation,
and burst into some gay song.
He had a strong love for music, and sang, himself, in a clear,
sonorous, and correct voice. His favourites were: “The bugle
sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered;” “The dew is on
the blossom;” “Sweet Evelina,” and “Evelyn,” among pathetic
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songs; but comic ones were equal or greater favourites with him:
“If you get there before I do;” “The old gray horse;” “Come
out of the wilderness,” and “If you want to have a good time,
join the cavalry,” came from his lips in grand uproarious merriment,
the very woods ringing with the strains. This habit
of singing had always characterized him. From the days in the
valley when he harassed Paterson so, with his omnipresent cavalry,
he had fought and sung alternately. Riding at the head
of his long column, bent upon some raid, or advancing to attack
the enemy, he would make the forest resound with his sonorous
songs; and a gentleman who met him one day, thus singing in
front of his men, said that the young cavalier was his perfect
ideal of a knight of romance. It might almost, indeed, be said
that music was his passion, as Vive la joie! might have been
regarded as his motto. His banjo-players, Sweeny, was the constant
inmate of his tent, rode behind him on the march, and
went with him to social gatherings. Stuart wrote his most important
dispatches and correspondence with the rattle of the gay
instrument stunning everybody, and would turn round from his
work, burst into a laugh, and join uproariously in Sweeny's
chorus. On the march, the banjo was frequently put in requisition;
and those “grave people” who are shocked by “frivolity”
must have had their breath almost taken away by this extraordinary
spectacle of the famous General Stuart, commanding all
the cavalry of General Lee's army, moving at the head of his
hard-fighting corps with a banjo-player rattling behind him.
But Stuart cared little for the “grave people.” He fought
harder than they did, and chose to amuse himself in his own
way. Lee, Johnston, and Jackson, had listened to that banjo
without regarding it as frivolous; and more than once it had
proved a relaxation after the exhausting cares of command. So
it rattled on still, and Stuart continued to laugh, without caring
much about “the serious family” class. He had on his side
Lee, Jackson, and the young ladies who danced away gaily
to Sweeny's music—what mattered it whether Aminadab Sleek,
Esq., approved or disapproved!
The “young lady” element was an important one with Stuart.
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Never have I seen a purer, more knightly, or more charming
gallantry than his. He was here, as in all his life, the Christian
gentleman, the loyal and consistent professor of religion; but
with this delicacy of the chevalier was mingled the gaiety of
the boy. He was charmed, and charmed in return. Ladies
were his warmest admirers—for they saw that under his laughing
exterior was an earnest nature and a warm heart. Everything
drew them towards him. The romance of his hard career,
the adventurous character of the man, his mirth, wit, gallantry,
enthusiasm, and the unconcealed pleasure which he showed in
their society, made him their prime favourite. They flocked
around him, gave him flowers, and declared that if they could
they would follow his feather and fight with him. With all
this, Stuart was delighted. He gave them positions on his staff,
placed the flowers in his button-hole, kissed the fair hands that
presented them, and if the cheek was near the hand, he would
laugh and kiss that too. The Sleek family cried out at this,
and rolled their eyes in horror—but it is hard to please the
Sleek family. Stuart was married, a great public character, had
fought in defence of these young ladies upon a hundred battle-fields,
and was going to die for them. It does not seem so huge
an enormity as the Sleeks everywhere called it—that while the
blue eyes flashed, the eyes of women should give back their
splendour; while the lips were warm, they should not shrink
from them. Soon the eyes were to grow dim, and the lips
cold.
Stuart was best loved by those who knew him best; and it
may here be recorded that his devotion towards his young wife
and children attracted the attention of every one. His happiest
hours were spent in their society, and he never seemed so well
satisfied as when they were in his tent. To lie upon his campcouch
and play with one of his children, appeared to be the
summit of felicity with him; and when, during the hard falling
back near Upperville, in the fall of 1862, the news came of the
death of his little daughter Flora, he seemed almost overcome.
Many months afterwards, when speaking of her, the tears
gushed to his eyes, and he murmured in a broken voice; “I will
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never get over it—never!” He seemed rough and hard to those
who only saw him now and then; but the persons who lived
with him knew his great kindness of heart. Under that careless,
jesting, and often curt demeanour, was a good, true heart.
The fibre of the man was tough under all strain, and his whole
organization was masculine; but he exhibited, sometimes, a softness
of feeling which might almost be called tenderness. A
marked trait of his character was this: that if he had offended
anybody, or wounded their feelings, he could never rest until he
had in some way made amends. His temper was irascible at
times, and he would utter harsh words; but the flaming eyes
soon softened, the arrogant manner disappeared. In ten minutes
his arm would probably be upon the shoulder or around the
neck of the injured individual, and his voice would become
caressante. This was almost amusing, and showed his good
heart. Like a child, he must “make up” with people he had
unintentionally offended; and he never rested until he succeeded.
Let it not be understood, however, that this placability
of temperament came into play in “official” affairs. There
Stuart was as hard as adamant, and nothing moved him. He
never forgave opposition to his will, or disobedience of his
orders; and though never bearing malice, was a thoroughly
good hater. His prejudices were strong; and when once he had
made up his mind deliberately, nothing would change him. He
was immovable and implacable; and against these offenders he
threw the whole weight of his powerful will and his high position,
determined to crush them. That, however, was in public
and official matters. In all the details of his daily life he was
thoroughly lovable, as many persons still living can testify.
He was the most approachable of major-generals, and jested
with the private soldiers of his command as jovially as though
he had been one of themselves. The men were perfectly unconstrained
in his presence, and treated him more like the chief
huntsman of a hunting party than as a major-general. His
staff were greatly attached to him, for he sympathized in all their
affairs as warmly as a brother, and was constantly doing them
some “good turn.” When with them off duty, he dropped
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every indication of rank, and was as much a boy as the youngest
of them—playing marbles, quoits, or snowball, with perfect
abandon and enjoyment. Most charming of all in the eyes of
those gentlemen was the fact that he would not hesitate to
decline invitations to entertainments, on the plainly stated
ground that “his staff were not included”—after which I need
give myself no further trouble to explain why he was the most
beloved of generals!
I have spoken of his reckless exposure of his person in battle.
It would convey a better idea of his demeanour under fire
to say that he seemed unaware of the presence of danger. This
air of indifference was unmistakable. When brave men were
moving restlessly, or unconsciously “ducking” to avoid the bullets
showering around them, Stuart sat his horse, full front to
the fire, with head up, form unmoved—a statue of unconsciousness.
It would be difficult to conceive of a greater coolness and
indifference than he exhibited. The hiss of balls, striking down
men around him, or cutting off locks of his hair and piercing
his clothes, as at Fredericksburg, did not seem to attract his attention.
With shell bursting right in his face and maddening
his horse, he appeared to be thinking of something else. In
other men what is called “gallantry” is generally seen to be the
effect of a strong will; in Stuart it seemed the result of indifference.
A stouter-hearted cavalier could not be imagined; and if
his indifference gave way, it was generally succeeded by gaiety.
Sometimes, however, all the tiger was aroused in him. His face
flushed; his eyes darted flame; his voice grew hoarse and strident.
This occurred in the hot fight of Fleetwood Hill, in June,
1863, when he was almost surrounded by the heavy masses of
the enemy's cavalry, and very nearly cut off; and again near
Upperville, later in the same year, when he was driven back,
foot by foot, to the Blue Ridge. Stuart's face was stormy at
such moments, and his eyes like “a devouring fire.” His voice
was curt, harsh, imperious, admitting no reply. The veins in
his forehead grew black, and the man looked “dangerous.” If
an officer failed him at such moments, he never forgave him; as
the man who attracted his attention, or who volunteered for a
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forlorn hope, was never forgotten. In his tenacious memory,
Stuart registered everybody; and in his command, his word, bad
or good, largely set up or pulled down.
To dwell still for a few moments upon the private and personal
character of the man—he possessed some accomplishments
unusual in famous soldiers. He was an excellent writer, and his
general orders were frequently very striking for their point and
eloquence. That in which he called on his men after the ride
around McClellan to “avenge Latanè!” and that on the death
of Major Pelham, his chief of artillery, are good examples.
There was something of the Napoleonic fervour in these compositions,
and, though dashed off rapidly, they were pointed, correct,
and without bombast. His letters, when collected, will be
found clear, forcible, and often full of grace, elegance, and wit.
He occasionally wrote verses, especially parodies, for which he
had a decided turn. Some of these were excellent. His letters,
verses, and orders, were the genuine utterances of the man; not
laboured or “stiff,” but spontaneous, flowing, and natural. He
had in conversation some humour, but more wit; and of badinage
it might almost be said that he was a master. His repartee was
excellent, his address ever gay and buoyant, and in whatever
society he was thrown he never seemed to lose that unaffected
mirthfulness which charms us more perhaps than all other qualities
in an associate. I need scarcely add that this uniform gaiety
was never the result of the use of stimulants. Stuart never drank
a single drop of any intoxicating liquid in his whole life, except
when he touched to his lips the cup of sacramental wine at
the communion. He made that promise to his mother in his
childhood, and never broke it. “If ever I am wounded,” he
said to me one day, “don't let them give me any whiskey or
brandy.” His other habits were as exemplary. I never saw him
touch a card, and he never dreamed of uttering an oath under
any provocation—nor would he permit it at his quarters. He
attended church whenever he could, and sometimes, though not
often, had service at his headquarters. One day a thoughtless
officer, who did not “know his man,” sneered at preachers in his
presence, and laughed at some one who had entered the
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ministry. Stuart's face flushed; he exhibited unmistakable displeasure,
and said: “I regard the calling of a clergyman as the
noblest in which any human being can engage.” This was the
frivolous, irreverent, hard-drinking personage of some people's
fancies—the man who was sneered at as little better than a
reprobate by those whom he had punished, and who, therefore,
hated and slandered him!
Such, in brief outline, was this “Flower of Cavaliers,” as he
moved in private, before the eyes of friends, and lived his life
of gentleman. An estimate of the military and intellectual
calibre of the man remains to be made—a rapid delineation of
those traits of brain and nerve combined which made him the
first cavalry officer of his epoch—I had nearly written of any
epoch.
Out of his peculiar sphere he did not display marked
ability. His mind was naturally shrewd, and, except in some
marked instances, he appeared to possess an instinctive knowledge
of men. But the processes of his brain, on ordinary occasions,
exhibited rather activity and force than profoundness of
insight. His mental organization seemed to be sound and practical
rather than deep and comprehensive. He read little when
I knew him, and betrayed no evidences of wide culture. His
education was that of the gentleman rather than the scholar.
“Napoleon's Maxims,” a translation of Jomini's Treatise on
War, and one or two similar works, were all in which he
appeared to take pleasure. His whole genius evidently lay in
the direction of his profession, and even here many persons
doubted the versatility of his faculties. It will remain an interesting
problem whether he would have made a great infantry
commander. He was confident of his own ability; always
resented the dictum that he was a mere “cavalry officer;” and I
believe, at one time, it was the purpose of the Confederate authorities
to place him in command of a corps of infantry. Upon
the question of his capacity, in this sphere, there will probably
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be many opinions. At Chancellorsville, when he succeeded
Jackson, the troops, although quite enthusiastic about him, complained
that he had led them too recklessly against artillery;
and it is hard for those who knew the man to believe that, as an
army commander, he would ever have consented to a strictly
defensive campaign. Fighting was a necessity of his blood, and
the slow movements of infantry did not suit his genius. With
an army under him, it is probable that he would either have
achieved magnificent successes or sustained overwhelming
defeats. I confess I thought him equal to anything in his profession,
but competent judges doubted it. What every one
agreed about, however, was his supreme genius for fighting
cavalry.
He always seemed to me to be intended by nature for this
branch of the service. Some men are born to write great works,
others to paint great pictures, others to rule over nations. Stuart
was born to fight cavalry. It was only necessary to be with him
in important movements or on critical occasions, to realize this.
His instinct was unfailing, his coup d'oeil that of the master. He
was a trained soldier, and had truly graduated at West Point,
but it looked like instinct rather than calculation—that rapid
and unerring glance which took in at once every trait of the
ground upon which he was operating, and anticipated every
movement of his adversary. I never knew him to blunder.
His glance was as quick, and reached its mark as surely as the
lightning. Action followed like the thunder. In moments of
great emergency it was wonderful to see how promptly he swept
the whole field, and how quickly his mind was made up. He
seemed to penetrate, as by a species of intuition, every design
of his opponent, and his dispositions for attack or defence were
those of a master-mind. Sometimes nothing but his unconquerable
resolution, and a sort of desperation, saved him from
destruction; but in almost every critical position which he was
placed in during that long and arduous career, it was his wonderful
acumen, no less than his unshrinking nerve, which
brought him out victorious.
This nerve had in it something splendid and chivalric. It
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never failed him for a moment on occasions which would have
paralysed ordinary commanders. An instance was given in
October, 1863. Near Auburn his column was surrounded by
the whole of General Meade's army, then retiring before General
Lee. Stuart massed his command, kept cool, listened hour
after hour as the night passed on, to the roll of the Federal
artillery and the heavy tramp of their infantry within a few
hundred yards of him, and at daylight placed his own guns in
position and made a furious attack, under cover of which he
safely withdrew. An earlier instance was his raid in rear of
General McClellan, in June, 1862, when, on reaching the lower
Chickahominy, he found the stream swollen and unfordable,
while at every moment an enraged enemy threatened to fall
upon his rear with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery. Although the men were much disheartened, and
were gloomy enough at the certain fate which seemed to await
them, Stuart remained cool and unmoved. He intended, he said
afterwards, to “die game” if attacked, but he believed he could
extricate his command. In four hours he had built a bridge,
singing as he worked with the men; and his column, with the
guns, defiled across just as the enemy rushed on them. A third
instance was the second ride around McClellan in Maryland,
October, 1862; when coming to the Monocacy he found General
Pleasanton, with a heavy force of cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
in his path, but unhesitatingly attacked and cut his way through.
Still another at Jack's Shop, where he charged both ways—the
column in front, and that sent to cut him off—and broke
through. Still another at Fleetwood Hill, where he was
attacked in front, flank, and rear, by nearly 17,000 infantry and
cavalry, but charging from the centre outwards, swept them
back, and drove them beyond the Rappahannock.
Upon these occasions and twenty others, nothing but his stout
nerve saved him from destruction. This quality, however,
would not have served him without the quick military instinct
of the born soldier. His great merit as a commander was, that
his conception of “the situation” was as rapid and just as his
nerve was steady. His execution was unfaltering, but the brain
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had devised clearly what was to be done before the arm was
raised to strike. It was this which distinguished Stuart from
others—the promptness and accuracy of his brain work “under
pressure,” and at moments when delay was destruction. The
faculty would have achieved great results in any department of
arms; but in cavalry, the most “sudden and dangerous” branch
of the service, where everything is decided in a moment as it
were, it made Stuart one of the first soldiers of his epoch.
With equal—or not largely unequal—forces opposed to him, he
was never whipped. More than once he was driven back, and
two or three times “badly hurt;” but it was not the superior
genius of Buford, Stoneman, Pleasanton, or other adversaries,
which achieved those results. It was the presence of an obstacle
which his weapon could not break. Numbers were too much
for brain and acumen, and reckless fighting. The hammer was
shattered by the anvil.
Stuart was forced, by the necessities of the struggle, the nature
of the country, and the all-work he had to perform, to depend
much upon sharp-shooting. But he preferred pure cavalry
fighting. He fought his dismounted skirmishers with obstinacy,
and was ever present with them, riding alone the line, a conspi
cuous target for the enemy's bullets, cheering them on. But it
was in the legitimate sphere of cavalry that he was greatest.
The skirmishing was the “hard work.” He had thus to keep
a dangerous enemy off General Lee's flanks as the infantry
moved through the gaps of the Blue Ridge towards Pennsylvania,
or to defend the line of the Rappahannock, when some Federal
commander with thousands of horsemen, “came down like a
wolf” on General Lee's little “fold.” It was here, I think, that
Stuart vindicated his capacity to fight infantry, for such were
the dismounted cavalry; and he held his ground before swarming
enemies with a nerve and persistence which resembled Jackson's.
It was in the raid, the flank movement, the charge, and the
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falling back, with cavalry proper, however, that he exhibited the
most conspicuous traits of the soldier. The foundation of his
successes here was a wonderful energy. The man was a war-machine
which never flagged. Day or night he was ready to
mount at the sound of the bugle. Other commanders, like the
bonus Homerus, drowsed at times, and nodded, suffering their
zeal to droop; but Stuart was sleepless, and General Lee could
count on him at any instant. To that inexhaustible physical
strength was united a mentality as untiring. The mind, like the
body, could “go day and night,” and needed no rest. When all
around him were broken down, Stuart still remained fresh and
unwearied; ready for council or for action; to give his views
and suggest important movements, or to march and make an
attack. His organization was of the “hair-trigger” kind, and
the well-tempered spring never lost its elasticity. He would
give orders, and very judicious ones, in his sleep—as on the
night of the second Manassas. When utterly prostrated by
whole days and nights spent in the saddle, he would stop by the
roadside, lie down without pickets or videttes, even in an enemy's
country—as once he did coming from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in
July, 1863—sleep for an hour, wrapped in his cape and resting
against the trunk of a tree, and then mount again, as fresh
apparently, as if he had slumbered from sunset to dawn.
As his physical energies thus never seemed to droop, or
sprang with a rebound from the weight on them, so he never
desponded. A stouter heart in the darkest hour I have never
seen. No clouds could depress him or disarm his courage. He
met ill fortune with a smile, and drove it before him with his
gallant laughter. Gloom could not live in his presence, and the
whole race of “croakers” were shamed into hopefulness by his
inspiring words and demeanour. Defeat and disaster seemed to
make him stronger and more resolute, and he rose under
pressure. In moments of the most imminent peril to the very
existence of his command, I have seen him drum carelessly with
his fingers on the knee thrown over the pommel of his saddle,
reflect for an instant without any trace of excitement, and then
give the order to cut a path through the enemy, without the
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change of a muscle. At such moments, it was plain that Stuart
coolly made up his mind to do his best, and leave the rest to the
chances of arms. His manner said as plainly as any word: “I
am going to make my way out or die—the thing is decided upon—
why make a to-do about it?” So perfect was his equanimity
upon such occasions, that persons ignorant of the extent of the
peril could not realize that any existed. It was hard to believe,
in presence of this “heart of oak,” with his cool and indifferent
manner, his composed tones and careless smile, that death or
capture stared the command in the face. And yet these were
just the occasions when Stuart's face of bronze was most unmoved.
Peril brought out his strength. The heaviest clouds
must obscure the landscape before his splendid buoyancy and
“heart of hope” were fully revealed. That stout heart seemed
invincible, and impending ruin could not shake it. I have seen
him strung, aroused, his eye flaming, his voice hoarse with the
mingled joy and passion of battle; but have never seen him
flurried or cast down, much less paralysed by a disaster. When
not rejoicing like the hunter on the traces of the game, he was
cool, resolute, and determined, evidently “to do or die.” The
mens œqua in arduis shone in the piercing blue eye, and his undaunted
bearing betrayed a soul which did not mean to yield—
which might be crushed and shattered, but would not bend.
When pushed hard and hunted down by a swarm of foes, as he
was more than once, Stuart presented a splendid spectacle. He
met the assault like an athlete of the Roman amphitheatre, and
fought with the ferocity of a tiger. He looked “dangerous”
at such moments; and those adversaries who knew him best,
advanced upon their great opponent thus standing at bay, with a
caution which was born of experience.
These observations apply with especial justice to the various
occasions when Stuart held with his cavalry cordon the country
north of the Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge, while
General Lee either advanced or retired through the gaps of the
mountains. The work which he did here will remain among his
most important services. He is best known to the world by his
famous “raids,” as they were erroneously called, by his circuits
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of McClellan's army in Virginia and in Maryland, and other
movements of a similar character. This, however, was not his
great work. He will live in history as the commander of Lee's
cavalry, and for the great part he played in that leader's most
important movements. What Lee designed when he moved
Northward, or fell back from the valley, it was a matter of the
utmost interest to the enemy to know, and persistent efforts were
made by them to strike the Confederate flank and discover.
Stuart was, however, in the way with his cavalry. The road to
the Blue Ridge was obstructed; and somewhere near Middleburg,
Upperville, or Paris, the advancing column would find the
wary cavalier. Then took place an obstinate, often desperate
struggle—on Stuart's part to hold his ground; on the enemy's
part to break through the cordon. Crack troops—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—were sent upon this important work,
and the most determined officers of the United States Army
commanded them.
Then came the tug of war. Stuart must meet whatever force
was brought against him, infantry as well as cavalry, and match
himself with the best brains of the Federal army in command
of them. It was often “diamond cut diamond.” In the fields
around Upperville, and everywhere along the road to Ashby's
Gap, raged a war of giants. The infantry on both sides heard
the distant roar of the artillery crowning every hill, and thought
the cavalry was skirmishing a little. The guns were only the
signal of a hand-to-hand struggle. Desperate charges were
made upon them; sabres clashed, carbines banged; in one
great hurly-burly of rushing horses, ringing sabres, cracking
pistols, and shouts which deafened, the opposing columns clashed
together. If Stuart broke them, he pressed them hotly, and
never rested until he swept them back for miles. If they broke
Stuart, he fell back with the obstinate ferocity of a bull-dog;
fought with his sharpshooters in every field, with his Horse Artillery
upon every knoll; and if they “crowded him” too closely
he took command of his column, and went at them with the
sabre, resolved to repulse them or die. It was upon this great
theatre that he displayed all his splendid faculties of nerve,
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judgment, dash, and obstinacy—his quickness of conception,
rapidity of decision, and that fire of onset before which few
opponents could stand. The infantry did not know much about
these hot engagements, and cherished the flattering view that they
did all the fighting. General Lee, however, knew accurately
what was done, and what was not done. In Spotsylvania, after
Stuart's fall, he exclaimed: “If Stuart only were here! I can
scarcely think of him without weeping.”
The great cavalier had protected the Southern flanks upon a
hundred movements; guarded the wings upon many battle-fields,
penetrated the enemy's designs, and given General Lee information
in every campaign; and now when the tireless brain was
still, and the piercing eyes were dim, the country began to comprehend
the full extent of the calamity at Yellow Tavern, in
May, 1864, and to realize the irreparable loss sustained by the
cause when this bulwark fell.
I have noticed Stuart's stubbornness, nerve, and coolness. His
dash and impetuosity in the charge have scarcely been alluded
to, and yet it was these characteristics of the man which chiefly
impressed the public mind. On a former page he has been compared
to Rupert, the darling of love and war, who was never so
well satisfied as when dashing against the Roundhead pikes and
riding down his foes. Stuart seems to have inherited that trait
of the family blood—for it seems tolerably well established that
he and Rupert were descended from the same stock, and scions
of that family which has given to the world men of brain and
courage, as well as faineans and libertines. To notice briefly
this not uninteresting point, the “family likeness” in the traits
of Stuart and Prince Rupert is very curious. Both were utterly
devoted to a principle which was their life-blood—in Rupert it
was the love of royalty, in Stuart the love of Virginia. Both
were men of the most impetuous temper, chafing at opposition,
and ready at any instant to match themselves against their adversaries,
and conquer or die. Both were devoted to the “love of
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ladies,” gallant to the echo; of a proud and splendid loyalty to
their word; of unshrinking courage; kind and compassionate
in temper, gay and smiling in address; fonder of fighting than
of looking to the commissariat; adored by their men, who
approached them without fear of a repulse; cavalry-men in every
drop of their blood; fond of brilliant colours, splendid pageants,
the notes of the bugle, the glitter of arms: Rupert with his
snowy plume, Stuart with his black one;—both throwing over
their shoulders capes of dazzling scarlet, unworn by men who
are not attached to gay colours; both taking a white dog for a
pet; both proud, gay, unswerving, indomitable, disdainful of
low things, passionately devoted to glory; both men in brain
and character at an age when others are mere boys; both famous
before thirty—and for ever—such were the points of resemblance
between these two men. Those familiar with the character of
the greatest cavalry-man of the English struggle, and with the
traits of Stuart, the most renowned of the recent conflict, will
not fail to see the likeness.
But I pass to “Stuart in the charge.” Here the man was
superb. It was in attack, after all, that his strongest faculties
were exhibited. Indeed, the whole genius and temperament of
the Virginian were for advancing, not retreating. He could fall
back stubbornly, as has been shown; and he certainly did so in
a masterly manner, disputing every inch of ground with his
adversary, and giving way to an enemy's advance under bloody
protest. At these times he displayed the obstinate temper of the
old Ironsides of Cromwell, when they retired in serried ranks,
ready to turn as they slowly retreated, and draw blood with their
iron claws. But when advancing upon an adversary—more
than all in the impetuous charge—Stuart was no longer the
Roundhead; he was the Cavalier. Cavalier he was by birth
and breeding and temperament; and he sprang to meet an
enemy, as Rupert drove forward in the hot struggle of the past
in England. You could see, then, that Stuart was in his element.
Once having formed his column for the charge, and given
his ringing order to “Form in fours! draw sabre!” it was neck
or nothing. When he thus “came to the sabre,” there was no
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such word as fail with him. Once in motion to hurl his column
against his adversary, he seemed to act upon the Scriptural precept
to forget those things which were behind, and press on to
those which were before. That was the enemy in front; and to
ride over, and cut right and left among them, was the work
before him. At such moments there was something grand in
the magnificent fire and rush of the soldier. He seemed strong
enough to ride down a world. Only a glance was needed to
tell you that this man had made up his mind to break through
and trample under foot what opposed him, or “die trying.”
His men knew this; and, when he took personal command of
the column, as he most often did, prepared for tough work. His
occasional roughness of address to both officers and men had made
him bitter enemies, but the admiration which he aroused was
unbounded. The men were often heard to say, in critical places:
“There goes old Jeb to the front, boys; it's all right.” And an
officer whom he had offended, and who hated him bitterly,
declared with an oath that he was the greatest cavalry commander
that had ever lived. The reported words of General
Sedgwiek, of the United States Army, may be added here:
“Stuart is the greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America.”
The impetuosity here noted was undoubtedly one of the most
striking traits of the man. In a charge, Stuart seemed on fire,
and was more the Chief of Squadron than the Corps Commander.
He estimated justly his own value as a fighting man, when he
said one day: “My proper place would be major of artillery;”
and it is certain that in command of a battalion of field-pieces,
he would have fought until the enemy were at the very
muzzles of his guns. But in the cavalry he had even a better
field for his love of close fighting. To come to the sabre best
suited his fiery organization, and he did come to it, personally,
on many occasions. He preferred saying, “Come on” to “Go
on.” The men declared that he was reckless, but no one could
say that he had ever sent his column where he was not ready to
go himself. If he made a headlong and determined attack upon
an overpowering force—a thing common with him—he was in
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front himself, or fighting among the men. He never seemed to
feel, as far as my observation went, that his life was any more
valuable than that of the humblest private soldier. After one
of these occasions of reckless exposure of himself, I said to him:
“General, you ought not to put yourself in the way of the
bullets so; some day you will be killed.” He sighed and
replied: “Oh, I reckon not; but if I am, they will easily find
somebody to fill my place.” He had evidently determined to
spend and be spent in the Southern struggle, which had aroused
his most passionate sympathies. This love of native land came
to add a magnificent fervour to the natural combativeness of the
man. As a “free lance,” Stuart would have been careless of
his person; but in the Southern struggle he was utterly
reckless.
This indifference to danger was evidently a trait of blood, and
wholly unaffected. Nor, for a long time, did his incessant exposure
of himself bring him so much as a scratch. On all the
great battle-fields of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as
well as in the close and bitter conflicts of his cavalry at Fleetwood,
Auburn, Upperville, Middleburg, South Mountain,
Monocacy, Williamsport, Shepherdstown, Paris, Barbee's, Jeffersonton,
Culpeper Court-House, Brandy, Kelly's Ford, Spotsylvania—
in these, and a hundred other hotly-contested actions,
he was in the very thickest of the fight, cheering on the sharpshooters,
directing his artillery, or leading his column in the
charge, but was never hurt. Horses were shot under him, bullets
struck his equipments, pierced his clothes, or cut off curls of
his hair, as at Fredericksburg, but none ever wounded him. In
the closest melée of clashing sabres the plume of Stuart was
unscathed; no sword's edge ever touched him. He seemed to
possess a charmed life, and to be invulnerable, like Achilles.
Shell, canister, and round-shot tore their way through the ranks
around him, overthrowing men and horses—many a brave fellow
at his side fell, pierced by the hissing bullets of Federal carbines—
but Stuart, like Rupert, never received a wound. The ball
which struck and laid him low at the Yellow Tavern on that
black day of May, 1864, was the first which touched him in the
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war. In a hundred battles they had passed to the left and right
of him, sparing him.
The foregoing presents as accurate an outline of Stuart as the
present writer, after a close association with him for two or three
years, could draw. No trait is feigned or fanciful, and the picture
is not exaggerated, though it may seem so to some. The
organization of this man was exceptional and very remarkable.
The picture seems a fancy piece, perhaps, but it is the actual
portrait. The gaiety, nerve, courage, dash, and stubborn resolution
of that man were as great as here described. These were
the actual traits which made him fill so great a space in the public
eye; and as what he effected was not “done in a corner,” so
what he was became plain to all.
He was hated bitterly by some who had felt the weight of his
hot displeasure at their shortcomings, and some of these people
tried to traduce and slander him. They said he was idle and
negligent of his duties—he, the hardest worker and most wary
commander I ever saw. They said, in whispers behind his
back—in that tone which has been described as “giggle-gabble”—
that he thought more of dancing, laughing, and trifling with
young ladies than of his military work, when those things were
only the relaxations of the man after toil. They said that ladies
could wheedle and cajole him—when he arrested hundreds,
remained inexorable to their petitions, and meted out to the
“fairest eyes that ever have shone” the strictest military justice.
They said that he had wreaths of flowers around his horse, and
was “frolicking” with his staff at Culpeper Court-House, so
that his headquarters on Fleetwood Hill were surprised and captured
in June, 1863, when he had not been at the Court-House
for days; sent off every trace of his headquarters at dawn, six
hours before the enemy advanced; and was ready for them at
every point, and drove them back with heavy loss beyond the
river. In like manner the Sleeks sneered at his banjo, sneered
at his gay laughter, sneered at his plume, his bright colours, and
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his merry songs. The same good friends invented stories of
rebukes he had incurred from General Lee, when he uniformly
received from that great friend and commander the highest evidences
of regard and confidence. These winged arrows, shot in
secret by the hand of calumny, which in plain Saxon are called
lies, accompanied Stuart everywhere at one period of his career;
but the Southern people could not be brought to believe them.
They flushed the face of the proud and honest cavalier, sometimes,
and made the blue eyes flash; but what could he do?
The calumnies were nameless; their authors slunk into shadow,
and shrank from him. So he ended by laughing at them, as the
country did, and going on his way unmindful of them. He
answered slander by brave action—calumny by harder work,
more reckless exposure of himself, and by grander achievements.
Those secret enemies might originate the falsehoods aimed at
him from their safe refuge in some newspaper office, or behind
some other “bomb-proof” shelter—he would fight. That was
his reply to them, and the scorn extinguished them. The honest
gentleman and great soldier was slandered, and he lived down
the slander—fighting it with his sword and his irreproachable
life, not with his tongue.
When death came to him in the bloom of manhood, and the
flush of a fame which will remain one of the supremest glories of
Virginia, Stuart ranked with the preux chevalier Bayard, the
knight “without reproach or fear.”
The brief and splendid career in which he won his great
renown, and that name of the “Flower of Cavaliers,” has
scarcely been touched on in this rapid sketch. The arduous
work which made him so illustrious has not been described—I
have been able to give only an outline of the man. That picture
may be rude and hasty, but it is a likeness. This was
Stuart. The reader must have formed some idea of him, hasty
and brief as the delineation has necessarily been. I have tried
to draw him as the determined leader, full of fire and force; the
stubborn fighter; the impetuous cavalier in the charge; the, at
times, hasty and arrogant, but warm-hearted friend; the devoted
Christian, husband, and father; the gayest of companions; full
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of fun, frolic, laughter, courage, hope, buoyancy, and a certain
youthful joyousness which made his presence like the sunshine.
Upon this last trait I have dwelt much—the youth, and joy,
and hope, which shone in his brilliant eyes and rang in his
sonorous laughter. He passed before you like an incarnate
spring, all mirth and sunshine; but behind was the lightning.
In those eyes as fresh and blue as the May morning, lurked the
storm and the thunderbolt. Beneath the flowers was the hard
steel battle-axe. With that weapon he struck like Cœur de Lion,
and few adversaries stood before it. The joy, romance, and
splendour of the early years of chivalry flamed in his regard, and
his brave blood drove him on to combat. In the lists, at Camelot,
he would have charged “before the eyes of ladies and of
kings,” like Arthur; on the arena of the war in Virginia he followed
his instincts. Bright eyes were ever upon the daring
cavalier there, and his floating plume was like Henry of Navarre's
to many stout horsemen who looked to him as their chosen
leader; but, better still, the eyes of Lee and Jackson were fixed
on him with fullest confidence. Jackson said, when his wound
disabled him at Chancellorsville, and Stuart succeeded him:
“Go back to General Stuart and tell him to act upon his own
judgment, and do what he thinks best—I have implicit confidence
in him.” In Spotsylvania, as we have seen, General Lee
“could scarcely think of him without weeping.” The implicit
confidence of Jackson, and the tears of Lee, are enough to fill
the measure of one man's life and fame.
Such was Stuart—such the figure which moved before the
eyes of the Southern people for those three years of glorious
encounters, and then fell like some “monarch of the woods,”
which makes the whole forest resound as it crashes down.
Other noble forms there were; but that “heart of oak” of the
stern, hard fibre, the stubborn grain, even where it lies is mightiest.
Even dead and crumbled into dust, the form of Stuart
still fills the eye, and the tallest dwindle by his side—he seems
so great.
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At five in the evening, on the 27th of June, 1862, General
Stonewall Jackson made his appearance on the field of Cold
Harbour. Fresh from the hot conflicts of the Valley—an
athlete covered with the dust and smoke of the arena—he came
now with his veteran battalions to enter upon the still more
desperate conflicts of the lowland.
At that time many persons asked, “Who is Jackson?” All
we then knew of the famous leader was this—that he was born a
poor boy beyond the Alleghanies; managed to get to West
Point; embarked in the Mexican war as lieutenant of artillery,
where he fought his guns with such obstinacy that his name
soon became renowned; and then, retiring from active service,
became a Professor at the Lexington Military School. Here
the world knew him only as an eccentric but deeply pious man,
and a somewhat commonplace lecturer. Stiff and rigid in his
pew at church, striding awkwardly from his study to his lectureroom,
ever serious, thoughtful, absent minded in appearance—
such was the figure of the future Lieutenant-General, the estimate
of whose faculties by the gay young students may be
imagined from their nickname for him, “Fool Tom Jackson.”
In April, 1861, Fool Tom Jackson became Colonel of Virginia
volunteers, and went to Harper's Ferry, soon afterwards fighting
General Patterson at Falling Water, thence descending to
Manassas. Here the small force—2,611 muskets—of Brigadier-General
Jackson saved the day. Without them the Federal
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column would have flanked and routed Beauregard. Bee,
forced back, shattered and overwhelmed, galloped up to Jackson
and groaned out, “General, they are beating us back!” Jackson's
set face did not move. “Sir,” he said, “we will give them
the bayonet.” Without those 2,611 muskets that morning,
good-by to Beauregard! In the next year came the Valley
campaign; the desperate and most remarkable fight at Kernstown;
the defeat and retreat of Banks from Strasburg and Winchester;
the retreat, in turn, of his great opponent, timed with
such mathematical accuracy, that at Strasburg he strikes with
his right hand and his left the columns of Fremont and Shields,
closing in from east and west to destroy him—strikes them and
passes through, continuing his retreat up the Valley. Then
comes the last scene—finis coronat. At Port Republic his
adversaries strike at him in two columns. He throws himself
against Fremont at Cross Keys and checks his advance; then
attacks Shields beyond the river, and after one of the hottest
battles of the war, fought nearly man to man, defeats himTroops
never fought better than the Federals there, but they
were defeated; and Jackson, by forced marches, hastened to fall
upon McClellan's right wing on the Chickahominy.
These events had, in June, 1862, attracted all eyes to Jackson.
People began to associate his name with the idea of unvarying
success, and to regard him as the incarnate genius of victory.
War seemed in his person to have become a splendid pageant of
unceasing triumph; and from the smoke of so many battle-fields
rose before the imaginative public eye, the figure of a
splendid soldier on his prancing steed, with his fluttering banner,
preceded by bugles, and advancing in all the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of glorious war. The actual man was somewhat
different; and in this sketch I shall try to draw his outline
as he really looked. In doing so, an apparent egotism will be
necessary; but this may be pardoned as inseparable from the
subject. What men see is more interesting than what they
think, often; what the writer saw of this great man will here be
recorded.
It was late in the afternoon of this memorable day, and A. P.
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Hill had just been repulsed with heavy slaughter from General
McClellan's admirable works near New Cold Harbour, when
the writer of this was sent by General Stuart to ascertain if
Jackson's crops had gone in, and what were his dispositions for
battle. A group near a log cabin, twenty paces from Old Cold
Harbour House, was pointed out to me; and going there, I asked
for the General. Some one pointed to a figure seated on a log—
dingy, bending over, and writing on his kness. A faded,
yellow cap of the cadet pattern was drawn over his eyes; his
fingers, holding a pencil, trembled. His voice, in addressing
me, was brief, curt, but not uncourteous; and then, his dispatch
having been sent, he mounted and rode slowly alone across
the field. A more curious figure I never saw. He sat his rawboned
sorrel—not the “old sorrel,” however—like an automaton.
Kness drawn up, body leaning forward; the whole figure
stiff, angular, unbending. His coat was the dingiest of the
dingy; originally gray, it seemed to have brought away some
of the dust and dirt of every region in which he had bivouacked.
His faded cap was pulled down so low upon the forehead that
he was compelled to raise his chin into the air to look from
beneath the rim. Under that rim flashed two keen and piercing
eyes—dark, with a strange brilliancy, and full of “fight.” The
nose was prominent; the moustache heavy upon the firm lip,
close set beneath; the rough, brown beard did not conceal the
heavy fighting jaw. All but the eye was in apparent respose;
there was no longer any tretnor of anxiety. The soldier seemed
to have made all his arrangements, “done his best,” and he
evidently awaited the result with entire coolness. There was
even something absent and abstracted in his manner, as he rode
slowly to and fro, sucking a lemon, and looking keenly at you
when you spoke, answering briefly when necessary.
Twice more I saw him that day—first in the evening, in the
midst of a furious shelling, riding slowly with General Stuart
among his guns; his face lit up by the burning brushwood—a
face perfectly calm and unmoved. And again at midnight,
when, as I slept in a fence corner, I felt a hand upon my shoulder,
and a voice said, “Where is the General?” It was
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Jackson, riding about by himself; and he tied his horse, lay
down beside General Stuart, and began with, “Well, yesterday's
was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard!” Words of
unwonted animation coming from Jackson—that most matter-of-fact
of speakers, and expressing much.
From this time, Jackson became the idol of his troops and the
country. Wherever he moved among the camps he was met
by cheers; and so unvarying was this reception of him, that a
distant yell would often draw from his men the exclamation,
“That's Jackson or a rabbit!” the sight of the soldier or the
appearance of a hare being alone adequate to arouse this tremendous
excitement. From the day of Cold Harbour, success continued
to crown him—at Cedar Mountain, the second Manassas,
Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, where he met the full weight of
McClellan's right wing under Hooker, and repulsed it, and
Chancellorsville. When he died, struck down by the hands of
his own men, he was the most famous and the most beloved of
Southern commanders.
His popularity was great in degree, but more singular in
character. No general was ever so beloved by the good and
pious of the land. Old ladies received him wherever he went
with a species of enthusiasm, and I think he preferred their
society and that of clergymen to any other. In such society his
kindly nature seemed to expand, and his countenance was
charming. He would talk for hours upon religious subjects,
never weary, it seemed, of such discourse, and at such moments
his smile had the sweetness and simplicity of childhood. The
hard intellect was resting, and the heart of the soldier spoke in
this congenial converse upon themes more dear to him than all
others. I have seen him look serene and perfectly happy, conversing
with a venerable lady upon their relative religious
experiences. Children were also great favourites with him, and
he seldom failed to make them love him. When at his headquarters
below Fredericksburg, in 1863, he received a splendid
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new cap, gorgeous with a broad band of dazzling gold braid,
which was greatly admired by a child one day in his quarters.
Thereupon Jackson drew her between his knees, ripped off the
braid, and binding it around her curls, sent her away delighted.
With maidens of more advanced age, however, the somewhat
shy General was less at his ease. At “Hayfield,” near the
same headquarters, and about the same time, the hospitable
family were one day visited by Generals Lee, Jackson, and
Stuart, when a little damsel of fourteen confided to her friend
General Lee her strong desire to kiss General Jackson. General
Lee, always fond of pleasantry, at once informed Jackson of the
young lady's desire, and the great soldier's face was covered
with blushes and confusion. An amusing picture, too, is drawn
of the General when he fell into the hands of the ladies of
Martinsburg, and they cut off almost every button of his coat
as souvenirs. The beleaguered hero would have preferred
storming a line of intrenchments.
Jackson had little humour. He was not sour or gloomy, nor
did he look grimly upon “fun” as something which a good
Presbyterian should avoid. He was perfectly cheerful, liberal
and rational in this as in everything; but he had no ear for
humour, as some persons have none for music. A joke was a
mysterious affair to him. Only when so very “broad” and
staring, that he who ran might read it, did humour of any sort
strike Jackson. Even his thick coating of matter-of-fact was
occasionally pierced, however. At Port Republic a soldier said
to his companion: “I wish these Yankees were in hell,” whereupon
the other replied: “I don't; for if they were, old Jack
would be within half a mile of them, with the Stonewall Brigade
in front!” When this was told to Jackson, he is said to
have burst out into hearty laughter, most unusual of sounds upon
the lips of the serious soldier. But such enjoyment of fun was
rare with him. I was never more struck with this than one day
at Fredericksburg, at General Stuart's headquarters. There was
an indifferent brochure published in those days, styled “Abram,
a Poem,” in the comic preface to which, Jackson was presented
in a most ludicrous light, seated on a stump at Oxhill and
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gnawing at a roasting ear, while a whole North Carolina brigade
behind him in line of battle was doing likewise. General Stuart
read it with bursts of laughter to his friend, and Jackson also
laughed with perfect good-humour; but no sooner had the book
been closed than he seemed to forget its existence, and said with
an irresistibly matter-of-fact expression which made this writer
retire to indulge his own laughter: “By the by, in going to Culpeper,
where did you cross the Rapidan?” His manner was
unmistakable. It said: “My dear Stuart, all that is no doubt
very amusing to you, and I laugh because you do; but it don't
interest me.” On one occasion only, to the knowledge of the
present writer, did Jackson betray something like dry humour.
It was at Harper's Ferry, in September, 1862, just after the surrender
of that place, and when General Lee was falling back
upon Sharpsburg. Jackson was standing on the bridge over
the Potomac when a courier, out of breath, and seriously “demoralized,”
galloped up to him, and announced that McClellan
was within an hour's march of the place with an enormous army.
Jackson was conversing with a Federal officer at the moment,
and did not seem to hear the courier, who repeated his message
with every mark of agitation. Thereupon Jackson turned round
and said: “Has he any cattle with him?” The reply was that
there were thousands. “Well,” said Jackson, with his dry smile,
“you can go. My men can whip any army that comes well
provisioned.” Of wit, properly speaking, he had little. But
at times his brief, wise, matter-of-fact sentences became epigrammatic.
Dr. Hunter McGuire, his medical director, once gave
him some whiskey when he was wet and fatigued. Jackson made
a wry face in swallowing it, and Dr. McGuire asked if it was
not good whiskey. “Oh, yes,” replied Jackson, “I like liquor,
the taste and effect—that's why I don't drink it.”
I have endeavoured to draw an outline of Jackson on horseback—
the stiff, gaunt figure, dingy costume, piercing eyes; the
large, firm, iron mouth, and the strong fighting-jaw. A few
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more words upon these personal peculiarities. The soldier's
face was one of decided character, but not eminently striking.
One circumstance always puzzled me—Jackson's lofty forehead
seemed to indicate unmistakably a strong predominance of the
imagination and fancy, and a very slight tendency or aptitude
for mathematics. It was the forehead of a poet!—the statement
is almost a jest. Jackson the stern, intensely matter-of-fact
mathematician, a man of fancy! Never did forehead so contradict
phrenology before. A man more guiltless of “poetry” in
thought or deed, I suppose never lived. His poetry was the
cannon's flash, the rattle of musketry, and the lurid cloud of battle.
Then, it is true, his language, ordinarily so curt and cold,
grew eloquent, almost tragic and heroic at times, from the deep
feeling of the man. At Malvern Hill, General — received
an order from Jackson to advance and attack the Federal forces
in their fortified position, for which purpose he must move
across an open field swept by their artillery. General — was
always “impracticable,” though thoroughly brave, and galloping
up to Jackson said, almost rudely, “Did you send me an
order to advance over that field?” “I did, sir,” was the cold
reply of Jackson, in whose eyes began to glow the light of a
coming storm. “Impossible, sir!” exclaimed General — in
a tone almost of insubordination, “my men will be annihilated!—
annihilated, I tell you, sir!” Jackson raised his finger, and
in his cold voice there was an accent of menace which cooled
his opponent like a hand of ice.
“General —,” he said, “I always endeavour to take care of
my wounded and to bury my dead. Obey that order, sir!”
The officer who was present at this scene and related it to me,
declares that he never saw a deeper suppression of concentrated
anger than that which shone in Jackson's eye, or heard a human
voice more menacing.
There were other times when Jackson, stung and aroused,
was driven from his propriety, or, at least, out of his coolness.
The winter of 1861-2 was such an occasion. He had made his
expedition to Morgan county, and, in spite of great suffering
among the troops, had forced the Federal garrisons at Bath and
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Romney to retire, and accomplished all hisends. General Loring
was then left at Romney, and Jackson returned to Winchester.
All that is well known. What follows is not known to many.
General Loring conceived an intense enmity for Jackson, and
made such representations at Richmond, that an order was sent
to Loring direct, not through Jackson, commanding in the Valley,
recalling him. Jackson at once sent in his resignation.
The scene which took place between him and his friend Colonel
Boteler, thereupon, was a stormy one. The Colonel in vain
tried to persuade him that he ought to recall his resignation.
“No, sir,” exclaimed Jackson, striding fiercely up and down,
“I will not hold a command upon terms of that sort. I will
not have those people at Richmond interfering in my plans, and
sending orders to an officer under me, without even informing
me. No soldier can endure it. I care not for myself. If I
know myself I do not act from anger—but if I yield now they
will treat better men in the same way! I am nobody—but the
protest must be made here, or Lee and Johnston will be meddled
with as I am.” It was only after the resignation had been withdrawn
by the Governor of Virginia without his authority, and
explanations, apologies, protestations, came from the head of the
War Office, that the design was given up. Such is a little morceau
of private history, showing how Jackson came near not
commanding in the Valley in 1862.
With the exception of these rare occasions when his great
passions were aroused, Jackson was an apparently commonplace
person, and his bearing neither striking, graceful, nor impressive.
He rode ungracefully, walked with an awkward stride, and
wanted ease of manner. He never lost a certain shyness in
company; and I remember his air of boyish constraint, one
day, when, in leaving an apartment full of friends, he hesitated
whether to shake hands with every one or not. Catching the
eye of the present writer, who designed remaining, he hastily
extended his hand, shook hands, and quickly retired, apparently
relieved. His bearing thus wanted ease; but, personally, he
made a most agreeable impression by his delightfully natural
courtesy. His smile was as sweet as a child's, and evidently
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sprang from his goodness of heart. A lady said it was “angelic.”
His voice in ordinary conversation was subdued, and
pleasant from its friendly and courteous tone, though injured by
the acquired habit—a West Pointism—of cutting off, so to speak,
each word, and leaving each to take care of itself. This was
always observable in his manner of talking; but briefest of the
brief, curtest of the curt, was General Stonewall Jackson on the
field of battle and “at work.” His words were then let fall as
though under protest; all superfluities were discarded; and the
monosyllables jerked from his lips seemed clipped off, one by
one, and launched to go upon separate ways. The eccentricities
of the individual were undoubtedly a strong element of his popularity;
the dress, habits, bearing of the man, all made his soldiers
adore him. General Lee's air of collected dignity, mingled
with a certain grave and serious pride, aroused rather admiration
than affection—though during the last years of the war, the
troops came to love as much as they admired him: to arrive at
which point they had only to know the great warm heart which
beat under that calm exterior, making its possessor “one altogether
lovely.” Jackson's appearance and manners, on the contrary,
were such as conciliate a familiar, humorous liking. His
dingy old coat, than which scarce a private's in his command
was more faded; his dilapidated and discolored cap; the absence
of decorations and all show in his dress; his odd ways;
his kindly, simple manner; his habit of sitting down and eating
with his men; his indifference whether his bed were in a comfortable
headquarter tent, on a camp couch, or in a fence corner
with no shelter from the rain but his cloak; his abstemiousness,
fairness, honesty, simplicity; his never-failing regard for the
comfort and the feelings of the private soldier; his oddities,
eccentricities, and originalities—all were an unfailing provocative
to liking, and endeared him to his men. Troops are charmed
when there is anything in the personal character of a great
leader to “make fun of”—admiration of his genius then becomes
enthusiasm for his person. Jackson had aroused this
enthusiasm in his men—and it was a weapon with which he
struck hard.
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One of the most curious peculiarities of Jackson was the
strange fashion he had of raising his right hand aloft and then
letting it fall suddenly to his side. It is impossible, perhaps, to
determine the meaning of this singular gesture. It is said that
he had some physical ailment which he thus relieved; others
believed that at such moments he was praying. Either may be
the fact. Certain it is that he often held his hand, sometimes
both hands, thus aloft in battle, and that his lips were then seen
to move, evidently in prayer. Not once, but many times, has
the singular spectacle been presented of a Lieutenant-General
commanding, sitting on his horse silently as his column moved
before him—his hands raised to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips
moving in prayer. At Chancellorsville, as he recognised the
corpses of any of his old veterans, he would check his horse,
raise his hands to heaven, and utter a prayer over the dead body.
There were those who said that all this indicated a partial
species of insanity—that Jackson's mind was not sound. Other
stories are told of him which aim to show that his eccentricities
amounted to craziness. Upon this point the philosophers and
physiologists must decide. The present writer can only say that
Jackson appeared to him to be an eminently rational, judicious,
and sensible person in conversation; and the world must determine
whether there was any “craze,” any flaw or crack, or error,
in the terribly logical processes of his brain as a fighter of
armies. The old incredulity of Frederick will obtrude itself
upon the mind. If Jackson was crazy, it is a pity he did not
bite somebody, and inoculate them with a small amount of his
insanity as a soldier. Unquestionably the most striking trait of
Jackson as a leader was his unerring judgment and accuracy of
calculation. The present writer believes himself to be familiar
with every detail of his career, and does not recall one blunder.
Kernstown was fought upon information furnished by General
Ashby, a most accomplished and reliable partisan, which turned
out to be inaccurate; but even in defeat Jackson there accomplished
the very important object of retaining a large Federal
force in the Valley, which McClellan needed on the Chickahominy.
For instances of the boldness, fertility, and originality
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of his conceptions, take the campaigns against General Pope,
the surprise of Harper's Ferry, the great flank attack at Chancellorsville,
and the marvellous success of every step taken in
the campaign of the Valley. This is not the occasion for an
analysis of these campaigns; but it may be safely declared that
they are magnificent illustrations of the mathematics of war;
that the brain which conceived and executed designs so bold and
splendid, must have possessed a sanity for all practical purposes
difficult to dispute.
Jackson's religious opinions are unknown to the present writer.
He has been called a “fatalist.” All sensible men are fatalists
in one sense, in possessing a strong conviction that “what will
be, will be.” But men of deep piety like Jackson, are not Oriental
in their views. Fate was a mere word with Jackson, with
no meaning; his “star” was Providence. Love for and trust
in that Providence dwelt and beat in every vein and pulse of
his nature. His whole soul was absorbed in his religion—as
much as a merchant's is in his business, or a statesman's in public
affairs. He believed that life “meant intensely, and meant
good.” To find its meaning was “his meat and drink.” His
religion was his life, and the real world a mere phantasmagoria.
He seemed to have died rejoicing, preferring death to life.
Strange madness! This religious dreamer was the stern, practical,
mathematical calculator of chances; the obstinate, unyielding
fighter; the most prosaic of realists in all the commonplaces
of the dreadfully commonplace trade of war.
The world knocks down many people with that cry of “eccentric,”
by which is really meant “insane.” Any divergence from
the conventional is an evidence of mental unsoundness. Jackson
was seen, once in Lexington, walking up and down in a
heavy rain before the superintendent's quarters, waiting for the
clock to strike ten before he delivered his report. He wore
woollen clothes throughout the summer. He would never mail
a letter which to reach its destination must travel on Sunday.
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All these things made him laughed at; and yet the good sense
seems all on his side, the folly on that of the laughers. The Institute
was a military school; military obedience was the great
important lesson to the student—rigid, unquestioning obedience.
Jackson set them the example. He was ordered to hand in his
report at ten, and did not feel himself at liberty to present it before
ten, in consequence of the rain. He was ordered to don a
woollen uniform in the winter, and having received no order
preseribing or permitting another, continued to wear it. He
considered it wrong to travel or carry mails on Sunday, and
would not take part in the commission of wrong. This appears
logical, however eccentric.
In truth, the great soldier was an altogether earnest man, with
little genius for the trivial pursuits of life, or its more trivial
processes of thought and opinion. His temper was matter-of-fact,
his logic straightforward; “nonsense” could not live in
his presence. The lighter graces were denied him, but not the
abiding charm. He had no eye for the “flower of the peas,” no
palate for the bubble on the champagne of life; but he was true,
kind, brave, and simple. Life with him was a hard, earnest
struggle; duty seems to have been his watchword. It is hard
to find in his character any actual blot—he was so true and
honest.
Jackson has probably excited more admiration in Europe
than any other personage in the late revolution. His opponents
even are said to have acknowledged the purity of his motives—
to have recognised the greatness of his character and the splendor
of his achievements. This sentiment springs naturally from
a review of his life. It is no part of my design to present a
critical analysis of his military movements. This must sooner
or later be done; but at present the atmosphere is not clear of
the battle-smoke, and figures are seen indistinctly. The time
will come when the campaigns of Jackson will become the study
of military men in the Old World and the New—the masterly advances
and retreats of the Valley; the descent against McClellan;
the expedition to Pope's rear, which terminated in the
second battle of Manassas; and the great flank movement at
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Chancellorsville, which has made the tangled brakes of the
Spotsylvania wilderness famous for ever.
Under the grave exterior, the reserved demeanour, the old
faded costume of the famous soldier, the penetrating student of
human nature will discern “one of the immortals.” In the man
who holds aloft his hand in prayer while his veteran battalions
move by steadily to the charge, it will not be difficult to fancy
a reproduction of the stubborn Cromwell, sternest of Ironsides,
going forth to conquer in the name of the Lord. In the man
who led his broken lines back to the conflict, and charged in
front of them on many fields, there was all the dash and impetus
of Rupert. The inscrutable decree of Providence struck
down this great soldier in the prime of life and the bloom of his
faculties. His career extended over but two years, and he lives
only in memory. But history cannot avoid her landmarks; the
great proportions of Stonewall Jackson will sooner or later be
delineated.
The writer of these lines can only say how great this man
appeared to him, and wait with patience for the picture which
shall “denote him truly.”
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WADE HAMPTON'S CAVALRY FIGHT AT GETTYSBURG.—Page 57.
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THERE was a gentleman of South Carolina, of high position and
ample estate, who in 1861 came to take part in the war in
Virginia, at the head of a “Legion” of six hundred infantry.
This body of men, it was said, he had equipped from his own
purse; as he had sent to England and purchased the artillery
with which he was going to fight.
The “Legion” was composed of brave stuff, and officered by
hard-fighting gentlemen—the flower indeed of the great South
Carolina race; a good stock. It first took the field in earnest at
the first battle of Manassas—as an independent organization,
belonging neither to Beauregard's “Army of the Potomac” nor
to Johnston's “Army of the Shenandoah.” But there it was, as
though dropped from the clouds, on the morning of that fiery
twenty-first of July, 1861, amid the corn-fields of Manassas.
It made its mark without loss of time—stretching out to Virginia
that firm, brave hand of South Carolina. At ten o'clock
in the morning, on this eventful day, the battle seemed lost to
the Southerners. Evans was cut to pieces; Bee shattered and
driven back in utter defeat to the Henry-House hill; between
the victorious enemy and Beauregard's unprotected flank were
interposed only the six hundred men of the “Legion” already
up, and the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson not yet in position. The Legion occupied the Warrenton
road near the Stone House, where it met and sustained
with stubborn front the torrent dashed against it. General
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Keyes, with his division, attacked the six hundred from the
direction of Red-House ford, and his advance line was forced
back by them, and compelled to take refuge beneath the bluffs
near Stone bridge. The column of General Hunter, mean while,
closed in on the left of the little band, enveloped their flank,
and poured a destructive artillery fire along the line. To hold
their ground further was impossible, and they slowly fell back;
but those precious moments had been secured. Jackson was in
position; the Legion retreated, and formed upon his right; the
enemy's advance was checked; and when the Southern line
advanced in its turn, with wild cheers, piercing the Federal centre,
the South Carolinians fought shoulder to shoulder beside
the Stonewall Brigade, and saw the Federal forces break in disorder.
When the sun set on this bloody and victorious field,
the “Legion” had made a record among the most honourable in
history. They had done more than their part in the hard struggle,
and now saw the enemy in full retreat; but their leader did not
witness that spectacle. Wade Hampton had been shot down in
the final charge near the Henry House, and borne from the field,
cheering on his men to the last, with that stubborn hardihood
which he derived from his ancestral blood.
Such was the first appearance upon the great arena of a man
who was destined to act a prominent part in the tragic drama of
the war, and win for himself a distinguished name. At Manassas,
there in the beginning of the struggle, as always afterwards,
he was the cool and fearless soldier. It was easily seen by those
who watched Hampton “at work” that he fought from a sense
of duty, and not from passion, or to win renown. The war was
a gala-day full of attraction and excitement to some; with him
it was hard work—not sought, but accepted. I am certain that
he was not actuated by a thirst for military rank or renown.
From those early days when all was gay and brilliant, to the
latter years when the conflict had become so desperate and
bloody, oppressing every heart, Hampton remained the same
cool, unexcited soldier. He was foremost in every fight, and
everywhere did more than his duty; but evidently martial ambition
did not move him. Driven to take up arms by his
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principles, he fought for those principles, not for fame. It followed
him—he did not follow it; and to contemplate the character and
career of such a man is wholesome.
His long and ardous career cannot here be narrated. A bare
reference to some prominent points is all that can be given.
Colonel Hampton, of the “Hampton Legion,” soon became
Brigadier-General Hampton, of the cavalry. The horsemen of
the Gulf States serving in Virginia were placed under him, and
the brigade became a portion of Stuart's command. It soon
made its mark. Here are some of the landmarks in the stirring
record.
The hard and stubborn stand made at the Catoctin Mountain,
when General Lee first invaded Maryland, and where Hampton
charged and captured the Federal artillery posted in the suburbs
of Frederick City; the rear-guard work as the Southern column
hastened on, pursued by McClellan, to Sharpsburg: the stout
fighting on the Confederate left there; the raid around McClellan's
army in October; the obstinate fighting in front of the
gaps of the Blue Ridge as Lee fell back in November to the line
of the Rappahannock; the expedition in dead of winter to the
Occoquan; the critical and desperate combat on the ninth of
June, 1863, at Fleetwood Hill, near Brandy, where Hampton
held the right, and Young, of Georgia, the brave of braves, went
at the flanking column of the enemy with the sabre, never firing
a shot, and swept them from the field; the speedy advance,
thereafter, from the Rapidan; the close and bitter struggle when
the enemy, with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry, and
artillery, about the twentieth of June, attacked the Southern
cavalry near Middleburg, and forced them back step by step
beyond Upperville, where in the last wild charge, when the
Confederates were nearly broken, Hampton went in with the
sabre at the head of his men and saved the command from
destruction by his “do or die” fighting; the advance immediately
into Pennsylvania, when the long, hard march, like the
verses of Ariosto, was strewed all over with battles; the stubborn
attack at Hanovertown, where Hampton stood like a rock upon
the hills above the place, and the never-ceasing or receding roar
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of his artillery told us that on the right flank all was well; the
march thereafter to Carlisle, and back to Gettysburg; the grand
charge there, sabre to sabre, where Hampton was shot through
the body, and nearly cut out of the saddle by a sabre blow upon
the head, which almost proved fatal; the hard conflicts of the
Wilderness, when General Grant came over in May, 1864; the
fighting on the north bank of the Po, and on the left of the
army at Spotsylvania Court-House; the various campaigns
against Sheridan, Kautz, Wilson, and the later cavalry leaders
on the Federal side, when, Stuart having fallen, Hampton commanded
the whole Virginia cavalry; the hot fights at Trevillian's,
at Reanis, at Bellfield, in a hundred places, when, in
those expiring hours of the great conflict, a species of fury
seemed to possess both combatants, and Dinwiddie was the arena
of a struggle, bitter, bloody, desperate beyond all expression;
then the fighting in the Carolinas on the old grounds of the
Edisto, the high hills of the Santee and Congaree, which in 1864
and 1865 sent bulletins of battle as before; then the last act of
the tragedy, when Sherman came and Hampton's sabre gleamed
in the glare of his own house at Columbia, and then was
sheathed—such were some of the scenes amid which the tall
form of this soldier moved, and his sword flashed. That stalwart
form had everywhere towered in the van. On the Rappahannock,
the Rapidan, the Susquehanna, the Shenandoah, the
Po, the North Anna, the James, the Rowanty, and Hatcher's
Run—in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania—Hampton had
fought with the stubborn courage inherited from his Revolution-ary
sires. Fighting lastly upon the soil of his native State, he
felt no doubt as Marion and Sumter did, when Rawdon and
Tarleton came and were met sabre to sabre. In the hot conflicts
of 1865, Hampton met the new enemy as those preux chevaliers
with their great Virginia comrade, “Light-House Harry” Lee,
had met the old in 1781.
But the record of those stubborn fights must be left to another
time and to abler hands. I pass to a few traits of the individual.
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Of this eminent soldier, I will say that, seeing him often in
many of those perilous straits which reveal hard fibre or its
absence, I always regarded him as a noble type of courage and
manhood—a gentleman and soldier “to the finger nails.” But
that is not enough; generalization and eulogy are unprofitable—
truth and minute characterization are better. One personal
anecdote of Cæsar would be far more valuable than a hundred
commonplaces—and that is true of others. It is not a “general
idea” I am to give; I would paint the portrait, if I can, of the
actual man. The individuality of the great South Carolinian
was very marked. You saw at a glance the race from which he
sprang, and the traits of heart and brain which he brought to
the hard contest. He was “whole in himself and due to none.”
Neither in physical nor mental conformation did he resemble
Stuart, the ideal cavalier—Forrest, the rough-rider—or the rest.
To compare him for an instant to the famous Stuart—the latter
laughed, sang, and revelled in youth and enjoyment. Hampton
smiled oftener than he laughed, never sang at all that I ever
heard, and had the composed demeanour of a man of middle age.
Stuart loved brilliant colours, gay scenes, and the sparkle of
bright eyes. Hampton gave little thought to these things; and
his plain gray coat, worn, dingy, and faded, beside the great
cavalier's gay “fighting jacket,” shining with gold braid, defined
the whole difference. I do not say that the dingy coat covered
a stouter heart than the brilliant jacket—there never lived a
more heroic soul than Stuart—but that in this was shown the
individuality of each. The one—Stuart—was young, gay, a
West Pointer, and splendid in his merriment, élan, and abandon.
The other, Hampton, a civilian approaching middle age, a
planter, not a soldier by profession—a man who embarked in
the arduous struggle with the coolness of the statesman, rather
than the ardor of the soldier. It was the planter, sword in hand,
not the United States officer, that one saw in Hampton—the
country gentleman who took up arms because his native soil was
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invaded, as the race of which he came had done in the past.
That the plain planter, without military education, became the
eminent soldier, is an evidence that “the strain will show.”
Here is an outline of the South Carolinian as he appeared in
July, 1862, when the cavalry were resting after the battles of the
Chickahominy, and he often came to the old shady yard of
Hanover Court-House, to talk with General Stuart under the
trees there. What the eye saw in those days was a personage of
tall stature and “distinguished” appearance. The face was
browned by sun and wind, and half covered by dark side-whiskers
joining a long moustache of the same hue; the chin bold,
prominent, and bare. The eyes were brown, inclining to black,
and very mild and friendly; the voice low, sonorous, and with a
certain accent of dignity and composure. The frame of the soldier—
straight, vigorous, and stalwart, but not too broad for grace—
was encased in a plain gray sack coat of civilian cut, with the
collar turned down; cavalry boots, large and serviceable, with
brass spurs; a brown felt hat, without star or feather; the rest of
the dress plain gray. Imagine this stalwart figure with a heavy
sabre buckled around the waist, and mounted upon a large and
powerful animal of excellent blood and action, but wholly “unshowy,”
and a correct idea will be obtained of General Wade
Hampton. Passing from the clothes to the man—what impressed
all who saw him was the attractive union of dignity and simplicity
in his bearing—a certain grave and simple courtesy which
indicated the highest breeding. He was evidently an honest
gentleman who disdained all pretence or artifice. It was plain
that he thought nothing of personal decorations or military show,
and never dreamed of “producing an impression” upon any one.
This was revealed by that bearing full of a proud modesty; neither
stiff nor insinuating—simple.
After being in his presence for ten minutes, you saw that he
was a man for hard work, and not for display. That plain and
unassuming manner, without pretension, affectation, or “official”
coolness, was an index to the character of the individual. It is
easy to tell a gentleman; something betrays that character, as
something betrays the pretender. Refinement, good-breeding,
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and fealty through all, to honour, were here embodied. The
General was as courteous to the humblest private soldier as to
the Commander-in-Chief, and you could discover in him no trace
whatever of that air of “condescension” and “patronage”
which small persons, aiming to be great, sometimes adopt. It
was the unforced courtesy of the gentleman, not the hollow
politeness of the pretender to that title, which all saw in
Hampton. He did not act at all, but lived his character.
In his voice, in his bearing, in all that he said and did, the
South Carolinian betrayed the man who is too proud not to be
simple, natural, and unassuming.
Upon this trait of manner, merely, I may seem to dwell too
long. But it is not a trifle. I am trying to delineate a man of
whom we Southerners are proud—and this rare grace was his.
It reflected clearly the character of the individual—the noble
pride, the true courtesy, and the high-bred honour of one who,
amid all the jarring strife of an excited epoch, would not suffer
his serene equanimity of gentleman to be disturbed; who aimed
to do his duty to his country, not rise above his associates; who
was no politer to the high than to the low, to the powerful than
to the weak; and who respected more the truth and courage
beneath the tattered jacket than the starts and wreath on the
braided coat. The result of this kindly feeling towards “men of
low estate” was marked. An officer long associated with him
said to me one day: “I do not believe there ever was a General
more beloved by his whole command; and he more than returns
it. General Hampton has a real tenderness, I do believe, for every
solider who has ever served under him.” He was always doing
the poorer members of his command some kindness. His hand
was open like his heart. Many a brave fellow's family was kept
from want by him; and a hundred instances of this liberality are
doubtless recorded in the grateful memories of the women and
children whom he fought for, and fed too, in those dark days.
This munificence was nowhere else recorded. The left hand
knew not what the right hand did.
A few words more upon his personal bearing. His composure
upon trying occasions, as in every-day life, indicated a self-poised
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and independent character. He rarely yielded to hearty mirth,
but his smile was very friendly and attractive. You could see
that he was a person of earnest feelings, and had a good heart.
In camp he was a pleasant companion, and those who saw him
daily became most attached to him. His staff were devoted to
him. I remember the regret experienced by these brave gentlemen
when Hampton's assignment to the command of all the cavalry
separated them from him. The feeling which they then exhibited
left no doubt of the entente cordiale between the members of the
military family. General Hampton liked to laugh and talk with
them around the camp fire; to do them every kindness he could—
but that was his weakness towards everybody—and to play
chess, draughts, or other games, in the intervals of fighting or
work. One of his passions was hunting. This amusement he
pursued upon every occasion—over the fields of Spotsylvania,
amid the woods of Dinwiddle, and on the rivers of South Carolina.
His success was great. Ducks, partridges, squirrels, turkey, and
deer, fell before his double-barrel in whatever country he pitched
his tents. He knew all the old huntsmen of the regions in which
he tarried, delighted to talk with such upon the noble science of
venery, and was considered by these dangerous critics a thorough
sportsman. They regarded him, it is said, as a comrade not
undistinguished; and sent him, in friendly recognition of his
merit, presents of venison and other game, which was plentiful
along the shores of the Rowanty, or in the backwoods of
Dinwiddie. Hampton was holding the right of General Lee's
line there, in supreme command of all the Virginia cavalry; but
it was not as a hunter of “bluebirds”—so we used to call our
Northern friends—that they respected him most. It was as a
deer hunter; and I have heard that the hard-fighting cavalier
relished very highly their good opinion of him in that character.
It is singular that a love for hunting should so often characterize
men of elegant scholarship and literary taste. The soldier and
huntsman was also a poet, and General Stuart spoke in high
praise of his writings. His prose style was forcible and excellent—
in letters, reports, and all that he wrote. The admirably
written address to the people of South Carolina, which was
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recently published, will display the justice of this statement.
That paper, like all that came from him, was compact, vigorous,
lucid, “written in English,” and everywhere betrayed the scholar
no less than the patriot. It will live when a thousand octavos
have disappeared.
Such was Wade Hampton the man—a gentleman in every
fibre of his being. It was impossible to imagine anything coarse
or profane in the action or utterance of the man. An oath never
soiled his lips. “Do bring up that artillery!” or some equivalent
exclamation, was his nearest approach to irritation even.
Such was the supreme control which this man of character, full
of fire, force, and resolution, had over his passions. For, under
that simplicity and kindly courtesy, was the largely-moulded
nature of one ready to go to the death when honour called. In
a single word, it was a powerful organization under complete
control which the present writer seemed to recognise in Wade
Hampton. Under that sweetness and dignity which made him
conspicuous among the first gentlemen of his epoch, was the
stubborn spirit of the born soldier.
Little space is left to speak of him in his military character.
I preferred to dwell upon Hampton the man, as he appeared to
me; for Hampton the General will find many historians. Some
traits of the soldier, however, must not be omitted; this character
is too eminent to be drawn only in profile. On the field
Hampton was noted for his coolness. This never left him. It
might almost be called repose, so perfect was it. He was never
an excitable man; and as doubt and danger pressed heavier, his
equanimity seemed to increase. You could see that this was
truly a stubborn spirit. I do not think that anybody who knew
him could even imagine Wade Hampton “flurried.” His nerve
was made of invincible stuff, and his entire absence of all
excitability on the field was spoken of by his enemies as a fault.
It was said that his coolness amounted to a defect in a cavalry
leader; that he wanted the dash, rush, and impetus which this
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branch of the service demands. If there was any general truth
in this criticism, there was none in particular instances. Hampton
was sufficiently headlong when I saw him—was one of the most
thoroughly successful commanders imaginable, and certainly
seemed to have a natural turn for going in front of his column
with a drawn sabre. What the French call élan is not, however,
the greatest merit in a soldier. Behind the strong arm was the
wary brain. Cool and collected resolution, a comprehensive
survey of the whole field, and the most excellent dispositions for
attack or defence—such were the merits of this soldier. I could
never divest myself of the idea that as a corps commander of
infantry he would have figured among the most eminent names
of history. With an unclouded brain; a coup d'œil as clear as a
ray of the sun; invincible before danger; never flurried, anxious,
or despondent; content to wait; too wary ever to be surprised;
looking to great trials of strength, and to general results—the
man possessing these traits of character was better fitted, I
always thought, for the command of troops of all arms—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—than for one arm alone. But with that
arm which he commanded—cavalry—what splendid results did
he achieve. In how many perilous straits was his tall figure seen
in front of the Southern horsemen, bidding them “come on,”
not “go on.” He was not only the commander, but the sabreur
too. Thousands will remember how his gallant figure led the
charging column at Frederick City, at Upperville, at Gettysburg,
at Trevillian's, and in a hundred other fights. Nothing more
superb could be imagined than Hampton at such moments.
There was no flurry in the man—but determined resolution.
No doubt of the result apparently—no looking for an avenue of
retreat. “Sabre to sabre!” might have been taken as the motto
of his banner. In the “heady fight” he was everywhere seen,
amid the clouds of smoke, the crashing shell, and the whistling
balls, fighting like a private soldier, his long sword doing hard
work in the mélée, and carving its way as did the trenchant
weapons of the ancient knights. This spirit of the thorough
cavalier in Hampton is worth dwelling on. Under the braid of
the Major-General was the brave soul of the fearless soldier, the
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“fighting man.” It was not a merit in him or in others that
they gave up wealth, business, elegance, all the comforts, conveniences,
and serene enjoyments of life, to live hard and fight
hard; to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and pain,
without a murmur; but it was a merit in this brave soldier and
gentleman that he did more than his duty, met breast to breast
in single combat the best swordsmen of the Federal army,
counted his life as no more than a private soldier's, and seemed
to ask nothing better than to pour out his heart's blood for the
cause in which he fought. This personal heroism—and Hampton
had it to a grand extent—attracts the admiration of troops. But
there is something better—the power of brain and force of
character which wins the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief.
When that Commander-in-Chief is called Robert E. Lee, it is
something to have secured his high regard and confidence.
Hampton had won the respect of Lee, and by that “noblest
Roman of them all” his great character and eminent services
were fully recognised. These men seemed to understand each
other, and to be inspired by the same sentiment—a love of their
native land which never failed, and a willingness to spend and
be spent to the last drop of their blood in the cause which they
had espoused. During General Stuart's life, Hampton was
second in command of the Virginia Cavalry; but when that
great cavalier fell, he took charge of the whole as ranking-officer.
His first blow was that resolute night-attack on Sheridan's force at
Mechanicsville, when the enemy were driven in the darkness
from their camps, and sprang to horse only in time to avoid the
sweeping sabres of the Southerners—giving up from that moment
all further attempt to enter Richmond. Then came the long,
hard, desperate fighting of the whole year 1864, and the spring of
1865. At Trevillian's, Sheridan was driven back and Charlottesville
saved; on the Weldon railroad the Federal cavalry, under
Kautz and Wilson, was nearly cut to pieces, and broke in disorder,
leaving on the roads their wagons, cannons, ambulances, their
dead men and horses; near Bellfield the Federal column sent to
destroy the railroad was encountered, stubbornly opposed, and
driven back before they could burn the bridge at Hicksford; at
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Burgess' Mill, near Petersburg, where General Grant made his
first great blow with two corps of infantry, at the Southside
railroad, Hampton met them in front and flank, fought them all
an October day nearly, lost his brave son Preston, dead from a
bullet on the field, but in conjunction with Mahone, that hardy
fighter, sent the enemy in haste back to their works; thus saving
for the time the great war artery of the Southern army. Thenceforward,
until he was sent to South Carolina, Hampton held the
right of Lee in the woods of Dinwiddie, guarding with his cavalry
cordon the line of the Rowanty, and defying all comers. Stout,
hardy, composed, smiling, ready to meet any attack—in those
last days of the strange year 1864, he seemed to my eyes the
beau ideal of a soldier. The man appeared to be as firm as a
rock, as immovably rooted as one of the gigantic live-oaks of his
native country. When I asked him one day if he expected to
be attacked soon, he laughed and said: “No; the enemy's cavalry
are afraid to show their noses beyond their infantry.” Nor did
the Federal cavalry ever achieve any results in that region until
the ten or fifteen thousand crack cavalry of General Sheridan
came to ride over the two thousand men, on starved and broken-down
horses, of General Fitz Lee, in April, 1865.
From Virginia, in the dark winter of 1864, Hampton was
sent to oppose with his cavalry the advance of General Sherman,
and the world knows how desperately he fought there on his
natale solum. More than ever before it was sabre to sabre, and
Hampton was still in front. When the enemy pressed on to
Columbia he fell back, fighting from street to street, and so continued
fighting until the thunderbolt fell in South Carolina, as it
had fallen in Virginia at Appomattox, and the struggle ended.
The sword that Hampton sheathed that day was one which no
soil of bad faith, cruelty, or dishonour had ever tainted. It was
the blade of a brave and irreproachable chevalier, of a man who
throughout the most desperate and embittered conflict of all history
had kept his ancestral name from every blot, and had
proved himself upon a hundred battle-fields the worthy son of
the “mighty men of old.”
Such, in rough outline, was this brave and kindly soldier and
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gentleman, as he passed before our eyes in Virginia, “working
his work.” Seeing him often, in camp, on the field, in bright
days, and when the sky was darkest, the present writer looked
upon him as a noble spirit, the truthful representative of a great
and vigorous race. Brave, just, kindly, courteous, with the tenderness
of a woman under that grave exterior; devoted to his
principles, for which he fought and would have died; loving his
native land with a love “passing the love of woman;” proud,
but never haughty; not so much condescending to men of low
estate, as giving them—if they were soldiers—the warm right
hand of fellowship; merciful, simple-minded; foremost in the
fight, but nowhere to be seen in the antechamber of living man;
with a hand shut tight upon the sword-hilt, but open as day to
“melting charity;” counting his life as nothing at the call of
honour; contending with stubborn resolution for the faith that
was in him; never cast down, never wavering, never giving
back until the torrent bore him away, but fighting to the last
with that heroic courage, born in his blood, for the independence
of his country. Such was Wade Hampton, of South Carolina.
There are those, perhaps, who will malign him in these dark
days, when no sun shines. But the light is yonder, behind the
cloud and storm; some day it will shine out, and a million rushlights
will not be able to extinguish it. There are others who
will call him traitor, and look, perhaps, with pity and contempt
upon this page which claims for him a noble place among the
illustrious figures shining all along the coasts of history like
beacon lights above the storm. Traitor let it be; one hundred
years ago there were many in the South, and they fought over
the same ground. Had the old Revolution failed, those men
would have lived for ever, as Hampton and his associates in the
recent conflict will. “Surrender,” written at the end of this
great history, cannot mar its glory; failure cannot blot its splendour.
The name and fame of Hampton will endure as long as
loyalty and courage are respected by the human race.
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In the Valley of Virginia, the glory of two men outshines
that of all others; two figures were tallest, best beloved, and to-day
are most bitterly mourned. One was Jackson, the other
Ashby. The world knows all about Jackson, but has little
knowledge of Ashby. I was reading a stupid book the
other day in which he was represented as a guerilla—almost as
a robber and highwayman. Ashby a guerilla!—that great,
powerful, trained, and consummate fighter of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery, in the hardest fought battles of the Valley campaign!
Ashby a robber and highwayman!—that soul and perfect
mirror of chivalry! It is to drive away these mists of stupid or
malignant scribblers that the present writer designs recording
here the actual truth of Ashby's character and career. Apart
from what he performed, he was a personage to whom attached
and still attaches a never-dying interest. His career was all
romance—it was as brief, splendid, and evanescent as a dream—
but, after all, it was the man Turner Ashby who was the real
attraction. It was the man whom the people of the Shenandoah
Valley admire, rather than his glorious record. There was something
grander than the achievements of this soldier, and that was
the soldier himself.
Ashby first attracted attention in the spring of 1862, when
Jackson made his great campaign in the Valley, crushing one
after another Banks, Milroy, Shields, Fremont, and their associates.
Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped
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around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time,
Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great
majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline
of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this
soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier
and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and
hearts, but not in all eyes.
What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley
cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle
height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate
gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black
feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry
boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around
his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol
and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was
noticeable. His complexion was as dark as that of an Arab;
his eyes of a deep rich brown, sparkled under well formed
brows; and two thirds of his face was covered by a huge black
beard and moustache; the latter curling at the ends, the former
reaching to his breast. There was thus in the face of the
cavalier something Moorish and brigandish; but all idea of a
melodramatic personage disappeared as you pressed his hand,
looked into his eyes, and spoke to him. The brown eyes, which
would flash superbly in battle, were the softest and most friendly
imaginable; the voice, which could thrill his men as it rang like
a clarion in the charge, was the perfection of mild courtesy. He
was as simple and “friendly” as a child in all his words, movements,
and the carriage of his person. You could see from his
dress, his firm tread, his open and frank glance, that he was a
thorough soldier—indeed he always “looked like work”—but
under the soldier, as plainly was the gentleman. Such in his
plain costume, with his simple manner and retiring modesty,
was Ashby, whose name and fame, a brave comrade has truly
said, will endure as long as the mountains and valleys which he
defended.
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The achievements of Ashby can be barely touched on here—
history will set them in its purest gold. The pages of the splendid
record can only be glanced at now; months of fighting
must here be summed up and dismissed in a few sentences.
To look back to his origin—that always counts for something—
he was the son of a gentleman of Fauquier, and up to 1861
was only known as a hard rider, a gay companion, and the
kindest-hearted of friends. There was absolutely nothing in the
youth's character, apparently, which could detach him from the
great mass of mediocrities; but under that laughing face, that
simple, unassuming manner, was a soul of fire—the unbending
spirit of the hero, and no less the genius of the born master of
the art of war. When the revolution broke out Ashby got in
the saddle, and spent most of his time therein until he fell. It
was at this time—on the threshold of the war—that I saw him
first. I have described his person—his bearing was full of a
charming courtesy. The low, sweet voice made you his friend
before you knew it; and so modest and unassuming was his
demeanour that a child would instinctively have sought his side
and confided in him. The wonder of wonders to me, a few
months afterwards, was that this unknown youth, with the simple
smile, and the retiring, almost shy demeanour, had become
the right hand of Jackson, the terror of the enemy, and had
fallen near the bloody ground of Port Republic, mourned by
the whole nation of Virginia.
Virginia was his first and last love. When he went to Harper's
Ferry in April, 1861, with his brother Richard's cavalry
company, some one said: “Well, Ashby, what flag are we going
to fight under—the Palmetto, or what?” Ashby took off his
hat, and exhibited a small square of silk upon which was
painted the Virginia shield—the Virgin trampling on the tyrant. “That is the flag I intend to fight under,” was his reply; and
he accorded it his paramount fealty to the last. Soon after this
incident active service commenced on the Upper Potomac; and
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an event occurred which changed Ashby's whole character.
His brother Richard, while on a scout near Romney, with a
small detachment, was attacked by a strong party of the enemy,
his command dispersed, and as he attempted to leap a “cattlestop”
in the railroad, his horse fell with him. The enemy
rushed upon him, struck him cruelly with their sabres, and
killed him before he could rise. Ashby came up at the moment,
and with eight men charged them, killing many of them with
his own hand. But his brother was dead—the man whom he
had loved more than his own life; and thereafter he seemed like
another man. Richard Ashby was buried on the banks of the
Potomac—his brother nearly fainted at the grave; then he went
back to his work. “Ashby is now a devoted man,” said one
who knew him; and his career seemed to justify the words.
He took command of his company, was soon promoted to the
rank of a field officer, and from that moment he was on the track
of the enemy day and night. Did private vengeance actuate
the man, once so kind and sweet-tempered? I know not; but
something from this time forward seemed to spur him on to
unflagging exertion and ceaseless activity. Day and night he
was in the saddle. Mounted upon his fleet white horse, he would
often ride, in twenty-four hours, along seventy miles of front,
inspecting his pickets, instructing his detachments, and watching
the enemy's movements at every point. Here to-day, to-morrow
he would be seen nearly a hundred miles distant. The lithe
figure on the white horse “came and went like a dream,” said
one who knew him at that time. And when he appeared it was
almost always the signal for an attack, a raid, or a “scout,” in
which blood would flow.
In the spring of 1862, when Jackson fell back from Winchester,
Ashby, then promoted to the rank of Colonel, commanded
all his cavalry. He was already famous for his wonderful
activity, his heroic courage, and that utter contempt for danger
which was born in his blood. On the Potomac, near Shepherdstown,
he had ridden to the top of a crest, swept by the hot fire
of the enemy's sharpshooters near at hand; and pacing slowly
up and down on his milk-white horse, looked calmly over his
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shoulder at his foes, who directed upon him a storm of bullets.
He was now to give a proof more striking still of his fearless
nerve. Jackson slowly retired from Winchester, the cavalry
under Ashby bringing up the rear, with the enemy closely pressing
them. The long column defiled through the town, and
Ashby remained the last, sitting his horse in the middle of Loudoun
street as the Federal forces poured in. The solitary horseman,
gazing at them with so much nonchalance, was plainly seen
by the Federal officers, and two mounted men were detached to
make a circuit by the back streets, and cut off his retreat.
Ashby either did not see this manœuvre, or paid no attention to
it. He waited until the Federal column was nearly upon him,
and had opened a hot fire—then he turned his horse, waved his
hat around his head, and uttering a cheer of defiance, galloped
off. All at once, as he galloped down the street, he saw before
him the two cavalrymen sent to cut off and capture him. To a
man like Ashby, inwardly chafing at being compelled to retreat,
no sight could be more agreeable. Here was an opportunity to
vent his spleen; and charging the two mounted men, he was soon
upon them. One fell with a bullet through his breast; and,
coming opposite the other, Ashby seized him by the throat,
dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore
him off. This scene, which some readers may set down for
romance, was witnessed by hundreds both of the Confederate and
the Federal army.
During Jackson's retreat Ashby remained in command of the
rear, fighting at every step with his eavalry and horse artillery,
under Captain Chew. It was dangerous to press such a man.
His sharp claws drew blood. As the little column retired sullenly
up the valley, fighting off the heavy columns of General
Banks, Ashby was in the saddle day and night, and his guns
were never silent. The infantry sank to sleep with that thunder
in their ears, and the same sound was their reveille at dawn.
Weary at last of a proceeding so unproductive, General Banks
ceased the pursuit and fell back to Winchester, when Ashby
pursued in his turn, and quickly sent intelligence to Jackson,
which brought him back to Kernstown. The battle there fol
-- --
ADVENTURE OF ASHBY AT WINCHESTER.—Page 74.
Ashby seized him by the throat, dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore him off.
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts General Ashby seizing a Union officer off of his horse by the neck. There is a soldier in front of Ashby, who is trying not to fall off of his horse as Ashby runs into him with his steed. The other soldier is so shocked at being jerked by the throat that he is simply falling forward towards Ashby. In the background a group of Union soldiers is arriving.[end figure description]
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lowed, and Ashby held the turnpike, pressing forward with
invincible ardour, flanking the Federal forces, and nearly getting
in their rear. When Jackson was forced to retire, he again held
the rear; and continued in front of the enemy, eternally skirmishing
with them, until Jackson again advanced to attack
General Banks at Strasburg and Winchester. It was on a bright
May morning that Ashby, moving in front, struck the Federal
column of cavalry in transitu north of Strasburg, and scattered
them like a hurricane. Separated from his command, but bursting
with an ardour which defied control, he charged, by himself,
about five hundred Federal horsemen retreating in disorder,
snatched a guidon from the hands of its bearer, and firing right
and left into the column, summoned the men to surrender.
Many did so, and the rest galloped on, followed by Ashby, to
Winchester, where he threw the guidon, with a laugh, to a
friend, who afterwards had it hung up in the Library of the
Capitol at Richmond.
The work of Ashby then began in earnest. The affair with
General Banks was only a skirmish—the wars of the giants followed.
Jackson, nearly hemmed in by bitter and determined foes,
fell back to escape destruction, and on his track rushed the
heavy columns of Shields and Fremont, which, closing in at
Strasburg and Front Royal, were now hunting down the lion.
It was then and there that Ashby won his fame as a cavalry
officer, and attached to every foot of ground over which he
fought some deathless tradition. The reader must look elsewhere
for a record of those achievements. Space would fail me
were I to touch with the pen's point the hundredth part of that
splendid career. On every hill, in every valley, at every bridge,
Ashby thundered and lightened with his cavalry and artillery.
Bitterest of the bitter was the cavalier in those moments; a man
sworn to hold his ground or die. He played with death, and
dared it everywhere. From every hill came the roar of his guns
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and the sharp crack of his sharpshooters, but the music, much
as he loved it—and he did love it with all his soul—was less
sweet to him than the clash of sabres. It was in hand-to-hand
fighting that he seemed to take the greatest pleasure. In front
of his column, sweeping forward to the charge, Ashby was
“happy.” Coming to the Shenandoah near Newmarket, he
remained behind with a few men to destroy the bridge, and here
took place an event which may seem too trifling to be recorded,
but which produced a notable effect upon the army. While
retreating alone before a squadron of the enemy's cavalry in
hot pursuit of him, his celebrated white horse was mortally
wounded. Furious at this, Ashby cut the foremost of his assailants
out of the saddle with his sabre, and safely reached his
command; but the noble charger was staggering under him, and
bleeding to death. He dismounted, caressed for an instant, without
speaking, the proud neck, and then turned away. The historic
steed was led off to his death, his eyes glaring with rage it
seemed at the enemy still; and Ashby returned to his work,
hastening to meet the fatal bullet which in turn was to strike
him. The death of the white horse who had passed unscathed
through so many battles, preceded only by a few days that of
his rider, whom no ball had ever yet touched. It was on the
4th or 5th of June, just before the battle of Cross Keys, that
he ambuscaded and captured Sir Perey Wyndham, commander
of Fremont's cavalry advance. Sir Percy had publicly announced
his intention to “bag Ashby;” but unwarily advancing
upon a small decoy in the road, he found himself suddenly
attacked in flank and rear by Ashby in person; and he and his
squadron of sixty or seventy men were taken prisoners. That
was the last cavalry fight in which the great leader took part.
His days were numbered—death had marked him. But to the
last he was what he had always been, unresting, fiery, ever on
the enemy's track; and he died in harness. It was on the very
same evening, I believe, that while commanding the rear-guard
of Jackson, he formed the design of flanking and attacking
the enemy's infantry, and sent to Jackson for troops. A brave
associate, Colonel Bradley Johnson, described him at that
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moment, when the bolt was about to fall: “He was riding at the
head of the column with General Ewell, his black face in a blaze
of enthusiasm. Every feature beamed with the joy of the soldier.
He was gesticulating and pointing out the country and
position to General Ewell. I could imagine what he was saying
by the motions of his right arm. I pointed him out to my
adjutant—`Look at Ashby! see how he is enjoying himself!' ”
The moment had come. With the infantry, two regiments sent
him by Jackson, he made a rapid detour to the right, passed
through a field of waving wheat, and approached a belt of woods
upon which the golden sunshine of the calm June evening slept
in mellow splendour. In the edge of this wood Colonel Kane,
of the Pennsylvania “Bucktails,” was drawn up, and soon the
crash of musketry resounded from the bushes along a fence on
the edge of the forest, where the enemy were posted. Ashby
rushed to the assault with the fiery enthusiasm of his blood.
Advancing at the head of the Fifty-eighth Virginia in front,
while Colonel Johnson with the Marylanders attacked the enemy
in flank, he had his horse shot under him, but sprang up,
waving his sword, and shouting, “Virginians, charge!” These
words were his last. From the enemy's line, now within fifty
yards, came a storm of bullets; one pierced his breast, and he
fell at the very moment when the Bucktails broke, and were
pursued by the victorious Southerners. Amid that triumphant
shout the great soul of Ashby passed away. Almost before his
men could raise him he was dead. He had fallen as he wished
to fall—leading a charge, in full war harness, fighting to the last.
Placed on a horse in front of a cavalryman, his body was borne
out of the wood, just as the last rays of sunset tipped with fire
the foliage of the trees; and as the form of the dead chieftain
was borne along the lines of infantry drawn up in column,
exclamations broke forth, and the bosoms of men who had
advanced without a tremor into the bloodiest gulfs of battle,
were shaken by uncontrollable sobs. The dead man had become
their beau-ideal of a soldier; his courage, fire, dash, and unshrinking
nerve had won the hearts of these rough men; and now
when they read upon that pale face the stamp of the hand of
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death, a black pall seemed slowly to descend—the light of the
June evening was a mockery. That sunset was the glory which
fell on the soldier's brow as he passed away. Never did day
light to his death a nobler spirit.
Mere animal courage is a common trait. It was not the chief
glory of this remarkable man that he cared nothing for peril,
daring it with an utter recklessness. Many private soldiers of
whom the world never heard did as much. The supremely beautiful
trait of Ashby was his modesty, his truth, his pure and
knightly honour. His was a nature full of heroism, chivalry, and
simplicity; he was not only a great soldier, but a chevalier,
inspired by the prisca fides of the past. “I was with him,” said
a brave associate, “when the first blow was struck for the cause
which we both had so much at heart, and was with him in his
last fight, always knowing him to be beyond all modern men in
chivalry, as he was equal to any one in courage. He combined
the virtues of Sir Philip Sidney with the dash of Murat. His
fame will live in the valley of Virginia, outside of books, as
long as its hills and mountains shall endure.”
Never was truer comparison than that of Ashby to Murat and
Sidney mingled; but the splendid truth and modesty of the
great English chevalier predominated in him. The Virginian
had the dash and fire of Murat in the charge, nor did the glittering
Marshal at the head of the French cuirassiers perform
greater deeds of daring. But the pure and spotless soul of
Philip Sidney, that “mirror of chivalry,” was the true antetype
of Ashby's. Faith, honour, truth, modesty, a courtesy which
never failed, a loyalty which nothing could affect—these were
the great traits which made the young Virginian so beloved and
honoured, giving him the noble place he held among the men of
his epoch. No man lives who can remember a rude action of
his; his spirit seemed to have been moulded to the perfect shape
of antique courtesy; and nothing could change the pure gold
of his nature. His fault as a soldier was a want of discipline;
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and it has been said with truth that he resembled rather the
chief huntsman of a hunting party than a general—mingling
with his men in bivouac or around the camp fire, on a perfect
equality. But what he wanted in discipline and military rigour
he supplied by the enthusiasm which he aroused in the troops.
They adored him, and rated him before all other leaders. His
wish was their guide in all things; and upon the field they
looked to him as their war-king. The flash of his sabre as it
left the scabbard drove every hand to the hilt; the sight of his
milk-white horse in front was their signal for “attention,” and
the low clear tones of Ashby's order, “Follow me!” as he
moved to the charge, had more effect upon his men than a hundred
bugles.
I pray my Northern reader who does me the honour to peruse
this sketch, not to regard these sentences as the mere rhapsody
of enthusiasm. They contain the truth of Ashby, and those
who served with him will testify to the literal accuracy of the
sketch. He was one of those men who appear only at long intervals—
a veritable realization of the “hero” of popular fancy.
The old days of knighthood seemed to live again as he moved
before the eye; the pure faith of the earlier years was reproduced
and illustrated in his character and career. The anecdotes
which remain of his kindness, his courtesy, and warmth of
heart, are trifles to those who knew him, and required no such
proofs of his sweetness of temper and character. It is nothing
to such that when the Northern ladies about to leave Winchester,
came and said, “General Ashby, we have nothing contraband
about us—you can search our trunks and our persons;” he
replied, “The gentlemen of Virginia do not search ladies' trunks
or their persons, madam.” He made that reply because he was
Ashby. For this man to have been rude, coarse, domineering,
and insulting to unprotected ladies—as more than one Federal
general at Winchester was—that was simply impossible. He
might have said, in the words of the old Ulysses, “They live
their lives, I mine.”
Such was the private character, simple, beautiful, and “
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altogether lovely,” of this man of fibre so hard and unshrinking;
of dash, nerve, obstinacy, and daring never excelled. Behind
that sweet and friendly smile was the stubborn and reckless soul
of the born fighter. Under those brown eyes, as mild and gentle
as a girl's, was a brain of fire—a resolution of invincible
strength which dared to combat every adversary, with whatever
odds. His intellect, outside of his profession, was rather mediocre
than otherwise, and he wrote so badly that few of his productions
are worth preserving. But in the field he was a master
mind. His eye for position was that of the born soldier; and
he was obliged to depend upon that native faculty, for he had
never been to West Point or any other military school. They
might have improved him—they could not have made him.
God had given him the capacity to fight troops; and if the dictum
of an humble writer, loving and admiring him alive, and
now mourning him, be regarded as unreliable, take the words of
Jackson. That cool, taciturn, and unexcitable soldier never
gave praise which was undeserved. Jackson knew Ashby as
well as one human being ever knew another; and after the fall
of the cavalier he wrote of him, “As a partisan officer, I never
knew his superior. His daring was proverbial, his powers of
endurance almost incredible, his tone of character heroic, and
his sagacity almost intuitive in divining the purposes and movements
of the enemy.” The man who wrote these words—himself
daring, enduring, and heroic—had himself some sagacity in
“divining the purposes and movements of the enemy,” and
could recognise that trait in others.
The writer of this page had the honour to know the dead chief
of the Valley cavalry—to hear the sweet accents of his friendly
voice, and meet the friendly glance of the loyal eyes. It seems
to him now, as he remembers Ashby, that the hand he touched
was that of a veritable child of chivalry. Never did taint of
arrogance or vanity, of rudeness or discourtesy, touch that pure
and beautiful spirit. This man of daring so proverbial, of powers
of endurance so incredible, of character so heroic, and of a
sagacity so unfailing that it drew forth the praise of Jackson,
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was as simple as a child, and never seemed to dream that he had
accomplished anything to make him famous. But famous he
was, and is, and will be for ever. The bitter struggle in which
he bore so noble a part has ended; the great flag under which
he fought is furled, and none are now so poor as to do it reverence.
But in failure, defeat, and ruin, this great name survives;
the cloud is not so black that the pure star of Ashby's fame
does not shine out in the darkness. In the memories and hearts
of the people of the Valley his glory is as fresh to-day as when
he fell. He rises up in memory, as once before the actual eye—
the cavalier on his milk-white steed, leading the wild charge, or
slowly pacing up and down defiantly, with proud face turned
over the shoulder, amid the bullets. Others may forget him—
we of the Valley cannot. For us his noble smile still shines as
it shone amid those glorious encounters of the days of Jackson,
when from every hill-top he hurled defiance upon Banks and
Fremont, and in every valley met the heavy columns of the
Federal cavalry, sabre to sabre. He is dead, but still lives.
That career—brief, fiery, crammed with glorious shocks, with
desperate encounters—is a thing of the past, and Ashby has
“passed like a dream away.” But it is only the bodies of such
men that die. All that is noble in them survives. What comes
to the mind now when we pronounce the name of Ashby, is
that pure devotion to truth and honour which shone in every
act of his life; that kind, good heart of his which made all love
him; that resolution which he early made, to spend the last
drop of his blood for the cause in which he fought; and the
daring beyond all words, which drove him on to combat whatever
force was in his front. We are proud—leave us that at
least—that this good knight came of the honest old Virginia
blood. He tried to do his duty; and counted toil, and danger,
and hunger, and thirst, and exhaustion, as nothing. He died as
he had lived, in harness, and fighting to the last. In an unknown
skirmish, of which not even the name is preserved, the
fatal bullet came; the wave of death rolled over him, and the
august figure disappeared. But that form is not lost in the
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great gulf of forgotten things. Oblivion cannot hide it, nor
time dim the splendour of the good knight's shield. The figure
of Ashby, on his milk-white steed, his face in “a blaze of enthusiasm,”
his drawn sword in his hand—that figure will truly
live in the memory and heart of the Virginian as long as the
battlements of the Blue Ridge stand, and the Shenandoah flows.
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The most uniformly fortunate General of the late war was
Beauregard. So marked was this circumstance, and so regularly
did victory perch upon his standard, that Daniel, the trenchant
and hardy critic of the Examiner, called him Beauregard Felix.
Among the Romans that term signified happy, fortunate, favoured
of the gods; and what is called “good luck” seemed to follow
the Confederate leader to whom it was applied. Often he
appeared to be outgeneralled, checkmated, and driven to the
“last ditch,” but ever some fortunate circumstance intervened to
change the whole situation. More than once the fortune of war
seemed to go against him, but he always retrieved the day by
some surprising movement. In the very beginning of his career,
at the first great battle of Manassas, when his left was about to
be driven to hopeless rout, his good genius sent thither Evans
and Jackson, those stubborn obstacles, and the battle which was
nearly lost terminated in a victory.
Of this famous soldier I propose to record some traits rather
of a personal than a military character. As elsewhere in this
series of sketches, the writer's aim will be to draw the outline of
the man rather than the official. History will busy itself with
that “official” phase; here it is rather the human being, as he
lived and moved, and looked when “off duty,” that I aim to
present. The first great dramatic scene of the war, the attack
on Sumter, the stubborn and victorious combat of Shiloh, the
defence of Charleston against Gilmore, the assault upon Butler
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near Bermuda Hundred, and the mighty struggles at Petersburg,
will not enter into this sketch at all. I beg to conduct the
reader back to the summer of the year 1861, and to the plains
of Manassas, where I first saw Beauregard. My object is to
describe the personal traits and peculiarities of the great Creole
as he then appeared to the Virginians, among whom he came for
the first time.
He superseded Bonham in command of the forces at Manassas
about the first of June, 1861, and the South Carolinians said
one day, “Old Bory's come!” Soon the Virginia troops had an
opportunity of seeing this “Old Bory,” who seemed so popular
with the Palmettese. He did not appear with any of the
“pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” No flag was
unfurled before him; no glittering staff officers were seen galloping
to and fro; for some days the very presence of the man
of Sumter was merely rumour. Then the troops began to take
notice of a quiet-looking individual in an old blue uniform coat
of the United States Army, almost undecorated, who, mounted
on an unimposing animal not at all resembling a “war horse,”
moved about quite unattended, to inspect the works in process
of construction, or select new sites for others. Often this solitary
horseman of the reserved demeanour and unobtrusive air was
seen motionless in the middle of the plains, gazing around him;
or in clear relief against the sky, or looking toward Bull Run,
he peopled the landscape doubtless with imaginary squadrons in
hot conflict. Then another step was taken by the men in
making acquaintance with the new commander. The silent
horseman would pause as he passed by the camps, and speak to
the sentinels—briefly but not stiffly. When they returned to
their quarters they told how General Beauregard had thus
stopped upon his way, spoken with them familiarly as comrade
to comrade, and returned their salute at parting, with his finger
to the rim of his cap. Finally, the troops had “a good look at
him.” He reviewed a fine regiment from Tennessee, and all
eyes were fixed upon his soldierly figure with admiration—
upon the lithe and sinewy form, the brunette face and sparkling
black eyes, the erect head, the firm seat in the saddle, and the
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air of command. When this nervous figure passed at a rapid
gallop along the line, the keen eyes peering from beneath the
Zouave cap, the raw volunteers felt the presence of a soldier.
The hard battle of Manassas followed, and as noon approached
on that famous twenty-first of July, the Southern army seemed
completely flanked—Beauregard outgeneralled. McDowell had
turned the Confederate left, and, driving Evans, Bee, and Bartow
before him, seized on the Henry-House hill, the key of the
whole position. Beauregard was four miles off, awaiting an
advance of his right wing and centre on the Federal rear at
Centreville, ordered hours before. The order miscarried, and
the advance was not made; at near two o'clock the troops were
still within the lines of Bull Run, and on the extreme left
nothing but the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson, with a few companies of Bee, was interposed between
the Southern troops and destruction. About thirty thousand
men under General Hunter were advancing upon about three
thousand—and to this critical point Beauregard now went at a
swift gallop, with General Johnston. The scene which followed
was a splendid exhibition of personal magnetism. Bee's men
were routed; his ranks broken to pieces; the battalions which
had breasted the torrent had been shattered by the weight of the
huge wave, and were now scarcely more than a crowd of fugitives.
Johnston, with the fiery dash which lay perdu under
his grave exterior, caught the colours of an Alabama regiment,
calling on the men to follow him; and Beauregard passed along
the lines at full gallop, rallying the men amid the terrific fire.
If he is ever painted, it should be as he appeared that day;
eyes flaming, the sallow face in a blaze of enthusiasm, the drawn
sword pointing to the enemy, as with a sonorous voice which
rang above the firing, he summonded the men to stand for their
firesides, and all they held dear upon earth. Beauregard was
the superb leader at that moment, and the cheeks of the gray-haired
soldier of to-day must flush sometimes as he recalls
that death grapple in which the flash of his sword led the
charge.
When not thus filled with hot blood, the face of the great
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Creole, even amid the heat of battle, was composed, firm, set, and
did not exhibit, save in a slight deepening of the dusky tint of
the complexion, any unwonted feeling. The man was quiet,
silent, and seemed to be waiting calmly. I never saw a smile
upon his face until some months after the battle, when President
Davis came to review the troops at Fairfax Court-House. That
smile was caused by a little incident which may entertain some
readers. The present writer was sent one day as aide-de-camp
in waiting, to escort the wife and little son of General Stuart
from the Court-House to the nearest station on the Orange railroad;
when, just as the ambulance reached a point midway
between the two points, a company of cavalry made its appearance
in front, and the officer commanding requested that the
vehicle should draw out of the road to “make way for the
President.” This was done at once, and soon his Excellency,
President Davis, appeared, riding between Stuart and Beauregard—
the latter wearing his dress uniform with a Zouave cap,
the crown of which was an intensely dazzling circle of scarlet,
burning in the sunshine. As soon as young J. E. B. Stuart, a
little gentleman who used to call himself General Stuart, Jr.,
saw his father, he stretched out his arms and exclaimed, “Papa,
papa!” in a tone so enthusiastic that it attracted attention, and
General Stuart said, “This is my family, Mr. President.”
Whereupon Mr. Davis stopped, saluted the young lady, patted
the boy upon the head, and endeavoured to attract his attention,
in which he failed however, as the boy's mind was absorbed in
the effort to climb before his father. The scene made everybody
laugh, from the grave President to the men of the escort, and
among the rest General Beauregard. His laugh was peculiar;
the eyes sparkled, the firm muscles slowly moved, and the
white teeth came out with a quite startling effect under the
heavy black moustache. When the cavalcade passed on he was
still smiling.
I pray the reader to pardon this long description of a smile.
The strangest of all phenomena is the manner in which trifles
cling to the memory.
One more personal recollection of Beauregard as I saw him—
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not on review, neither at Manassas, Fairfax, or elsewhere; a
stiff official figure in front of the lines, but in private, and this
time on the outpost. It was at “Camp Qui-Vive,” the headquarters
of Stuart, beyond Centreville, and in December, 1861.
He came to dine and ride out on the lines to inspect the cavalry
pickets; and it is not difficult to recall what manner of man he
was—so striking was his appearance. He wore the uniform coat
of an officer of the United States Army, dark blue with gilt
buttons and a stiff collar. The closely buttoned garment displayed
his vigorous chest; from the upper edge protruded a
sharp, white, standing collar, and he wore the inseparable Zouave
cap, with its straight rim projecting over the eyes.
The face of the soldier speedily drew attention, however, from
his dress. The countenance, with its broad brow, firm mouth,
covered with a heavy black moustache, and protruding chin, full
of courage and resolution, was that of a French Marshal of the
Empire to the very life. The iron nerve of the man was indelibly
stamped upon his features. It was impossible to doubt the
fighting instincts of the individual with that muscular contour
of face which seemed to defy opposition. The rest of the physiognomy
was gaunt, hard, somewhat melancholy. In the complexion
was observable the Southern creole descent of the soldier;
it was brunette, sallow, and the sun and wind had made
it resemble bronze. It had the dusky pallor, too, of care and
watching—that bloodless hue which the pressure of heavy
responsibilities produces in the human face. The position of an
army leader is not a bed of roses, and the bloom of youth and
health soon fades from the cheeks which are hollowed by the
anxieties of command. Such was the appearance of the “Man
of Sumter,” but I have omitted the most striking feature of his
face—the eyes. Large, dark, melancholy, with the lids drooping
and somewhat inflamed by long vigils—of a peculiar dreamy
expression—those eyes impressed the beholder very strangely.
It was the eye of the bloodhound with his fighting instincts
asleep, but ready at any moment to be strung for action. It was
impossible not to be impressed by this resemblance. Not that
there was any ferocity or thirst for blood in that slumbrous
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glance; but if ever “fight” was plain in any look—obstinate,
pertinacious, hard “fight”—it was plain in Beauregard's.
The outline here drawn of the General's appearance may produce
the impression that he was stiff, stern, and unsocial. Such
was very far from the fact. On the contrary, the manner of the
individual was eminently modest, courteous, and pleasing. This
may seem to clash with the bloodhound illustration—but both
were true. It would be difficult to imagine a finer air of grave
politeness, or a more courtly simplicity than General Beauregard's.
Of this the writer took especial note, for at that period
a great many very foolish things were written and published in
relation to the eminent soldier. It was said that he was frigid,
moody, unsocial, rude, repulsing all advances to friendly converse
with a military coolness amounting to discourtesy. Stray
correspondents of the journals had drawn a curious figure and
labelled it “Beauregard”—the figure of a sombre, mysterious,
and melodramatic personage, prone to attitudinizing and playing
the “distinguished warrior;” fond of wrapping his cloak
around him, folding his arms, and turning his back when any
one addressed him, as though absorbed in some gigantic scheme
upon which his mighty brain was working, in a region far above
the dull, cold, every-day earth! Such was the Beauregard of
many “intelligent correspondents”—play-actor turned soldier;
a sort of Manfred in gray uniform; and lo! here before me was
the real man. Instead of a mock hero of tragedy stalking about
and muttering, the General appeared to me to be a gentleman
of great courtesy and simplicity, who asked nothing better than
for some kind friend to amuse him and make him laugh.
For the General laughed; and when he did so, he, strangely
enough, seemed to enjoy himself. Standing on the portico of
the old house in which Stuart had established his quarters, or
partaking of his dinner with mundane satisfaction, he appeared
entirely oblivious that he was “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
and joined in the conversation simply and naturally,
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losing no opportunity to relax by laughter the weary facial
muscles which had settled into something like grimness and melancholy
from care and meditation. The conversation turned
during the day upon the first battle of Manassas; and when some
one mentioned the report in many Northern journals that he,
Beauregard, had continued to ride a horse after the animal's head
was carried off by a cannon-ball, the General's moustache curled
and he chuckled in the most untragic manner. “My horse was
killed,” he said, “but his head was not carried away. He was
struck by a shell, which exploded at the moment when it passed
under him. A splinter struck my boot, and another cut one
of the arteries in the animal's body. The blood gushed out, and
after going fifty yards he fell dead. I then mounted a prisoner's
horse—there was a map of the country in the saddle pocket—
and I remember it was a small dingy horse with a white face.”
Laughter followed the remembrance of the small dingy horse with
the white face; and when one of the company observed that
“General Beauregard had done himself considerable credit in
Missouri,” meaning to have said “General Price,” the General
burst into a laugh which indicated decided enjoyment of the
mistake.
The incidents here recorded are not to be found in any of the
regular histories; and I doubt if any description will be found
of the manner in which General Beauregard essayed to assist a
young lady bearing a very famous name, to mount her horse.
The lady in question was a very charming person, an intimate
friend of General Stuart; and as she was then upon a visit to
the neighbourhood of Centreville, she was invited by the gay
cavalier to dine with Beauregard, and afterwards ride out upon
the lines under escort. A young aide was sent for Miss—;
she duly arrived, and dined at the outpost headquarters, and
then the moment came to set out for the lines. Before she had
taken two steps toward her horse, General Beauregard was at
her side, completely distancing the young Prince Polignac, that
brave and smiling youth, afterwards Brigadier-General, but at
this time serving upon Beauregard's staff. To see the grave
commander assist the fair young lady to mount her horse was a
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pleasing sight, and communicated much innocent enjoyment to
the spectators. He brought to the undertaking all the chivalric
gallantry and politeness of the French De Beauregards; stooping
down with an air of the deepest respect; hollowing his hand
to receive her slipper; and looking up to ascertain why she did
not take advantage of his offer. Whether it was that the young
lady thought it indecorous to make such use of that distinguished
hand, or did not need his aid, I know not; she laughed,
gracefully vaulted into her saddle, and mounting his own steed,
the General gallantly took his place at her side.
These things are recorded in place of the “important events”
of Beauregard's career. A narrative of his military operations
may be found in the “regular histories,” and an estimate of his
merits as a commander. Upon this latter point a diversity of
opinion exists, owing to the tragic termination of the recent conflict.
The secret archives of the Confederate government were
destroyed, or remain unpublished. Many questions thus remain
unanswered. Was Beauregard fully aware of the enemy's movement
against his left at Manassas, and did he disregard it, depending
on his great assault at Centreville? Did he, or did he not,
counsel an advance upon Washington after the battle—an
advance which events now known show to have been perfectly
practicable? Were his movements on Corinth, in the West,
judicious? Were his operations at Petersburg in accordance
with the views of the government? All these questions remain
unanswered; for the dispatches containing the solution of the
whole were destroyed or are inaccessible to the world. One fact
is unfortunately very well known—that there was “no love
lost” between the celebrated soldier and the Confederate Executive;
and by a portion of the Southern press little praise was
accorded him. But he did not need it. The victor of Manassas
and Shiloh, the man who clung to Sumter until it was a mass
of blackened ruins, will be remembered when partisan rancour
and injustice are forgotten. Fame knows her children, and her
bugle sounds across the years.
A notable trait in the personal character of Beauregard was
his kindly bonhomie to the private soldier. In this he resembled
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the officers of Napoleon, not those of the English Army. He
had the French habit of mingling with the men when not upon
duty, sharing their pursuits, conversing with them, and lighting
his cigar at their camp fires. From this sprang much of his personal
popularity, and he thus excited largely that sympathy
which rendered him so acceptable to his troops. To a General,
nothing is more important than this sympathy. It is a weapon
with which the master soldier strikes his hardest blows, and
often springs from apparent trifles. Napoleon became the idol
of his troops as much by his personal bearing toward them as
from his victories. He was the grand Napoleon—but he stopped
to talk with the men by their fires: he called them “mes enfans:”
he fixed his dark eyes with magnetic sympathy upon the dying
soldier who summoned his last remains of strength to half rise
from the earth, extend his arms, and cry, “Vive l'Empereur!”
He took this personal interest in them—the interest of a comrade—
and no one else could rival him in their favour.
Beauregard had certainly secured this personal popularity.
He invariably exhibited the utmost kindness, compatible with
discipline, toward his men, and they remained true to him—as
the Federal troops did to McClellan—through all his reverses,
giving him in return for his sympathy and familiarity an immense
amount of good feeling and regard. A trifling incident
will illustrate this. A private soldier of the “Powhatan troop”—
a company of cavalry which served as the General's body-guard—
one day entered Beauregard's apartment, and wishing
to write a letter, seated himself, as he supposed, at the desk of
one of the clerks for that purpose. Taking a sheet of paper and
a pen which lay near, he commenced his letter, and was soon
absorbed in it. While thus engaged, he heard a step behind
him, turned his head, and saw General Beauregard enter, whereupon
he suddenly rose in confusion—for all at once the truth
flashed upon him that he was writing at the General's desk, on the
General's paper, and with the General's pen! Fearing a harsh
rebuke for this act of military lesè-majesté, the trooper stammered
out an apology; but no storm came from the General. “Sit
down and finish your letter my friend,” he said, with a
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good-humoured smile; “you are very welcome, and can always come
in here when you wish to write.” It was trifles like this which
made the announcement of his removal from the command of the
Army of the Potomac run like an electric shock through the
camps, which caused a great concourse of soldiers to follow him
through Centreville and far upon his road, shouting “Good-by,
General!”—“God bless you, General!”
To suppose that this brother-feeling of the soldier for his troops
ever led him to relax in discipline, would be a great mistake.
In official matters, and wherever “duty” was concerned, he was
rigid and immovable, exacted from every man under him the
strictest obedience, and was wholly inaccessible to any prayer
which came in conflict with the good of the public service.
When at Centreville, in the fall of 1861, he expected daily an
advance of McClellan. One morning a cannoneer from one of
the batteries came in person to ask for a leave of absence of ten
days to see his dying mother. “I cannot grant any leave,” was
the reply. “Only for ten days, General,” pleaded the soldier.
“Not for ten hours!” replied Beauregard; and the interview
terminated. Had the moment not been critical he would have
given this private soldier the desired leave with the utmost
readiness—as he would have commended and promoted him, for
the display of skill or gallantry.
That all-important point of rewarding merit in the private
soldier was never neglected by Beauregard. An instance was
the promotion of a young man in the Loudoun cavalry, whose
conspicuous courage and efficiency in reconnoitring and carrying
orders at Manassas attracted his attention. At the close
of the day the obscure private was summoned to headquarters
and informed by Beauregard that he would henceforth rank as
a captain of his staff. This gentleman was afterwards Colonel
Henry E. Peyton, Inspector-General of the Army of Northern
Virginia, one of the bravest and most accomplished officers in
the service.
A last incident relating to “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
who was supposed to be playing “Lara,” “Manfred,” or
some other sombre and mysterious character at Manassas, in
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those far away times. It may add an additional touch to the
outline I have aimed to draw. It was in the summer of 1861
that some young ladies of Prince William prepared a handsome
nosegay for presentation to the General; and as he had
amongst his clerks a gentleman of high culture, the nosegay
was entrusted to him for delivery. He consented with reluctance.
To present a bunch of flowers to the silent and abstracted
commander, whose faculties were burdened by great cares
and responsibilities, seemed an incongruity which strangely
impressed the ambassador; but there was the nosegay, there
were the young ladies, there was his promise, and he nerved
himself for the task. Waiting until all intruders had left the
General's presence, he timidly knocked at the door of his
sanctum, was bidden in a grave voice to enter, and advancing
into the apartment, found opposite to him the imposing
eye and “brow severe” of General Beauregard, who had never
looked more stern. The spectacle very nearly disarmed the
ambassador of his presence of mind; but he determined to
accomplish his errand in the best manner possible, and accordingly
proceeded to address the solemn General in what the
newspapers call a “neat little speech.” Having finished, he
presented the flowers, drew back respectfully, and nerved himself
for the result. That result surprisingly differed from his
expectations. Beauregard cleared his throat, looked extremely
confused, and stammering “Thank you! I am very much
obliged!” received the bouquet, blushing as he did so like a
girl. Such was the tragedy-hero of those journalists of 1861.
I have tried to draw an outline of the actual man, not to make
a figure of the fancy; to present an accurate likeness of General
Beauregard as he appeared to us of Virginia in those first
months of the war, not to drape the individual in historic robes,
making him an actor or a myth.
He was neither; he was simply a great soldier, and a finished
gentleman. Once in his presence, you would not be apt to deny
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his claim to both of these characters. The nervous figure; the
gaunt, French, fighting, brunette countenance, deeply bronzed
by sun and wind—these were the marks of the soldier. The
grave, high-bred politeness; the ready, courteous smile; the
kindly and simple bearing, wholly free from affectation and assumption—
these were the characteristics of the gentilhomme by
birth and habit; by nature as by breeding.
Ten minutes' conversation with the man convinced you that
you stood in the presence of one of those men who mould
events. The very flash of the dark eyes “dared you to forget.”
Nor will the South forget this brave and trusty soldier. His
name is cut upon the marble of history in letters too deep to be
effaced by the hand of Time, that terrible disintegrator. As
long as the words “Manassas” and “Shiloh” strike a chord in
the bosoms of men, the name “Beauregard” will also stir the
pulses. Those mighty confliets meet us in the early epoch of
the war, grim, bloody, and possessing a tragedy of their own.
The soldier who fought those battles confronts us, too, with an
individuality of mind and body which cannot be mistaken.
Lee is the Virginian, Hood the Texan; Beauregard is the marshal
of Napoleon—or at least he looked thus in those early days
when the soldiers of Virginia, gathering at Manassas, closely
scanned the form and features of their new commander.
From Virginia the great captain went to the West, where, as
the world knows, he won new laurels; and to the end he continued
to justify his title of “The Fortunate.” That is only,
however, another name for The Able, The Skilful, The Master
of events—not by “luck,” but by brains. Good-fortune is an
angel who files from the weak and fearful, but yields herself
captive to the resolute soul who clutches her. If any doubted
that Beauregard owed his great success to the deepest thought,
the most exhausting brain-work, and those sleepless vigils which
wear out the life, they had only to look upon him in his latter
years to discover the truth. Care, meditation, watching—all
the huge responsibility of an army leader—had stamped on the
brow of the great Creole their unmistakable impress. The heavy
moustache, which had once been as black as the raven's wing,
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was now grizzled like the beard. In the hair, which before was
dark, now shone those silver threads which toil and anxiety
weave mercilessly in the locks of their victims. The mouth
smiled still, but the muscles had assumed a grimmer tension.
The eyes were still brilliant, but more deeply sunken and more
slumbrous. In the broad brow, once so smooth, the iron hand
of care had ploughed the inexorable furrows.
Beauregard the youthful, daring, and impetuous soldier, had
become Beauregard the cautious, thoughtful, self-sacrificing
patriot—one of the great props of the mighty edifice then tottering
beneath the heavy blows it was receiving in Virginia and
the West.
“The self-sacrificing patriot.” If any one doubts his claim to
that title, it will not be doubted when events now buried in
obscurity are known. Beauregard was superb when, in the midst
of the dense smoke of Manassas, he shouted in his inspiring
voice, “I salute the Eighth Georgia with my hat off! History
shall never forget you!” But he was greater still—more noble
and more glorious—when after the battle of Corinth he said
nothing.
He was silent, and is silent still; but history speaks for him,
and will ever speak. He lives in the memories and the hearts
of his old soldiers, as in the pages of our annals; and those who
followed his flag, who listened to his voice, need no page like
this to bring his figure back, as it blazed before their eyes in the
far away year '61. They remember him always, and salute him
from their hearts—as does the writer of these lines.
Wherever you may be, General—whether in Rome or New
Orleans, in the Old World or the New—whether in sickness or
in health, in joy or in sorrow—your old soldiers of the Army
of Virginia remember you, and wish you long life, health, and
happiness, from their heart of hearts.
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In the Virginia Convention of 1860-61, when the great struggle
for separation took place, and the hot war of tongues preceded
the desperate war of the bayonet, there was a gentleman
of resolute courage and military experience who made himself
prominent among the opponents of secession. Belonging to the
old Whig party, and thinking apparently that the right moment
had not yet come, this resolute soldier-politician fought the advocates
of the ordinance with unyielding persistence, aiming by his
hard-hitting argument, his kindling eloquence, and his parliamentary
skill, to give to the action of the Convention that
direction which his judgment approved. Many called him a
“submissionist,” because he opposed secession then; but when
the gauntlet was thrown down, this “Whig submissionist” put
on a gray coat, took the field, and fought from the beginning to
the very end of the war with a courage and persistence surpassed
by no Southerner who took part in the conflict. When he was
sent to invade Maryland, and afterwards was left by General
Lee in command of that “forlorn hope,” the little Valley army,
if it could be called such, in the winter of 1864-5, he was
selected for the work, because it required the brain and courage
of the soldier of hard and stubborn fibre. Only since the termination
of the war has the world discovered the truth of that
great campaign; the desperate character of the situation which
Early occupied, and the enormous odds against which he
fought.
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He entered upon the great arena almost unknown. He had
served in the Mexican war, and had there displayed skill and
courage; but his position was a subordinate one, and he was
better known as a politican than a soldier. In the field he
made his mark at once. About four o'clock in the afternoon of
the 21st of July, 1861, at Manassas, the Federal forces had been
driven by the resolute assault of Jackson and his great associates
from the Henry-House hill; but a new and formidable
line-of-battle was formed on the high ground beyond, near
Dogan's house, and the swarming masses of Federal infantry
were thrown forward for a last desperate charge. The object of
the Federal commander was to outflank and envelop the Confederate
left, and his right wing swayed forward to accomplish
that object, when all at once from the woods, which the enemy
were aiming to gain, came a galling fire which staggered and
drove them back. This fire was delivered by Kirby Smith and
Early. So hot was it that it completely checked the Federal
charge; and as they wavered, the Southern lines pressed forward
with wild cheers. The enemy were forced to give ground.
Their ranks broke, and in thirty minutes the grand army was in
full retreat across Bull Run. The “Whig Submissionist” had
won his spurs in the first great battle of the war. From that time
Early was in active service, and did hard work everywhere—in
the Peninsula, where he was severely wounded in the hard struggle
of Malvern Hill, and then as General Early, at Cedar Mountain,
where he met and repulsed a vigorous advance of General
Pope's left wing, in the very inception of the battle. If Early had
given way there, Ewell's column on the high ground to his right
would have been cut off from the main body; but the ground
was obstinately held, and victory followed. Advancing northward
thereafter, Jackson threw two brigades across at Warrenton
Springs, under Early, and these resolutely held their ground
in face of an overpowering force. Thenceforward Early continued
to add to his reputation as a hard fighter—at Bristoe, the
second Manassas, Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg,
Gettysburg, Spottsylvania, Monocacy, and throughout the Valley
campaign. During the invasion of Pennsylvania he led
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General Lee's advance, which reached the Susquehanna and captured
York. In Spottsylvania be commanded Hill's corps, and
was in the desperate fighting at the time of the assault upon the
famous “Horseshoe,” and repulsed an attack of Burnside's corps
with heavy loss to his opponents. After that hard and bitter
struggle the Federal commander gave up all hope of forcing
General Lee's lines, and moving by the left flank reached Cold
Harbour, where the obstinate struggle recommenced. It was
at this moment, when almost overpowered by the great force
arrayed against him, that General Lee received intelligence of
the advance of General Hunter up the Valley with a considerable
army; and it was necessary to detach a commander of ability,
vigour, and daring to meet that column. Early was selected,
and the result is known. General Hunter advanced, in spite
of opposition from the cavalry under General Jones, until he
reached the vicinity of Lynchburg; but here he came in colision
with his dangerous adversary. A complete defeat of the
Federal forces followed, and Hunter's campaign was decided at
one blow. He gave ground, retreated, and, with constantly
accelerated speed, sought refuge in the western mountains,
whence, with a decimated and disheartened army, he hastened
towards the Ohio. The great advance up the Valley, from
which, as his report shows, General Grant had expected so
much, had thus completely failed. The campaign beginning
with such high hopes, had terminated in ignominy and disaster.
The inhabitants of the region, subjected by General Hunter to
the most merciless treatment, saw their powerful oppressor in
hopeless retreat; and an advance which threatened to paralyse
Lee, and by severing his communications, drive him from Virginia,
had been completely defeated. Such was the first evidence
given by General Early of his ability as a corps commander,
operating without an immediate superior.
He was destined to figure now, however, in scenes more striking
and “dramatie” still. General Grant, with about 150,000
men, was pressing General Lee with about 50,000, and forcing
him slowly back upon the Confederate capital. Every resource
of the Confederacy was strained to meet this terrible assault—
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the sinews almost broken in the effort. To divert reinforcements
from General Grant was a matter of vital importance—a
thing of life and death—and Jackson's Valley campaign in 1862
had shown how this could be most effectually done. To menace
the Federal capital was evidently the great secret: a moderate
force would not probably be able to do more than divert troops
from Grant; but this was an object of the first importance, and
much might be accomplished by a soldier of decision, energy,
and rapidity of movement. Early had been selected for the
work, with orders when he left the lowland to “move to the
Valley through Swift Run Gap or Brown's Gap, attack Hunter,
and then cross the Potomac and threaten Washington.” This
critical task he now undertook with alacrity, and he accomplished
it with very great skill and success.
Not a moment was lost in pushing his column toward
Maryland; and such was the rapidity of the march upon
Washington, that the capital was placed in imminent danger.
In spite of the prostrating heat, the troops made twenty
miles a day, and the rumour of this determined advance
came to the Federal authorities at the moment when Grant was
supposed to be carrying everything before him. To meet the
attack of their formidable adversary, the authorities at Washington
sent to hurry forward the forces of General Hunter from the
Ohio, and a considerable force from General Grant's army was
dispatched up the bay to man the fortifications. Early had
pressed on, crossed the Potomac, advanced to Frederick City,
defeated General Wallace at the Monocacy, and was now in sight
of the defences of Washington; the crack of his skirmishers was
heard at the “White House” and in the department buildings
of the capital. The enormous march, however, had broken
down and decimated his army. The five hundred miles of
incessant advance, at twenty miles a day, left him only eight
thousand infantry, about forty field-pieces, and two thousand
badly mounted cavalry—at the moment detached against the
railroads northward—with which to assault the powerful works,
bristling with cannon, in his front. His position at this moment
was certainly critical, and calculated to try the nerves of any but
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a resolute and daring soldier. He was in the heart of the
enemy's country, or at least in sight of their capital city; in his
front, according to Mr. Stanton, the Federal Secretary of War,
was the Sixth and part of the Eighth and Nineteenth Corps, and
General Hunter was hastening from the West to strike his rear
and cut him off from his only avenue of retreat across the
Potomac. It behoved the Confederate commander under these
circumstances to look to his safety; and he was reluctantly compelled
to give up his intended assault upon the capital—to
abandon the attempt to seize the rich prize apparently in his
very grasp. Early, accordingly, broke up his camp, retreated,
and, with little molestation, recrossed the Potomac, and stood at
bay on the Opequon in the Shenandoah Valley.
Such had been the result of the daring advance upon the
Federal capital. The extent of the danger to which Washington
was then exposed, still remains a matter of doubt and difference
of opinion among the most intelligent persons. It will, no
doubt, be accurately defined when the events of the recent struggle
come to be closely investigated by the impartial historian of
the future, and the truth is sifted from the error. To the world
at large, the Federal capital seemed in no little danger on that
July morning, when Early's lines were seen advancing to the
attack. Northern writers state that, if the assault had been
made on the day before, it would have resulted in the capture
of the city. But however well or ill-founded this may be, it is
safe to say that the primary object of the march had been
accomplished when Early retreated and posted himself in the
Shenandoah Valley—a standing threat to repeat his audacious
enterprise. It was no longer a mere detached column that
opposed him, but an army of about 50,000 men. To that extent
General Grant had been weakened, and the heavy weight upon
General Lee's shoulders lightened.
These events took place in the summer of 1864, and in the
autumn of that year General Early fought his famous battles,
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and—the world said—sustained his ignominious defeats in the
Shenandoah Valley. “Ignominious” was the adjective which
expressed the views of nine-tenths of the citizens outside of the
immediate region, and probably of one-half the army of Northern
Virginia. In the eyes of the world there is a crime for
which there is no palliation, and that is failure. There is a
criminal to whom all defence is denied—it is the man who fails.
No matter what the failure results from, there it is, and no
explanations are “in order.” Early was defeated in a pitched
battle near Winchester, on the 19th of September, and the
country, gloomy, despondent, embittered, and elamouring for
a victory, broke out into curses almost at the man who had sustained
this reverse. It was his bad generalship, they cried;
“the troops had no confidence in him;” he was the poorest of
soldiers, the veriest sham general—else why, with his splendid
army, did he allow a second or third-rate general like Sheridan
to defeat him? When the defeat at Fisher's Hill followed, and
the fiasco at Waynesboro' terminated the Valley campaign, people
were convinced that General Jubal A. Early was a very
great dunce in military matters, had been outgeneralled and
outfought by an opponent little, if any, stronger than himself,
and the whole campaign was stigmatized as a disgraceful series
of blunders, ending in well-merited defeat and disaster.
That was the popular clamour; but it is safe to say that popular
clamour is essentially falsehood, because it is based upon
passion and ignorance. The truth of that campaign is that
Early was “leading a forlorn hope,” and that he never fought
less than four to one. At Fisher's Hill and Waynesboro', he
fought about eight to one. It is not upon General Early's
statements in his recent letter from Havana, that the present
writer makes the above allegation, but upon the testimony of
officers and citizens of the highest character who are unanimous
in their statement to the above effect. From the date
of the battle of Winchester, or the Opequon, to the present
time, it has been persistently declared by the fairest and best
informed gentlemen of the surrounding region, who had excellent
opportunities to discover the truth, that Early's force in
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that fight was about eight or ten thousand, and Sheridan's
about forty or fifty thousand. General Early states upon his
honour—and the world is apt to believe him—that his effective
strength in this action was eight thousand five hundred muskets,
three battalions of artillery, and less than three thousand
cavalry. General Sheridan's force he makes, upon a close
calculation, about thirty-five thousand muskets, one of his
corps alone numbering, as captured documents showed, twelve
thousand men—more than the whole Southern force, infantry,
cavalry, and artillery. In the number of guns Sheridan, he
says, was, “vastly superior” to him; and official reports captured
showed the Federal cavalry “present for duty” two days
before the battle, to have numbered ten thousand men.* There
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was thus a terrible disproportion between the Federal and
Confederate forces. Greatly outnumbered in artillery; with
thirty-five thousand muskets opposed to his eight thousand five
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hundred; and ten thousand excellently mounted and armed
eavalry to his three thousand miserably mounted and equipped
horsemen; Early occupied anything but a bed of roses in
those days of September, when his little force so defiantly
faced the powerful army opposed to it.
Why he was not attacked and driven up the Valley long
before the 19th of September, will remain an interesting historical
problem. Nothing but the unceasing activity and audacity
of the Confederate commander appears to have retarded
this consummation. General Hunter seems to have been paralysed,
or intimidated by the incessant movements of his wary
opponent. From the period of his return to the Valley from
Washington, Early had given his adversary no breathing
spell. To-day he seemed retreating up the Valley; on the
next day he was in Maryland; when he fell back and his
adversary followed, a sudden and decisive blow at the head
of the pursuing column threw the whole Federal programme
into confusion; and grim and defiant, Early faced General
Hunter in line of battle, defying him to make an attack.
It will be hard to establish the statement that in these movements,
during the summer and autumn of 1864, in the Shenandoah
Valley, Early did not carry out in the fullest degree the
instructions received from General Lee, and accomplish admirably
the objects for which he had been sent to that region.
He was placed there as Jackson had been in 1862, to divert a
portion of the Federal forces from the great arena of combat
in the lowland. By his movements before and after the battle
of Kernstown, Jackson, with about four thousand men, kept
about twenty-five thousand of the enemy in the Valley. By
his movements preceding the battle of Opequon, Early, with
eight or ten thousand men, kept between forty and fifty thousand
from General Meade's army at Petersburg. That he
could meet the Federal force in his front, in a fair pitched battle,
was not probably believed by himself or by General Lee.
His command was essentially what he calls it, a “forlorn hope”—
the hope that it could cope with its opponents being truly
forlorn. As long as that opponent was amused, retarded, or
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kept at arm's length, all was well. When he advanced to
attack in earnest, it was doubtless foreseen that the thirty or
forty thousand bayonets would drive back the eight or nine
thousand. That result followed on the 19th of September,
when, Sheridan having superseded Hunter, the attack was
made at the Opequon. And yet nothing is better established
than the fact that up to the moment when he put his cavalry
in motion against the Confederate left, General Sheridan had
been virtually defeated. Every assault of his great force of
infantry had been repulsed; and nowhere does this more
clearly appear than in an account of the action published in
Harper's Magazine, by a field officer, apparently of one of the
Federal regiments. That account is fair, lucid, and records
the precise truth, namely, that every advance of the Federal
infantry was met and repulsed. Not until the ten thousand
cavalry of General Sheridan advanced on the Martinsburg
road, attained the Confederate rear, and charged them in flank
and rear, was there the least wavering. It is true that from
that moment the action was lost. Early's line gave way in
confusion; his artillery was fought to the muzzle of the guns,
but could do nothing unsupported; and that night the Confederate
forces were in full retreat up the Valley.
Such, divested of all gloss and rodomontade, was the battle
on the Opequon. It was a clear and unmistakable defeat, but
the reader has seen what produced it. Not want of generalship
in the Confederate commander. It is gross injustice to
him to charge him with the responsibility of that reverse; and
no fair mind, North or South, will do so. He was defeated,
because the force opposed to him was such as his command
could not compete with. By heroic fighting, the little band
kept back the swarming forces of the enemy, holding their
ground with the nerve of veterans who had fought in a hundred
battles; but when the numerous and excellently armed
cavalry of the enemy thundered down upon their flank and
rear, they gave up the struggle, and yielded the hard fought
day.
The second act of this exciting drama was played at Fisher's
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Hill, three days afterward. Sullenly retiring like a wounded
wolf, who snarls and shows his teeth at every step, Early took
up a position on the great range of hills above Strasburg, and
waited to be attacked. His design was to repulse any assault,
and at nightfall retire; but the enemy's large numbers enabling
them to turn his flank, they drove him from his position,
and he was forced to fall back in disorder, with heavy loss.
This result was charged upon the cavalry, but Early's small
force could not defend the ground, and the Federals assuredly
gained few laurels there. So heavy had been the blow struck
by the great force of the enemy three days before, that it is
wonderful how the Southern troops could make any stand
at all. Early's loss in the battle of the Opequon, in killed,
wounded, and “missing”—that terrible item in a defeated and
retreating army—was so great, that it is doubtful whether his
army, when it stood at bay on Fisher's Hill, numbered four
thousand muskets. Such, at least, is the statement of intelligent
and veracious officers who took part in the engagement.
They are unanimous in declaring that it did not exceed that
number. Sheridan's force they declare to have been overpowering,
but the Southern troops could and did meet it when the
attack was made in front. Not until the great force of the
enemy enabled him to turn the left flank of Early and sweep
right down his line of works, did the troops give way. Numbers
overcame everything.
Early retreated up the Valley, where he continued to present
a defiant front to the powerful force of Sheridan, until the
middle of October. On the 19th he was again at Cedar Creek,
between Strasburg and Winchester, and had struck an almost
mortal blow at General Sheridan. The Federal forces were
surprised, attacked at the same moment in front and flank,
and driven in complete rout from their camps. Unfortunately
this great success did not effect substantial results. The enemy,
who largely outnumbered Early, especially in their excellent
cavalry, re-formed their line under General Wright. Sheridan,
who had just arrived, exerted himself to retrieve the bad fortune
of the day, and the Confederates were forced to retire in
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their turn. General Early's account of this event is interesting:
“I went into this fight,” he says, “with eight thousand five
hundred muskets, about forty pieces of artillery, and about
twelve hundred cavalry, as the rest of my cavalry, which was
guarding the Luray Valley, did not get up in time, though
ordered to move at the same time I moved to the attack.
Sheridan's infantry had been recruited fully up to its strength
at Winchester, and his cavalry numbered eight thousand seven
hundred, as shown by the official reports captured. The main
cause why the rout of his army in the morning was not complete,
was the fact that my cavalry could not compete with his,
and the latter, therefore, remained intact. He claimed all his
own guns that had been captured in the morning, and afterward
recaptured, as so many guns captured from me, whereas
I lost only twenty-three guns; and the loss of these and the
wagons which were taken, was mainly owing to the fact that
a bridge, on a narrow part of the road between Cedar Creek
and Fisher's Hill, broke down, and the guns and wagons, which
latter were not numerous, could not be brought off. Pursuit
was not made to Mount Jackson, as stated by both Grant and
Stanton, but my troops were halted for the night at Fisher's
Hill, three miles from Cedar Creek, and the next day moved
back to New Market, six miles from Mount Jackson, without
any pursuit at all.”
Thus terminated the Valley campaign of 1864. In November,
Early again advanced nearly to Winchester, but his offer
of battle was refused, and he went into winter quarters near
Staunton, with the small and exhausted force which remained
with him, the second corps having been returned to General
Lee. He had then only a handful of cavalry and a “corporal's
guard” of infantry. In February, 1865, when the days of
the Confederacy were numbered and the end was near, he was
to give the quidnuncs and his enemies generally one more opportunity
of denouncing his bad generalship and utter unfitness
for command. In those dark days, when hope was sinking
and the public “pulse was low,” every reverse enraged the
people. The whole country was nervous, excited, irascible,
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exacting. The people would hear no explanations—they
wanted victories. Such was the state of public sentiment
when intelligence came from the mountains that Early's
“army” had been again attacked, this time near Staunton, and
owing to the excessively bad generalship of that officer, had
sustained utter and ignominious defeat. How many thousands
of men had thus been defeated was not exactly stated; but
the public said that it was an “army.” It was one thousand
infantry and about six pieces of artillery. This force was
attacked by two divisions of cavalry, numbering five thousand
each—ten thousand in all. Early had not a mounted man, his
entire cavalry force, with the rest of his artillery, having been
sent off to forage. By the great force of the enemy, Early
was driven beyond the mountains, his command hopelessly
defeated, and his name was everywhere covered with obloquy
and insult. He said nothing, waiting with the equanimity of
a brave man for the moment which would enable him to justify
himself. He has done it now; and no manly heart will read
his noble words without respect for this true patriot and fearless
soldier. “Obvious reasons of policy,” he says, “prevented
any publication of these facts during the war, and it will now
be seen that I was leading a forlorn hope all the time, and the peo
ple can appreciate the character of the victories won by Sheridan
over me.”
But this is General Early's account of the campaign, it may
be said. It is natural—some persons even now may say—that
he should endeavour by “special pleading” to lift from his
name the weight of obloquv, and strive to show that he was not
deficient in military ability, in courage, skill, and energy. The
objection is just; no man is an altogether fair witness in regard
to his own character and actions. Somewhere, a fault will be
palliated, a merit exaggerated. Fortunately for Early's fame—
unfortunately for the theory of his enemies—a document of the
most conclusive character exists, and with that paper in his hand,
the brave soldier may fearlessly present himself before the bar
of history. It is the letter of General Lee, to him, dated March
30, 1865, three days before that “beginning of the end,” the
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evacuation of Petersburg. The clamour against Early had accomplished
the object of many of those who raised it. His
ability was distrusted; he was regarded as unfit for command;
“remove him!” was the cry of the people. Here is General
Lee's letter relieving him of his command. It would be an
injustice to the good name of Early to suppress a line of it.
“Hd. Qrs. C. S. Armies, March 30, 1865.
“Lieut.-Gen. J. A. Early, Franklin C. H., Va.:
“Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem
a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is
due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain
the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs
is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the
resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as
efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should
have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full
confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be
embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command
the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success.
Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the
army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your
influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add
greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances,
attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own
confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired,
I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what
seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your
reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained
to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to
develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire
the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose,
thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of
those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that
you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one
will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure
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which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless
of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity
and energy with which you have always supported my efforts,
and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in
the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly,
your obedient servant,
“R. E. LEE, General.”
In defeat, poverty, and exile, this recognition of his merit remains
to that brave soldier; and it is enough. There is something
better than the applauses of the multitude—something
which will outweigh in history the clamour of the ignorant or
the hostile; it is this testimony of Robert E. Lee to the “zealous
and patriotic services” of the man to whom it refers; to the
“ability, zeal, devotion, fidelity, energy, and courage” which he
had “ever manifested in the service of the country,” leaving the
“confidence” of the Commander-in-Chief in him “unimpaired.”
eaf521n2* An interesting discussion has taken place in the journals of the day, in reference
to the forces of Early and Sheridan at the battle of the Opequon. The latter
replied to Early's statement by charging him with falsifying history; and this
reply drew forth in turu statements from Southern officers—some sentences from
which are quoted:
“I know of my own personal knowledge,” wrote an officer in the New Orleans
Picayune, January 13, 1866, “that General Early's statement is correct, when he
states that he had about eight thousand five hundred muskets in the second
engagement with General Sheridan. I was a staff officer for four years in the
army of Northern Virginia. I was a division staff officer, Second Army Corps,
under General Early's command, from the time the Second Corps was detached
from the Army of Northern Virginia, June 1864, to the time it was ordered to
Petersburg, December, 1864. I was present at the battles of Winchester, Fisher's
Hill, and Cedar Creek. I know from the official reports that I myself made, and
from actual observation at reviews, drills, inspections in camp, and on the march,
the effective strength of every brigade and division of infantry under General
Early's command (of the cavalry and artillery I cannot speak so authoritatively),
and I can therefore assert that in neither one of these actions above mentioned,
did General Early carry nine thousand men (infantry) into the fight.”
“One who served on Early's staff,” writes in the New York News of February
10, 1866:
“The writer of this has in his possession the highest and most conclusive evidence
of the truth of Early's statement of his infantry force; and in fact without
this proof, it could have been substantially established by the evidence here in
Lynchburg of these facts, that fifteen trains of the Virginia and Alexandria Railroad
(no one train of a capacity of carrying five hundred men) brought the whole
of the Second Corps of the Confederate Army under division commanders Gordon.
Rodes, and Ramseur to this place: that Breckenridge's division, then here,
was only about two thousand men: and that these were all of the infantry carried
from this place by Early down the Valley after his chase of Hunter. It will
thus be perceived that Early's estimate (eight thousand five hundred) was quite
full so far; and after the Winchester and Fisher's Hill engagements, his statement
that Kershaw's division of two thousand seven hundred then added, did
not exceed his previous losses, ought certainly not to be objected to by Sheridan,
who assails Early's veracity with the assertion that he inflicted on him a loss of
twenty-six thousand eight hundred and thirty-one men!”
The Richmond Times says: “Of General Early's actual force on the 19th of September,
1864, the day of the battle of Winchester, his first defeat, we can give
statistics nearly official, procured from an officer of rank who held a high com
mand during the campaign, and who had every opportunity of knowing. Early's
infantry consisted of
Gordon's Division |
2,000 |
Ramseur's Division |
2,000 |
Rodes' Division |
2,500 |
Breckenridge's Division |
1,800 |
Total Infantry |
8,300 |
CAVALRY—FITZ LEE'S DIVISION.
Wickham's Brigade |
1,000 |
Lomax's old Brigade |
600 |
LOMAX'S DIVISION.
McCauseland's Brigade |
800 |
Johnson's Brigade |
700 |
Imboden's Brigade |
400 |
Jackson's Brigade |
300 |
Total Cavalry |
3,800 |
ARTILLERY.
Three Battalions Light Artillery |
40 guns. |
One Battalion Horse Artillery |
12 guns. |
Total guns |
52 guns |
About one thousand artillerists.
“This recapitulation embraces all the forces of Early's command. General
Sheridan, according to official statements, had under his command over thirty-five
thousand muskets, eight thousand sabres, and a proportionate quantity of artillery.”
The force of Sheridan is not a matter of dispute: that of Early is defined with
sufficient accuracy by the above statements from honourable officers.
In concluding this sketch, an attempt will be made to give the
reader some idea of the personal character and appearance of the
brave man who, in his letter from Havana, has made that calm
and decorons appeal to posterity.
General Early, during the war, appeared to be a person of
middle age; was nearly six feet in height; and, in spite of severe
attacks of rheumatism, could undergo great fatigue. His hair
was dark and thin, his eyes bright, his smile ready and expressive,
though somewhat sarcastic. His dress was plain gray,
with few decorations. Long exposure had made his old coat
quite dingy. A wide-brimmed hat overshadowed his sparkling
eyes and forehead, browned by sun and wind. In those sparkling
eyes could be read the resolute character of the man, as in
his smile was seen the evidence of that dry, trenchant, often
mordant humour, for which he was famous.
The keen glance drove home the wit or humour, and every
one who ventured upon word-combats with Lieutenant-General
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Early sustained “a palpable hit.” About some of his utterances
there was a grim effectiveness which it would be hard to excel.
There was a member of the Virginia Convention who had called
him a “submissionist” in that body, but when the war commenced,
hired a substitute, and remained at home, though
healthy and only forty. Early the “submissionist” went into
the army, fought hard, and then one day in 1862 met his quondam
critic, who said to him, “It was very hard to get you to go
out”—alluding to Early's course in the Convention on secession.
Early's eye flashed, his lip curled. “Yes,” he replied, looking
at the black broadcloth of his companion, “but it is a d—d sight
harder to get you up to the fighting.” There was another member
of the Convention who had often criticised him, and dwelt upon
the importance of “maintaining our rights in the territories at all
hazards.” This gentleman, being aged, did not go into the army;
and one day when Early met him, during the retreat from
Manassas, the General said, with his customary wit, “Well,
Mr. M—, what do you think about getting our rights in the
territories now? It looks like we were going to lose some of
our own territory, don't it?” When General Lee's surrender
was announced to him, while lying nearly dead in his ambulance,
he muttered to his surgeon, “Doctor, I wish there was powder
enough in the centre of the earth to blow it to atoms. I would
apply the torch with the greatest pleasure. If Gabriel ever
means to blow his horn, now is the time for him to do it—no
more joyful sound could fall on my ears.”
These hits he evidently enjoyed, and he delivered them with the
coolness of a swordsman making a mortal lunge. In fact, everything
about General Early was bold, straightforward, masculine,
and incisive. Combativeness was one of his great traits.
There were many persons in and out of the army who doubted
the soundness of his judgment; there were none who ever
called in question the tough fibre of his courage. He was universally
recognised in the Army of Northern Virginia as one
of the hardest fighters of the struggle; and every confidence
was felt in him as a combatant, even by his personal enemies.
This repute he had won on many fields, from the first Manassas
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to Winchester; for one of the hardest fights of the war, if it
was a defeat, was that affair on the Opequon.
It was not so much good judgment that General Early wanted
in his Valley campaign, as troops. He was “leading a forlorn
hope,” and forlorn hopes rarely succeed. “He has done as well
as any one could,” General Lee is reported to have said; and the
Commander-in-Chief had better opportunities of forming a correct
opinion than others.
Returning to Early the man, what most impressed those who
were thrown with him, was that satirical, sometimes cynical
humour, and the force and vigour of his conversation. His
voice was not pleasing, but his “talk” was excellent. His
intellect was evidently strong, combative, aggressive in all domains
of thought; his utterance direct, hard-hitting, and telling.
He was a forcible speaker; had been successful at the bar;
and in the army, as in civil life, made his way by the
independent force of his mind and character—by his strong will,
sustained energy, and the native vigour of his faculties. Sarcastic
and critical, he was criticised in return, as a man of rough
address, irascible temperament, and as wholly careless whom he
offended. So said his enemies—those who called in question
his brains and judgment. What they could not call in question,
however, was his “zeal, fidelity, and devotion,” or they will
not do so to-day. Robert E. Lee has borne his supreme and
lasting testimony upon that subject, and the brave and hardy
soldier who led that forlorn hope in the Shenandoah Valley,
when the hours of a great conflict were numbered, and darkness
began to settle like a pall upon the land illustrated by such
heroic struggles, by victories so splendid—the brave and hardy
Early at last has justice done him, and can claim for himself
that, when the day was darkest, when all hearts desponded, he
was zealous, faithful, devoted. If the world is not convinced by
the testimony of Lee, that this man was devoted to his country,
and true as steel to the flag under which he fought—true to it in
disaster and defeat as in success and victory—let them read the
letter of the exile, signing himself “J. A. Early, Lieut.-Gen.
C. S. A.”
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I was reading the other day a work entitled “Jack Mosby,
the Guerilla,” by a certain “Lieutenant-Colonel —,” of the
United States Army. The book is exceedingly sanguinary.
Colonel Mosby is therein represented as a tall, powerful, blackbearded,
cruel, and remorseless brigand of the Fra Diavolo order,
whose chief amusement was to hang up Federal soldiers by their
arms, and kindle fires under their feet—for what reason is not explained;
and when not thus pleasantly engaged, he is described
as cutting down the unfortunate bluecoats with a tremendous
sabre, or riddling them with bullets from an extensive assortment
of pistols in his belt. He has a sweetheart—for “Lieutenant-Colonel—”
enters into his hero's most private affairs—who
makes love to Union officers, and leads them into the toils of the
remorseless Mosby. That individual exclaims in moments of
excitement, “Confusion!” after the universal fashion of Confederate
States officers in the late war; and in order to make the
history of his life a full and comprehensive one, the minutest
particulars are given of his well known scheme to burn the city
of New York—a brilliant idea, exclusively belonging to this
celebrated bandit, who is vividly represented in a cheap woodcut
as pouring liquid phosphorus on his bed at the Astor
House. This biographical work is “profusely illustrated,” beautifully
bound in a yellow paper cover, and the price is “only
ten cents.”
It may be said that this is, after all, a species of literature, “
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socalled,” such as no person of character or intelligence ever reads.
Such is doubtless the truth in regard to Lieutenant-Colonel—'s
silly performance; but is it equally certain that there are no
citizens of the Northern States, both fair-minded and cultivated,
who regard Colonel Mosby in some such light as that in which
he is here represented? I am afraid the number is considerable.
He has been so persistently described as a desperado, such as
infests the outskirts of civilization, that some impression must
have been made by his traducers. Dr. Johnson said that almost
anything could be accomplished by incessantly talking about it;
and so many people have reiterated these charges against Colonel
Mosby, that a belief in them has, beyond any doubt, fixed itself
upon the minds of many fair and candid persons. It is for this
class, whose good opinion is worth something, that I propose to
state the truth in relation to his character and career. Though
in no manner attached to his command, the present writer occupied
a position during the late war which enabled him to watch
this officer's operations from the commencement almost to the
end of the struggle; and what is here set down in relation to
him may be relied upon as an honest statement by one who has
no object in the world in making it except to record the truth.
Without further preface, it may surprise some of my Northern
readers to hear that this man, figuring in the popular eye as
a ruffian and low adventurer, was born and bred, and is in
character and manners, a gentleman. His family is one of
standing and intelligence in Virginia, and he was educated at
the University of Virginia, where he studied law. He commenced
the practice, married, and would probably have passed
through life as a “county court lawyer” had not the war taken
place. When Virginia seceded he imitated other young men,
and embarked in the struggle as a private in a regiment of
cavalry. Here he exhibited courage and activity, and eventually
became first-lieutenant and adjutant. When the miserable
“reorganization” system of the Confederate States government
went into operation in the spring of 1862, and the men were
allowed to select their officers, Mosby—never an easy or indulgent
officer—was thrown out, and again became a private. He
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returned to the ranks; but his energy and activity had been
frequently exhibited, and General Stuart, who possessed a
remarkable talent for discovering conspicuous military merit of
any sort in obscure persons, speedily sent for him, and from that
time employed him as a scout or partisan. It is proper to warn
the reader here that a scout is not a spy. Mosby's duty was to
penetrate the region of country occupied by the Federal forces,
either alone or in command of a small detachment of cavalry;
and by hovering in the woods around the Union camps, interrogating
citizens, or capturing pickets or stragglers, acquire information
of the enemy's numbers, position, or designs. If this
information could be obtained without a collision, all the better;
but, if necessary, it was the duty and the habit of the Scouts to
attack, or when attacked, hold their ground as long as possible.
In other words, there was inaugurated in the country occupied
by the Federal forces a regular system of partisan warfare, the
object of which was to harass the invading force, and in every
way impair its efficiency.
It was at this time that I first saw Mosby, and his appearance
was wholly undistinguished. He was thin, wiry, and I should
say about five feet nine or ten inches in height. A slight stoop
in the neck was not ungraceful. The chin was carried well
forward; the lips were thin and wore a some what satirical smile;
the eyes, under the brown felt hat, were keen, sparkling, and
roved curiously from side to side. He wore a gray uniform,
with no arms but two revolvers in his belt; the sabre was no
favourite with him. His voice was low, and a smile was often
on his lips. He rarely sat still ten minutes. Such was his
appearance at that time. No one would have been struck with
anything noticeable in him except the eyes. These flashed at
times in a way which might have induced the opinion that there
was something in the man, if it only had an opportunity to
“come out.”
I am not aware that he gained any reputation in the campaign
of 1862. He was considered, however, by General Stuart an
excellent scout and partisan; and the General once related to the
present writer with great glee, the manner in which Mosby had
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taken nine men, deployed them over several hundred yards, and
advanced, firing steadily upon a whole brigade of Federal
cavalry, which hastily retired under the impression that the
attacking force was heavy. Such things were common with
Mosby, who seemed to enjoy them greatly; but in the spring
of 1862 the tables were turned upon the partisan. General
Stuart sent him from the Chickahominy to carry a confidential
message to General Jackson, then in the Valley. He was resting
at one of the wayside stations on the Central Railroad while
his horse was feeding, when a detachment of Federal cavalry surprised
and captured him—making prize also of a private note
from Stuart to Jackson, and a copy of Napoleon's “Maxims”
accompanying it. Mosby was carried to the Old Capitol, but
was soon exchanged; and chancing to discover on his route
down the bay that General Burnside was going soon to reinforce
General Pope in Culpeper, he hastened on his arrival with
that important information to General Lee, who telegraphed it,
doubtless, to General Jackson at Gordonsville. It is probable
that the battle of Cedar Run, where General Pope was defeated,
was fought by Jackson in consequence of this information.
My object, however, is not to write a biography of Colonel
Mosby. It is fortunate that such is not my design; for a career
of wonderful activity extending over about three years could
not be condensed into a brief paper. I shall speak of but one or
two other incidents in his career; and one shall be his surprise
of Brigadier-General Stoughton at Fairfax Court-House in the
winter of 1862. This affair excited unbounded indignation on
the part of many excellent people, though President Lincoln
made a jest of it. Let us not see if it was not a legitimate partisan
operation. It was in November, I believe, that Mosby received
the information leading to his movement. The Federal forces
at that time occupied the region between Fredericksburg and
Alexandria; and as General Stuart's activity and energy were
just causes of solicitude, a strong body of infantry, cavalry, and
artillery, was posted in the neighbourhood of Fairfax Court-House
and Centreville. Colonel Wyndham was in command
of the cavalry, and Acting Brigadier-General Stoughton, a young
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officer from West Point, commanded the whole district, with his
headquarters in the small village of Fairfax. Mosby formed
the design of capturing General Stoughton, Colonel Wyndham,
Colonel Johnson, and other officers; and sent scouts to the
neighbourhood to ascertain the force there. They brought
word that a strong body of infantry and artillery was at Centreville;
Colonel Wyndham's brigade of cavalry at Germantown,
a mile from Fairfax; and toward the railroad station another
brigade of infantry. Fairfax thus appeared to be inclosed within
a cordon of all arms, rendering it wholly impossible even to
approach it. Those who know the ground, as many of my
readers doubtless do, will easily understand how desperate the
undertaking appeared of penetrating to the town, and safely
carrying off the Federal commandant. It was one of those
schemes, however, whose very boldness is apt to cause them to
succeed. Men rarely guard against dangers which they do not
dream it possible can threaten them. Mosby doubtless based his
calculations upon this fact; at any rate he decided upon the
movement, and with twenty-nine men set out one dark and
drizzling November night for the scene of operations. Newspaper
writers of the day stated that the party were dressed in
Federal uniforms. This is not true. There was no sort of
advantage in any such precaution. The party had to steal off
with their captures, if any were made, or cut their way through,
and on that black night no uniform was discernible. Mosby
approached Germantown by the Little River turnpike; but fearing
Wyndham's cavalry, obliqued to the right, and took to the
woods skirting the Warrenton road. Centreville was thus, with
its garrison, on his right and rear, Germantown on his left, and
Fairfax, winged with infantry camps, in his front. It was now
raining heavily, and the night was like pitch. The party
advanced by bridle-paths through the woods, thus avoiding the
pickets of the main avenues of approach, and the incessant patter
of the rain drowned the hoof-strokes of the horses. A mile from
Fairfax the gleam of tents greeted them in front, and finding the
approaches barred in that direction they silently obliqued to the
right again, crossed the Warrenton road, and gradually drew
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near the town on the southern side. Again the woods and the
rain served them. Their advance was undiscovered, and at last
they were close upon the place. An infantry picket was the
only obstacle, but this was soon removed. The sleepy vidette
found a pistol at his breast, and the picket was compelled to surrender
without firing a shot. The way was then clear, and
Mosby entered the town at a gallop. His object was to capture
the Federal officers known to be in the place, burn the public
stores, and carry off as many horses as possible. His party was
accordingly divided for these purposes, and Mosby himself proceeded
to General Stoughton's residence. It was afterwards
said that a young lady of the place, Miss Ford, had supplied him
with information, and now led him personally to the house.
This, Colonel Mosby stated to the present writer, was entirely a
mistake; he received information neither from Miss Ford nor any
one else, except his own scouts. To accompany him, however, in
his visit to General Stoughton, he found an orderly at the door,
who was taken charge of by one of the men, and then mounted
to the general's bedchamber, the occupant of which was fast
asleep. At Mosby's unceremonious “Get up, General, and come
with me!” the sleeper started erect, and demanded: “Do you
know who I am, sir?” apparently indignant at such want of
ceremony. “Do you know Mosby, General?” was the reply.
“Yes,” was the eager response, “have you got the—rascal?”
“No, but he has got you!” And to the startled “What does
this mean, sir?” of General Stoughton, Mosby replied, “It means
that General Stuart's cavalry are in possession of the Court-House,
sir, and that you are my prisoner.” This disagreeable state of
affairs slowly dawned upon the aroused sleeper, and he soon found
himself dressed, mounted, and ready to set out—a prisoner. Several
staff officers had also been captured, and a considerable number
of horses—Colonels Wyndham and Johnson eluded the search
for them. Deciding not to burn the public stores which were in
the houses, Mosby then mounted all his prisoners—some thirty-five,
I believe, in number, including about half-a-dozen officers—
cautiously retraced his steps, passing over the very same ground,
and stealing along about down under the muzzles of the guns in
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the works at Centreville, so close that the sentinel hailed the
party, swam Cub Run, struck southward, and at sunrise was
safe beyond pursuit.
The skill and boldness exhibited in the conception and execution
of this raid conferred upon Mosby just fame as a partisan
officer, and the regular organization of his command commenced.
He was made captain, then major, then lieutenant-colonel, and
colonel, as his force and his operations increased.
From the solitary scout, or humble partisan, operating with a
small squad, he had now grown to be an officer of rank and distinction,
entrusted with important duties, and eventually with
the guardianship of the whole extent of country north of the
Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge. The people of the
region speak of it, with a laugh, as “Mosby's Confederacy,” and
the name will probably adhere to it, in the popular mind, for
many years to come. Let us pass to these latter days when
“Colonel” Mosby gave the Federal forces so much trouble, and
aroused so much indignation in Custer, Sheridan, and others,
whose men he captured, and whose convoys he so frequently cut
off and destroyed. The question of most interest is—Was Colonel
Mosby a partisan officer, engaged in a perfectly legitimate warfare,
or was he a mere robber? The present writer regards any
imputations upon the character of this officer, or upon the nature
of the warfare which he carried on, as absurd. If the Confederate
States army generally was a mere unlawful combination, and
not entitled to be regarded as “belligerent,” the case is made
out; but there was no officer in that army who occupied a
more formally official position than Mosby, or whose operations
more perfectly conformed to the rules of civilized warfare. Virginia
was invaded by the Federal forces, and large portions of
her territory were occupied and laid under contribution. Especially
was the country north of the Rappahannock thus exposed.
It was a species of border-land which belonged to the party
which could hold it; and to protect it from the inroads of
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the Federal forces, Mosby instituted a regular system of partisan
warfare. His headquarters were generally near Upperville,
just east of the ridge, and his scouts speedily brought him intelligence
of any advance of the Federal cavalry. As soon as he was
informed of their approach, he went to meet them, hovered near
them, took his moment, and attacked them, his superior skill
and knowledge of the country almost uniformly routing the force
opposed to him. Another important part of his duty was to cut
off and capture or destroy the trains of his adversaries. These
things were exceedingly annoying, and made the Federal commanders
whose movements were thus crippled quite furious
against the author of their embarrassments—but no person with
the least knowledge of military affairs will stigmatize the destruction
of wagon trains as the work of a brigand. In the same
manner the railroads supplying the Federal forces with commissary
and other stores were destroyed wherever it could be done.
Detached parties out foraging were, if possible, captured. Camps,
picket posts, vedette stations, were surprised, when practicable,
and prisoners seized upon. To harass, annoy, injure, and in
every manner cripple or embarrass the opposing force, was the
object of Colonel Mosby, as it has been of partisan officers in
all the wars of history. The violent animosity felt toward him
was attributable solely to the great skill, vigour, and success of
his operations. The present writer has a tolerably full acquaintance
with the military record of Colonel Mosby and his command,
and he states, in all sincerity, that he can find in it nothing
whatever that is “irregular” or unworthy of an officer and a
gentleman. Mosby carried on a legitimate partisan warfare
under a regular commission from the President of the Confederate
States, and was in command of a regularly organized body
of cavalry. He announced clearly his intention of disputing
military possession of the country north of the Rappahannock,
of harassing, retarding, or crippling any force invading Virginia,
and of inflicting as much injury as possible upon his opponents.
One single act of seeming cruelty is charged against him, the
hanging of seven of Custer's men—but this was in retaliation for
seven of his own which had been executed by that officer. This
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retaliation was in accordance with the rules of warfare in every
country, and his superiors disavowed the course of General Custer,
and directed such proceedings to cease.
We have expended too much space upon this point. Colonel
Mosby can afford to wait to have justice done him. He was
respected by Jackson, Stuart, and Lee, and the world will not
willingly believe him to have been a bandit.
What was the appearance and character of the actual individual?
What manner of personages were “Mosby and his
men,” as they really lived, and moved, and had their being in
the forests and on the hills of Fauquier, in Virginia, in the years
1863 and 1864? If the reader will accompany me, I will conduct
him to this beautiful region swept by the mountain winds,
and will introduce him—remember, the date is 1864—to a plain
and unassuming personage clad in gray, with three stars upon
his coat-collar, and two pistols in his belt.
He is slender, gaunt, and active in figure; his feet are small,
and cased in cavalry boots, with brass spurs; and the revolvers
in his belt are worn with an air of “business” which is unmistakable.
The face of this person is tanned, beardless, youthfullooking,
and pleasant. He has white and regular teeth, which
his habitual smile reveals. His piercing eyes flash out from
beneath his brown hat, with its golden cord, and he reins in his
horse with the ease of a practised rider. A plain soldier, low
and slight of stature, ready to talk, to laugh, to ride, to oblige
you in any way—such was Mosby, in outward appearance.
Nature had given no sign but the restless, roving, flashing eye,
that there was much worth considering beneath. The eye did
not convey a false expression. The commonplace exterior of
the partisan concealed one of the most active, daring, and penetrating
minds of an epoch fruitful in such. Mosby was born to
be a partisan leader, and as such was probably greater than any
other who took part in the late war. He had by nature all the
qualities which make the accomplished ranger; nothing could
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daunt him; his activity of mind and body—call it, if you choose,
restless, eternal love of movement—was something wonderful;
and that untiring energy which is the secret of half the great
successes of history, drove him incessantly to plan, to scheme, to
conceive, and to execute. He could not rest when there was
anything to do, and scouted for his amusement, charging pickets
solus by way of sport. On dark and rainy nights, when other
men aim at being comfortably housed, Mosby liked to be moving
with a detachment of his men to surprise and attack some
Federal camp, or to “run in” some picket, and occasion consternation,
if not inflict injury.
The peculiar feature of his command was that the men occupied
no stated camp, and, in fact, were never kept together
except on an expedition. They were scattered throughout the
country, especially among the small farm-houses in the spurs of
the Blue Ridge; and here they lived the merriest lives imaginable.
They were subjected to none of the hardships and privations
of regular soldiers. Their horses were in comfortable
stables, or ranged freely over excellent pastures; the men lived
with the families, slept in beds, and had nothing to do with
“rations” of hard bread and bacon. Milk, butter, and all the
household luxuries of peace were at their command; and not
until their chief summoned them did they buckle on their arms
and get to horse. While they were thus living on the fat of the
land, Mosby was perhaps scouting off on his private account,
somewhere down toward Manassas, Alexandria, or Leesburg.
If his excursions revealed an opening for successful operations,
he sent off a well mounted courier, who travelled rapidly to the
first nest of rangers; thence a fresh courier carried the summons
elsewhere; and in a few hours twenty, thirty, or fifty men,
excellently mounted, made their appearance at the prescribed
rendezvous. The man who disregarded or evaded the second
summons to a raid was summarily dealt with; he received a note
for delivery to General Stuart, and on reaching the cavalry headquarters
was directed to return to the company in the regular
service from which he had been transferred. This seldom happened,
however. The men were all anxious to go upon raids,
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to share the rich spoils, and were prompt at the rendezvous.
Once assembled, the rangers fell into column, Mosby said
“Come on,” and the party set forward upon the appointed
task—to surprise some camp, capture an army train, or ambush
some detached party of Federal cavalry out on a foraging expedition.
Such a life is attractive to the imagination, and the men came
to have a passion for it. But it is a dangerous service. It may
with propriety be regarded as a trial of wits between the opposing
commanders. The great praise of Mosby was, that his
superior skill, activity, and good judgment gave him almost
uninterrupted success, and invariably saved him from capture.
An attack upon Colonel Cole, of the Maryland cavalry, near
Loudon Heights, in the winter of 1863-64, was his only serious
failure; and that appears to have resulted from a disobedience
of his orders. He had here some valuable officers and men
killed. He was several times wounded, but never taken. On
the last occasion, in 1864, he was shot through the window of a
house in Fauquier, but managed to stagger into a darkened
room, tear off his stars, the badges of his rank, and counterfeit
a person mortally wounded. His assailants left him dying, as
they supposed, without discovering his identity; and when they
did discover it and hurried back, he had been removed beyond
reach of peril. After his wounds he always reappeared paler
and thinner, but more active and untiring than ever. They
only seemed to exasperate him, and make him more dangerous
to trains, scouting parties, and detached camps than before.
The great secret of his success was undoubtedly his unbounded
energy and enterprise. General Stuart came finally to repose
unlimited confidence in his resources, and relied implicitly upon
him. The writer recalls an instance of this in June, 1863.
General Stuart was then near Middleburg, watching the United
States army—then about to move toward Pennsylvania—but
could get no accurate information from his scouts. Silent, puzzled,
and doubtful, the General walked up and down, knitting
his brows and reflecting, when the lithe figure of Mosby appeared,
and Stuart uttered an exclamation of relief and
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satisfaction. They were speedily in private consultation, and Mosby
only came out again to mount his quick gray mare and set out,
in a heavy storm, for the Federal camps. On the next day he
returned with information which put the entire cavalry in motion.
He had penetrated General Hooker's camps, ascertained
everything, and safely returned. This had been done in his
gray uniform, with his pistols at his belt—and I believe it was
on this occasion that he gave a characteristic evidence of his
coolness. He had captured a Federal cavalry-man, and they
were riding on together, when suddenly they struck a column of
the enemy's cavalry passing. Mosby drew his oil-cloth around
him, cocked his pistol, and said to his companion, “If you make
any sign or utter a word to have me captured, I will blow your
brains out, and trust to the speed of my horse to escape. Keep
quiet, and we will ride on without troubling anybody.” His
prisoner took the hint, believing doubtless that it was better to
be a prisoner than a dead man; and after riding along carelessly
for some distance, as though he were one of the column, Mosby
gradually edged off, and got away safely with his prisoner.
But the subject beguiles us too far. The hundreds of adventures
in which Mosby bore his part must be left for that extended
record which will some day be made. My chief object in this
brief paper has been to anticipate the sanguinary historians of
the “Lieutenant Colonel—” order; to show that Colonel
Mosby was no black-browed ruffian, but a plain, unassuming
officer of partisans, who gained his widely-extended reputation
by that activity and energy which only men of military ability
possess. This information in regard to the man is intended, as
I have said, for Northern readers of fairness and candour; for
that class who would not willingly do injustice even to an adversary.
In Virginia, Mosby is perfectly well known, and it would
be unnecessary to argue here that the person who enjoyed the
respect and confidence of Lee, Stuart, and Jackson, was worthy
of it. Mosby was regarded by the people of Virginia in his
true light as a man of great courage, decision, and energy, who
embarked like others in a revolution whose principles and
objects he fully approved. In the hard struggle he fought
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bravely, exposed his person without stint, and overcame his
opponents by superior military ability. To stigmatize him as a
ruffian because he was a partisan is to throw obloquy upon the
memory of Marion, Sumter, and Harry Lee, of the old Revolution.
As long as war lasts, surprise of an enemy will continue
to be a part of military tactics; the destruction of his trains,
munitions, stores, and communications, a legitimate object of
endeavour. This Mosby did with great success, and he had no
other object in view. The charge that he fought for plunder is
singularly unjust. The writer of this is able to state of his own
knowledge that Colonel Mosby rarely appropriated anything to
his own use, unless it were arms, a saddle, or a captured horse,
when his own was worn out; and to-day, the man who captured
millions in stores and money is poorer than when he
entered upon the struggle.
This paper, written without the knowledge of Colonel Mosby,
who is merely an acquaintance of the writer, and intended as a
simple delineation of the man, has, in some manner, assumed the
form of an apology for the partisan and his career. He needs
none, and can await without fear that verdict of history which
the late President of the United States justly declared “could
not be avoided.” In the pages which chronicle the great struggle
of 1862, 1863, and 1864, Colonel Mosby will appear in his
true character as the bold partisan, the daring leader of cavalry,
the untiring, never-resting adversary of the Federal forces invading
Virginia. The burly-ruffian view of him will not bear
inspection; and if there are any who cannot erase from their
minds this fanciful figure of a cold, coarse, heartless adventurer,
I would beg them to dwell for a moment upon a picture which
the Richmond correspondent of a Northern journal drew the
other day.
On a summer morning a solitary man was seen beside the
grave of Stuart, in Hollywood Cemetery, near Richmond. The
dew was on the grass, the birds sang overhead, the green hillock
at the man's feet was all that remained of the daring leader of
the Southern cavalry, who, after all his toils, his battles, and the
shocks of desperate encounters, had come here to rest in peace.
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Beside this unmarked grave the solitary mourner remained long,
pondering and remembering. Finally he plucked a wild flower,
dropped it upon the grave, and with tears in his eyes, left the
place.
This lonely mourner at the grave of Stuart was Mosby.
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-- --
DEATH OF MAJOR PELHAM, (OF ALA.,) “THE GALLANT.”—Page 127.
“He was waving his hat aloft, and cheering them on, when a fragment of shell struck him in the head,
mortally wounding him.”
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts the death of Major Pelham. He is on his horse, with a mass of Confederate soldiers behind him and Union soldiers in the distant background, and is waving his hat in the air. His horse is rearing and Pelham is falling backwards as he has been hit by a shell fragment.[end figure description]
-- -- p521-146
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
On the morning of the 17th of March, 1863, Averill's Federal
Cavalry, three thousand in the saddle, crossed the Rappahannock
at Kelly's Ford, and attacked about eight hundred of
General Fitz Lee's command, who faced, without shrinking,
these great odds, and fought them stubbornly at every point
throughout the entire day.
When the sun set on that tranquil evening—sinking slowly
down behind the quiet forest, unstirred by the least breath of
wind—the long and desperate struggle was decided. The enemy
was retiring, “badly hurt,” and General Stuart added in his
dispatch: “We are after him. His dead men and horses strew
the road.”
No harder battle was fought during the entire war. The
Southern forces won the day by hard and desperate fighting, in
charge after charge; but lost in the struggle some of the most
valiant hearts that ever beat. Puller, Harris, and Pelham were
among the number—the “gallant Pelham” of the battle of
Fredericksburg. He was in the performance of his duty as Chief
of Artillery, and was riding towards his General, when a regiment
of cavalry swept by him in a charge. He was waving his
hat aloft, and cheering them on, when a fragment of shell struck
him on the head, mortally wounding him. He lingered until
after midnight on the morning of the 18th, when General
Stuart telegraphed to Mr. Curry, of Alabama:
“The noble, the chivalric, the gallant Pelham is no more.
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He was killed in action yesterday. His remains will be sent to
you to-day. How much he was beloved, appreciated, and admired,
let the tears of agony we have shed, and the gloom of
mourning throughout my command, bear witness. His loss is
irreparable.”
The body of the young officer was sent to Richmond, laid in
state in the Capitol of Virginia, and we are told that “some
tender hand deposited an evergreen wreath, intertwined with
white flowers, upon the case that contained all that was mortal
of the fallen hero.” His family received the soldier's remains;
they were taken to his Southern home; Virginia, the field of
his fame, had surrendered him to Alabama, the land of his birth.
“The Major-General commanding,” wrote Stuart, in a general
order, “approaches with reluctance the painful duty of announcing
to the Division its irreparable loss in the death of Major
John Pelham, commanding the Horse Artillery.
“He fell mortally wounded in the battle of Kellysville,
March 17th, with the battle-cry on his lips, and the light of
victory beaming from his eye.
“To you, his comrades, it is needless to dwell upon what you
have so often witnessed—his prowess in action, already proverbial.
You well know how, though young in years, a mere
stripling in appearance, remarkable for his genuine modesty of
deportment, he yet disclosed on the battle-field the conduct of
a veteran, and displayed in his handsome person the most imperturbable
coolness in danger.
“His eye had glanced over every battle-field of this army,
from the first Manassas to the moment of his death, and he was,
with a single exception, a brilliant actor in all.
“The memory of `THE GALLANT Pelham,' his many virtues,
his noble nature and purity of character, is enshrined as a sacred
legacy in the hearts of all who knew him.
“His record has been bright and spotless; his career brilliant
and successful.
“He fell—the noblest of sacrifices—on the altar of his country,
to whose glorious service he had dedicated his life from the
beginning of the war.”
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Thus passed away a noble, lofty soul; thus ended a career,
brief, it is true, but among the most arduous, glorious, and splendid
of the war. Young, but immortal—a boy in years, but heir
to undying fame—he was called away from the scene of his
triumphs and glory to a brighter world, where neither wars nor
rumours of wars can come, and wounds and pain and suffering
are unknown; where
“Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further!”
To him who writes these lines, the death of this noble youth
has been inexpressibly saddening. It has cast a shadow on the
very sunlight; and the world seems, somehow, colder and more
dreary since he went away. It was but yesterday almost that
he was in his tent, and I looked into his frank, brave eyes, and
heard his kind, honest voice.* There is the seat he occupied as
we conversed—the bed where he so often slept with me, prolonging
his gay talk deep into the night. There are the books
he read—the papers which he wrote; at this table he once sat,
and here where my own hand rests has rested the hand of the
Dead! Every object thus recalls him, even as he lived and
moved beside me but a few days ago. His very words seem still
echoing in the air, and the dreary camp is full of his presence!
Nor am I the only one whose heart has bled for the young soldier.
All who knew him loved him for his gay, sweet temper,
as they admired him for his unshrinking courage. I have seen
no face over which a sort of shadow did not pass at the announcement,
“Pelham is dead!”
“Pelham is dead!” It is only another mode of saying “honour
is dead! courage is dead! modesty, kindness, courtesy, the inborn
spirit of the true and perfect gentleman, the nerve of the soldier,
the gaiety of the good companion, the kindly heart, and the resolute
soul—all dead, and never more to revisit us in his person!”
These words are not dictated by a blind partiality or mere
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personal regard for the brave youth who has fallen in front of
the foe, in defence of the sacred liberties of the South. Of his
unshrinking nerve and coolness in the hour of peril, the name
of “the gallant Pelham,” given him by General Lee at Fredericksburg,
will bear witness. Of his noble, truthful nature, those
who knew him best will speak.
He had made for himself a celebrated name, and he was only
twenty-four when he died!
A son of the great State of Alabama, and descended from an
old and honourable family there, he had the courage of his race
and clime. He chose arms as his profession, and entered West
Point, where he graduated just as the war commenced; lost no
time in offering his services to the South, and received the
appointment of First-Lieutenant in the Confederate States army.
Proceeding to Harper's Ferry, when General Johnston was in
command there, he was assigned to duty as drill-officer of artillery,
and in the battle of Manassas commanded a battery, which
he fought with that daring courage which afterwards rendered
him so famous. He speedily attracted the attention of the higher
Generals of the army, and General J. E. B. Stuart entrusted him
with the organization of the battalion of Horse Artillery which
he subsequently commanded in nearly every battle of the war
upon Virginia soil. Here I knew him first.
From the moment when he took command of that famous
corps, a new system of artillery fighting seemed to be inaugurated.
The rapidity, the rush, the impetus of the eavalry, were
grafted on its more deliberate brother. Not once, but repeatedly,
has the Horse Artillery of Pelham given chase at full
speed to a flying enemy; and, far in advance of all infantry
support, unlimbered and hurled its thunders on the foe. It was
ever at the point where the line was weakest; and however
headlong the charge of the cavalry, the whirling guns were
beside it, all ready for their part. “Trot, march!” had yielded
to “gallop!” with the battalion; it was rushed into position,
and put in action with a rush; and in and out among the guns
where the bolts fell thickest was the brave young artillerist,
cool and self-possessed, but, as one of his officers said the other
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day, “as gay as a school-boy at a frolic.” He loved his profession
for its own sake; and often spoke to the officers above alluded
to of the “jolly good fights” he would have in the present campaign;
but I anticipate my subject.
Once associated with the command of Stuart, he secured the
warm regard and unlimited contidence of that General, who
employed his services upon every occasion. Thenceforth their
fortunes seemed united, like their hearts; and the young man
became known as one of the most desperate fighters of the whole
army. He was rightly regarded by Jackson and others as possessed
of a very extraordinary genius for artillery; and when
any movement of unusual importance was designed, Pelham was
assigned to the artillery to be employed.
His career was a brief one, but how glorious! How crowded
with great events that are history now! Let us glance at it:
When the Southern forces fell back from Manassas in 1861,
his batteries had their part in covering the movement, and
guarding the fords of the Rappahannock. During the campaign
of the Peninsula, his Blakely was as a sentinel on post near the
enemy; and at the battle of Williamsburg his courage and skill
transformed raw militia into veterans. In the seven day's battles
around Richmond he won fadeless laurels. With one
Napoleon, he engaged three heavy batteries, and fought them
with a pertinacity and unfaltering nerve which made the calm
face of Jackson glow; and the pressure of that heroic hand,
warm and eloquent of unspoken admiration. Soon afterwards,
at the “White House,” he engaged a gunboat, and driving it
away, after a brief but hot encounter, proved how fanciful were
the terrors of these “monsters.”
His greatest achievements were to come, however; and he
hastened to record them on the enduring tablets of history.
From the moment when his artillery advanced from the Rappahannock,
to the time when it returned thither, to the day of
Fredericksburg, the path of the young leader was deluged with
the blood of battle. At Manassas he rushed his guns into the
very columns of the enemy almost; fighting their sharpshooters
with canister, amid a hurricane of balls. At Sharpsburg he had
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command of nearly all the artillery on our left, and directed it
with the hand of a master. When the army crossed back into
Virginia, he was posted at Shepherdstown, and guarded the ford
with an obstinate valour, which spoke in the regular and unceasing
reverberation of his deep-mouthed Napoleons, as they roared
on, hour after hour, driving back the enemy.
Of the days which succeeded that exciting period, many persons
will long hold the memory. It was in an honest old country-house,
whither the tide of war bore him for a time, that the
noble nature of the young soldier shone forth in all its charms.
There, in the old hall on the banks of the Opequon, surrounded
by warm hearts who reminded him perhaps of his own beloved
ones in far Alabama; there, in the tranquil days of autumn, in
that beautiful country, he seemed to pass some of his happiest
hours. All were charmed with his kind temper and his sunny
disposition; with his refinement, his courtesy, his high breeding,
and simplicity. Modest to a fault almost—blushing like a girl
at times, and wholly unassuming in his entire deportment—he
became a favourite with all around him, and secured that regard
of good men and women which is the proof of high traits and
fine instincts in its possessor. In the beautiful autumn forests,
by the stream with its great sycamores, and under the tall oaks
of the lawn, he thus wandered for a time—an exile from his own
land of Alabama, but loved, admired, and cherished by warm
hearts in this. When he left the haunts of “The Bower,” I
think he regretted it. But work called him.
The fiat had gone forth from Washington that another “On
to Richmond” should be attempted; and where the vultures of
war hovered, there was the post of duty for the Horse Artillery.
The cavalry crossed the Blue Ridge, and met the advancing
column at Aldie—and Pelham was again in his element.
Thenceforward, until the banks of the Rappahannock were
reached by the cavalry, the batteries of the Horse Artillery disputed
every step of ground. The direction of the artillery was
left, with unhesitating confidence, by Stuart to the young officer;
and those who witnessed, during that arduous movement, the
masterly handling of his guns, can tell how this confidence was
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justified. It was the eye of the great soldier, the hand of the
born artillerist, which was evident in his work during those days
of struggle. He fell back neither too soon nor too late, and
only limbered up his guns to unlimber again in the first position
which he reached. Thus fighting every inch of the way
from Aldie, round by Paris, and Markham's, he reached the
Rappahannock, and posted his artillery at the fords, where he
stood and bade the enemy defiance. That page in the history
of the war is scarcely known; but those who were present know
the obstinacy of the contests, and the nerve and skill which
were displayed by the young officer.
That may be unknown, but the work done by Pelham on the
great day of Fredericksburg is a part of history now. All know
how stubbornly he stood on that day—what laurels encircled
his young brow when night at last came: This was the climax
of his fame—the event with which his name will be inseparably
connected. With one Napoleon gun, he opened the battle on
the right, and instantly drew upon himself the fire, at close
range, of three or four batteries in front, and a heavy enfilading
fire from thirty-pound Parrots across the river. But this moved
him little. That Napoleon gun was the same which he had
used at the battle of Cold Harbour—it was taken from the enemy
at Seven Pines—and, in the hands of the young officer, it had
won a fame which must not be tarnished by defeat! Its grim
voice must roar, however great the odds; its reverberating defiance
must roll over the plain, until the bronze war-dog was
silenced. So it roared on steadily with Pelham beside it, blowing
up caissons, and continuing to tear the enemy's ranks. General
Lee was watching it from the hill above, and exclaimed,
with eyes filled with admiration, “It is glorious to see such courage
in one so young!” It was glorious indeed to see that one
gun, placed in an important position, hold its ground with a
firmness so unflinching. Not until his last round of ammunition
was shot away did Pelham retire; and then only after a
peremptory order sent to him. He afterwards took command of
the entire artillery on the right, and fought it until night with a
skill and courage which were admirable. He advanced his guns
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steadily, and at nightfall was thundering on the flank of the
retreating enemy, who no longer replied. No answering roar
came back from those batteries he had fought with his Napoleon
so long; he had triumphed. That triumph was complete,
and placed for ever upon record when the great Commander-in-Chief,
whom he loved and admired so ardently, gave him the
name in his report of “the gallant Pelham.”
Supreme tribute to his courage—immortalizing him in history!
To be the sole name mentioned beneath the rank of Major-General
in all that host of heroes—and mentioned as “the gallant Pelham!”
Thenceforward there was little for him to desire. He had
never cared for rank, only longed for glory; and now his name
was deathless. It is true that he sometimes said, with modest
and noble pride, that he thought it somewhat hard to be considered
too young for promotion, when they gave him great commands—
as at Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg—and called on
him when the hardest work was to be done. But he never
desired a mere title he had not won, and did his soldier's duty
thoroughly, trusting to time. So noble and important, however,
had been his recent services, that promotion was a matter of
course. The President said, “I do not need to see any papers
about Major Pelham,” and had appointed him a Lieutenant-Colonel;
and it only awaited the formal confirmation of the
Senate, when he fell on the Rappahannock. His fall was a public
calamity to the nation, but none to him. It was fit that such
a spirit should lay down his great work before the hard life of
the world had dimmed the polish of the good knight's spotless
shield. He wanted no promotion at the hands of men. He had
won, if not worn, the highest honours of the great soldier; and
having finished his task, the gentle spirit took its flight, promoted
by the tender hand of Death to other honours in a
brighter world.
eaf521n3* Written at “Camp No.—camp,” in the spring of 1863.
In this hasty tribute to one whom I knew well, and loved
much, it is hard to avoid the appearance of exaggeration. The
character of this young soldier was so eminently noble—his soul
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so brave, so true, so free from any taint of what was mean or
sordid or little—that the sober words of truth may be doubted
by some, who will only regard them as that tender and pious
flattery which friendship accords to the dead.
This sentiment will be experienced only by strangers, however.
Those who knew him will recognise the true portrait.
His modesty, his gentleness—his bearing almost childlike in its
simplicity—made his society charming. This modesty of deportment
was observed by every one, and strangers often referred to
the singular phenomenon in a youth bred in the self-sufficient
atmosphere of West Point, and whose name was already so
famous. He never spoke of himself; you might live with him
for a month, and never know that he had been in a single action.
He never seemed to think that he deserved any applause for his
splendid courage, and was silent upon all subjects connected
with his own actions. In his purse was found folded away,
after his death, a slip from a United States officer, once his
friend, which contained the words, “After long silence, I write.
God bless you, dear Pelham; I am proud of your success.”
But he had never even alluded to the paper. Distinguished
unmistakably by the affection and admiration of his immediate
General—rendered famous by the praise of the Commander-in-Chief
at Fredericksburg—he never exhibited the least trait of
self-love, remaining still what he had always been, as modest,
unassuming, and simple as a child.
This and other winning traits come to my mind as I write,
and I could speak at length of all those charming endowments
which endeared him to every one around him. I could dwell on
his nice sense of honour—his devotion to his family—on that
prisca fides in his feeling and opinions which made him a great,
true type of the Southern gentleman, attracting the attention and
respect of the most eminent personages of his time. But with
the recollection of those eminent social characteristics comes the
memory always of his long, hard work in the service. I have
often seen him engaged in that work, which gave him his great
fame; and this phase of the young officer's character obtrudes
itself, rounding and completing the outline.
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With what obstinate and unyielding courage he fought!—
with a daring how splendid, how rich in suggestion of the antique
days! He entered upon a battle with the coolness and resolution
of a great leader trained in a thousand combats, and fought
his guns with the fury and élan of Murat at the head of his
horsemen. No trait of the ground, no movement of the enemy,
ever escaped his eagle eye. With an inborn genius for war
which West Point had merely developed, and directed in its
proper channels, he had that rapid comprehension—intuition
almost—which counts for so much in a leader. Where the contest
was hottest and the pressure heaviest, there was Pelham with
his guns; and the broken lines of infantry, or cavalry giving
ground before irresistible numbers, heard their deep voices roaring
and saw the ranks of the enemy scattered. Often he waited for
no order, took the whole responsibility, and opened his batteries
where he saw that they were most needed by the emergencies of
the moment. But what he did was always the very best that
could be done. He struck at the right moment, and his arm
was heavy. To the cavalry, the roar of Pelham's Napoleons was
a welcome sound. When the deep-mouthed thunder of those
guns was heard, the faintest took heart, and the contest assumed
a new phase to all—for that sound had proved on many a field
the harbinger of victory.*
Beside those guns was the chosen post of the young artillerist.
The gaudium certaminis seemed to fill his being at such moments;
and, however numerous the batteries which he threw into action,
he never remained behind “in command of the whole field.”
He told me that he considered this his duty, and I know that he
never shrank—as he might have done—from performing it.
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He was ever by the guns which were under the hottest fire;
and, when the enemy shifted their fire to other portions of the
field, he proceeded thither, riding at full speed, and directed the
fresh batteries in person. His men will remember how cheering
and inspiring was his presence with them—how his coolness
steadied them in the most exciting moments—and his brave,
cheerful voice was the herald of success. “He was the bravest
human being I ever saw in my life,” said one of his officers
whom I conversed with recently; and all who have seen him
under fire will bear similar testimony. His coolness had something
heroic in it. It never deserted him, or was affected by
those chances of battle which excite the bravest. He saw guns
shattered and dismounted, or men torn to pieces, without exhibiting
any signs of emotion. His nature seemed strung and
every muscle braced to a pitch which made him rock; and the
ghastliest spectacle of blood and death left his soul unmoved—
his stern will unbent.
That unbending will had been tested often, and never had
failed him yet. At Manassas, Williamsburg, Cold Harbour,
Groveton, Oxhill, Sharpsburg, Shepherdstown, Kearneysville,
Aldie, Union, Upperville, Markham, Barbee's, Hazel River, and
Fredericksburg—at these and many other places he fought his
horse artillery, and handled it with heroic coolness. One day
when I led him to speak of his career, he counted up something
like a hundred actions which he had been in—and in every one
he had borne a prominent part. Talk with the associates of the
young leader in those hard-fought battles, and they will tell you
a hundred instances of his dauntless courage. At Manassas he
took position in a place so dangerous that an officer, who had
followed him up to that moment, rode away with the declaration
that “if Pelham was fool enough to stay there, he was not.”
But General Jackson thanked him, as he thanked him at Cold
Harbour, when the brave young soldier came back covered with
dust from fighting his Napoleon—the light of victory in his
eyes. At Markham, while he was fighting the enemy in front,
they made a circuit and charged him in the rear; but he turned
his guns about, and fought them as before, with his “Napoleon
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detachment” singing the loud, triumphant Marseillaise, as that
same Napoleon gun, captured at Seven Pines, and used at Fredericksburg,
drove them back. All that whole great movement
was a marvel of hard fighting, however, and Pelham was the
hero of the stout, close struggle. Any other chief of artillery
might have sent his men in at Fredericksburg and elsewhere,
leaving the direction of the guns to such officers as the brave
Captain Henry; but this did not suit the young chieftain. He
must go himself with the one gun sent forward, and beside that
piece he remained until it was ordered back—directing his men
to lie down, but sitting his own horse, and intent solely upon
the movements and designs of the enemy, wholly careless of the
“fire of hell” hurled against him. It was glorious, indeed, as
General Lee declared, to see such heroism in the boyish artillerist;
and well might General Jackson speak of him in terms
of “exaggerated compliment,” and ask General Stuart “if he
had another Pelham, to give him to him.” On that great day,
the young son of Alabama covered himself with glory—but no
one who knew him felt any surprise at it. Those who had seen
him at work upon other fields knew the dauntless resolution of
his brave young soul—the tough and stern fibre of his courage.
That hard fibre could bear any strain upon it and remain unmoved.
In all those hard combats, no ball or shell ever struck him.
The glance of the blue eyes seemed to conquer Danger, and
render Death powerless. He seemed to bear a charmed life, and
to pass amid showers of bullets without peril or fear of the result.
It was not from the enemy's artillery alone that he ran the
greatest danger in battle. He was never content to remain at
his guns if they were silent. His mind was full of the contest,
pondering its chances, as though he had command of the whole
army himself; he never rested in his exertions to penetrate the
designs of the enemy. Upon such occasions he was the mark at
which the sharpshooters directed their most dangerous fire; but
they never struek him. The balls passed to the right or left, or
overhead—his hour had not yet come.
It came at last in that hard fight upon the Rappahannock, and
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the famous youth lies low at last. He fell “with the battle-cry
on his lips, and the light of victory beaming from his eye.” In
the words of the general order which his beloved commander
issued, “His record had been bright and spotless; his career
brilliant and successful; he fell the noblest of sacrifices on the
altar of his country.”
The theme grows beneath the pen which at first attempted a
slight sketch only, and my paper is growing too long. A few
words more will complete the outline of this eminent young
soldier.
The name of Pelham will remain connected for ever with great
events; but it will live perennial, too, in many hearts who mourn
bitterly his untimely end. All who knew him loved him; I
believe that no human being disliked him. His character was
so frank, and open, and beautiful—his bearing so modest and
unassuming—that he conciliated all hearts, and made every one
who met him his friend. His passions were strong; and when he
was aroused fire darted from the flint, but this was seldom.
During all my acquaintance with him—and that acquaintance
dated back to the autumn of 1861—I never had a word addressed
to me that was unfriendly, and never saw him angry but twice.
“Poor boy!” said Stuart one day, “he was angry with me once,”
and the speaker had known him longer than I had. He had rare
self-control, and I think that this sprang in a great measure from
a religious sense of duty. He would sit and read his Bible with
close attention; and, though he never made a profession of his
religious convictions, it is certain that these convictions shaped his
conduct. The thought of death never seemed to cross his mind,
however; and he once told me that he had never felt as if he was
destined to be killed in the war. Alas! the brief proverb is the
comment: “Man proposes, God disposes.”
Thus, modest, brave, loving, and beloved—the famous soldier,
the charming companion—he passed away from the friends who
cherished him, leaving a void which none other can fill. Alabama
lent him to Virginia for a time; but, alas! the pale face smiles
no more as he returns to her. As many mourn his early death
here, where his glory was won, as in the southern land from which
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he came. To these—the wide circle who loved him for his great
qualities, and his kind, good heart—his loss is irreparable, as it is
to the whole South. The “breed of noble minds” like his is not
numerous, and when such forms disappear the gap is hard to fill—
the struggle more arduous than before. But the memory of
this great young soldier still remains with us, his name is
immortal in history as in many hearts which throbbed at his
death!
Poor colourless phrases!—faded flowers I try to strew on the
grave of this noble soul! But the loss is too recent, and the
wound has not yet healed. The heart still bleeds as the pen traces
the dull words on the page.
“Mourn for him! Let him be regarded
As the most noble corse that ever herald
Did follow to his urn!”
Strange words!—it may be said—for a boy little more than
twenty! Exaggerated estimate of his loss!
No, the words are not strange; the loss is not exaggerated—
for the name of this youth was John Pelham
eaf521n4* The rumour has obtained a wide circulation that Major Pelham lost one or
more of his guns when the cavalry fell back from the mountains. The report is
entirely without foundation. He never lost a gun there or anywhere else. Though
he fought his pieces with such obstinacy that the enemy more than once charged
within ten yards of the muzzles of the guns, he always drove them back, and
brought his artillery off safely. He asked my friendly offices in making public
this statement. I neglected it, but now put the facts on record, in justice to his
memory.
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In the old “Confederate Army of the Potomac,” and then in
the “Army of Northern Virginia,” there was a man so notable
for daring, skill, and efficiency as a partisan, that all who valued
those great qualities honoured him as their chiefest exemplar.
He was known among the soldiers as “Farley, the Scout,” but
that term did not express him fully. He was not only a scout,
but a partisan leader; an officer of excellent judgment and magnificent
dash; a soldier born, who took to the work with all the
skill and readiness of one who engages in that occupation for
which, by Providence, he is especially designed.
He served from the beginning of the war to the hard battle
of Fleetwood, in Culpeper, fought on the 9th of June, 1863.
There he fell, his leg shattered by a fragment of shell, and the
brave true soul went to rejoin its Maker.
One of the chiefest spites of fate is that oblivion which submerges
the greatest names and events. The design of this brief
paper is to put upon record some particulars of the career of a
brave soldier—so that, in that “aftertime” which sums up the
work and glory of the men of this epoch, his name shall not be
lost to memory.
Farley was born at Laurens village, South Carolina, on the
19th of December, 1835. He was descended, in a direct line,
from the “Douglas” of Scotland, and his father, who was born
on the Roanoke river, in Charlotte county, Virginia, was one of
the most accomplished gentlemen of his time. He emigrated to
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South Carolina at the age of twenty-one, married, and commenced
there the practice of law. To the son, the issue of this
marriage, he gave the name of William Downs Farley, after his
father-in-law, Colonel William F. Downs, a distinguished lawyer,
member of the Legislature, and an officer of the war of 1812.
The father of this Colonel Downs was Major Jonathan Downs,
a patriot of '76; his mother, a daughter of Captain Louis Saxon,
also distinguished in our first great struggle; thus our young
partisan of 1863 had fighting blood in his veins, and, in plunging
into the contest, only followed the traditions of his race.
From earliest childhood he betrayed the instincts of the man
of genius. Those who recollect him then, declare that his
nature seemed composed of two mingled elements—the one
gentle and reflective, the other ardent and enthusiastic. Passionately
fond of Shakspeare and the elder poets, he loved to wander
away into the woods, and, stretched beneath some great oak,
pass hour after hour in dreamy musing; but if, at such times,
he heard the cry of the hounds and the shouts of his companions,
his dreams were dissipated, and throwing aside his volume,
he would join in the chase with headlong ardour.
At the age of seventeen, he made, in company with a friend,
the tour of the Northern States, and then was sent to the University
of Virginia, where his education was completed. The
summer vacation gave him an opportunity of making a pedestrian
excursion through Virginia; and thus, having enlarged
his mind by study and travel through the North and a portion
of the South, he returned to South Carolina. Here he occupied
himself in rendering assistance to his father, who had become
an invalid, and, we believe, commenced the practice of the law.
His love of roving, however, did not desert him, and his father's
business required repeated journeys into the interior of the
State. The scenery of the mountains proved a deep and lasting
source of joy to him, and, standing on the summits of the great
ranges, he has been seen to remain in such rapt contemplation
of the landscape that he could scarcely be aroused and brought
back to the real world. These expeditions undoubtedly fostered
in the youthful South Carolinian that ardent love of everything
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connected with his native State which, with his craving for wild
adventure, constituted the controlling elements of his being.
“He had now attained,” a friend writes, “the pride and maturity
of manhood. There were few handsomer or more prepossessing
men. As a young man said, after the battle of Culpeper,
in speaking of the loss of Farley and Hampton, “two of the
handsomest men in our State have fallen.” His figure was of
medium height, elegantly formed, graceful, well knit, and, from
habitual exercise in the gymnasium, possessing a remarkable
degree of strength and activity. His hair was dark brown; his
eyebrows and lashes were so dark, and so shaded the dark grey
eyes beneath as to give them the appearance of blackness. His
manner was generally quiet, polished, and elegant; but let him
be aroused by some topic which awoke his enthusiasm (secession
and the Yankees, for instance), and he suddenly stood transformed
before you; and in the flashing eye and changing cheek
you beheld the dashing “Hero of the Potomac!”
“His moral character,” says the same authority, “was pure
and noble—`Sans peur et sans reproche.' It is a well known fact
among his friends and associates that ardent spirits of any kind
had never passed his lips until the first battle of Manassas, when,
being sick with measles, he fought until almost fainting, and
accepted a draught from the canteen of a friend. This was the
first and last drink he ever took.
“His father, whose last hours he watched with untiring care
and attention, died just before the opening of the war. Captain
Farley had, from an early age, taken great interest in the political
affairs of the country; he was a warm advocate of State
Rights, and now entered into the spirit of secession with eagerness
and enthusiasm. He was very instrumental in bringing
about a unanimity of opinion on this subject in his own district.
“He made frequent visits to Charleston, with the hope of
being in the scene of action should an attack be made on the
city; and was greatly chagrined that the battle of Sumter was
fought during a short absence, and he only reached the city on
the day following. He was the first man in his district to fly
to the defence of Virginia, whose sacred soil he loved with a
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devotion only inferior to that which he bore his own State.
He joined Gregg's regiment, in which he served three months,
and on the disbanding of which he became an independent
fighter.”
From this time commences that career of personal adventure
and romantic exploits which made him so famous. Shouldering
his rifle—now riding, then on foot—he proceeded to the far
outposts nearest to the enemy, and was indefatigable in penetrating
their lines, harassing detached parties, and gaining information
for Generals Bonham and Beauregard. Falling back with
the army from Fairfax, he fought—though so sick that he could
scarcely stand—in the first battle of Manassas, and then entered
permanently upon the life of the scout, speedily attracting to
himself the unconcealed admiration of the whole army. To
note the outlines even of his performances at that time, would
require thrice the space we have at our disposal. He seemed
omnipresent on every portion of the lines; and if any daring
deed was undertaken—any expedition which was to puzzle,
harass, or surprise the enemy—Farley was sure to be there.
With three men he took and held Upton's Hill, directly in face
of the enemy; on numberless occasions he surprised the enemy's
pickets; and with three others, waylaid and attacked a
column of several hundred cavalry led by Colonel (afterwards
General) Bayard, whose horse he killed, slightly wounding the
rider. This audacious attack was made some ten or fifteen miles
beyond the Southern lines, and nothing but a love of the most
desperate adventure could have led to it. Farley ambushed the
enemy, concealing his little band of three men in some pines;
and although they might easily have remained perdus until the
column passed, and so escaped, Farley determined to attack, and
did attack—firing first upon Bayard, and nearly stampeding his
whole regiment. After a desperate encounter he and his little
party were all captured or killed, and Farley was taken to the
Old Capitol in Washington, where he remained some time in
captivity. General Bayard mentioned this affair afterwards in
an interview with General Stuart, and spoke in warm terms of
the courage which led Farley to undertake so desperate an
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adventure. Released from prison, Farley hastened back to his
old “stamping ground” around Centreville, reaching that place
in the winter of 1861. He speedily received the most flattering
proposals from some eminent officers who were going to the
South-west; but chancing to meet General Stuart, that officer
took violent possession of him, and thenceforth kept him near
his person as volunteer aide-de-camp. With this arrangement
Farley soon became greatly pleased. He had already seen Stuart
at work, and that love of adventure and contempt of danger—
the coolness, self-possession, and mastery of the situation, however
perilous—which characterized both, proved a lasting bond
of union between them.
Thenceforth, Farley was satisfied. His position was one
which suited his peculiar views and habits admirably. Untrammelled
by special duties—never tied down to the routine of command,
or the commonplace round of camp duty—free as the
wind to go or come whenever and wheresoever he pleased, all
the instincts of his peculiar organization had “ample room and
verge enough” for thier development; and his splendid native
traits had the fullest swing and opportunity of display. It was
in vain that General Stuart, estimating at their full value his
capacity for command, repeatedly offered him position. He did
not want any commission, he said; his place suited him perfectly,
and he believed he could do more service to the cause as scout
and partisan than as a regular line-officer. He had not entered
the army, he often declared to me, for place or position; promotion
was not his object; to do as much injury as possible to the
enemy was his sole, controlling sentiment, and he was satisfied
to be where he was.
His devotion to the cause was indeed profound and almost
passionate. He never rested in his exertions, and seemed to feel
as if the success of the struggle depended entirely on his own
exertions. A friend once said to him: “If, as in ancient Roman
days, an immense gulf should miraculously open, and an oracle
should declare that the hobour and peace of the country could
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only be maintained by one of her youths throwing himself into
it, do you believe you could do it?” He looked serious, and
answered earnestly and with emphasis, “I believe I could.”
Thus permanently attached as volunteer aide to General Stuart,
Farley thereafter took part in all the movements of the cavalry.
He was with them in that hot falling back from Centreville, in
March, 1862; in the combats of the Peninsula, where, at Williamsburg,
he led a regiment of infantry in the assault; in the
battles of Cold Harbour and Malvern Hill, at the second Manassas,
Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and the scores of minor
engagements which marked almost every day upon the outposts.
He missed the battle of Chancellorsville, greatly to his regret,
having gone home, after an absence of two years, to witness the
bombardment of Charleston and see his family.
It was soon after his return in May that the fatal moment
came which deprived the service of this eminent partisan. At
the desperately contested battle of Fleetwood, in Culpeper county,
on the 9th of June, 1863, he was sent by General Stuart to carry
a message to Colonel Butler, of the 2d South Carolina cavalry.
He had just delivered his message, and was sitting upon his
horse by the Colonel, when a shell, which also wounded Butler,
struck him upon the right knee and tore his leg in two at the
joint. He fell from the saddle and was borne to an ambulance,
where surgical assistance was promptly rendered. His wound
was, however, mortal, and all saw that he was dying.
At his own request the torn and bleeding member, with the
cavalry boot still on, was put in the ambulance, and he was
borne from the field. His strength slowly declined, but his
consciousness remained. Meeting one whom he knew, he called
him by name, and murmured, “I am almost gone.” He lingered
but a few hours, and at twilight of that day the writer of these
lines looked on him in his shroud—the pale, cold features calm
and tranquil in their final sleep.
He was clad in his new uniform coat, and looked every inch
a soldier taking his last rest. He had delivered this coat to a
lady of Culpeper, and said, “If anything befalls me, wrap me in
this and send me to my mother.”
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Such was the end of the famous partisan. His death left a
void which it seemed impossible to fill. His extraordinary
career had become fully known, and a writer some months before
his death gave utterance to the sentiment of every one when
he wrote: “The story—the plain, unvarnished story—of his
career since the war began is like a tale of old romance. Such
abnegation of self! Office and money both spurned, because
they seemed to stand in the way of his duty. What thrilling
incidents! What strength and courage! and what wonderful
escapes! No wonder, as he rides by, we so often hear it exclaimed,
`There goes the famous scout, Farley! The army has
no braver man, no purer patriot!”'
We put on record here the following passage from the letter
of a lady in Culpeper to his mother, giving, as it does, an outline
of the man, and bearing testimony in its simple words,
warm from a woman's heart, to the affection which was felt for him:
“My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia
admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own,
Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could
not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon
her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate
part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun
by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was
he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a
great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer
of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from.
Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from
our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were
leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of
sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his
cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good.
“On Tuesday night, just one week before the battle in which
he fell, he came here, about one o'clock at night. We were surprised
and alarmed to see him, as a large party of the enemy
had passed our very doors only a few hours before. When my
aunt opened the door she found him sitting on the steps, his
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head resting on his hands, as if tired and sleepy. We asked
him if he did not know the Yankees were near. `Oh, yes,' he
replied; `they have been chasing me, and compelled me to
lengthen my ride considerably.' He came in, but said, `I cannot
rest with you long, as I must be riding all night.” We gave
him some bread, honey and milk, which we knew he loved. He
said he had been fasting since morning. `Ah,' said he, `this is
just what I want.' He buckled on his pistols again before sitting
down, and said laughingly to me, `Lock the doors and listen
well, for I'll never surrender.' We stood in the porch when he
left, and watched him walk off briskly (he had come on foot,
having left his horse in the woods). We hated to see him go
out in the dark and rainy night time; but he went cheerfully, so
willing was he to encounter danger, to endure hardships, `to
spend and be spent' in his country's service.”
To “spend and be spent” in the cause of the South was truly
this brave spirit's chief delight. These are not idle words, but
the truth, in relation to him. The writer of this page was long
and intimately associated with him; and so far from presenting
an exaggerated picture of him, the incidents and extracts above
given do him only partial justice. I never saw a braver man,
nor one more modest. He had a peculiar refinement of feeling
and bearing which stamped him a gentleman to the utmost fibre
of his being. This delicacy of temperament was most notable;
and it would be difficult to describe the remarkable union of the
most daring courage and the sweetest simplicity of demeanour in
the young partisan. Greater simplicity and modesty were never
seen in human bearing; and so endearing were these traits of
his character, that ladies and children—those infalliable critics—
were uniformly charmed with him. One of the latter wrote:
“His death has been a great sorrow to us. He was with us
frequently the week before the battle, and won our entire hearts
by his many noble qualities, and his superiority to all around
him. He talked much about his family; he loved them with
entire devotion. He read to us some of your poems, and repeated
one of his own. I close my eyes, and memory brings
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back to me the thrilling tones of that dear voice, which, though
heard no more on earth, has added to the melody of heaven.”
His manner was the perfection of good-breeding, and you saw
that the famous partisan, whose exploits were the theme of every
tongue, had not been raised, like others of his class, amid rude
associates and scenes, but with gently nurtured women, and surrounded
by the sweet amenities of home. His voice was a
peculiar one—very low and distinct in its tones; and these subdued
inflections often produced upon the listener the impression
that it was a habit acquired in scouting, when to speak above a
murmur is dangerous. The low, clear words were habitually
accompanied by a bright smile, and the young man was a favourite
with all—so cordial was his bearing, so unassuming his whole
demeanour. His personal appearance has already been described,
but it may interest some of his friends in the far South to know
how he appeared when “at work.” He dressed uniformly in a
plain suit of gray, wearing a jacket, and over this a dark blue
overcoat, with a belt, holding his pistol, tightly drawn around
his waist. In his hat he wore the black cavalry feather; and his
boots were of that handsome pattern which is worn by Federal
officers, with patent-leather tops and ornamental thread-work.
None of his equipments cost him or the Confederate States a
single dollar. They were all captured—either from sutlers'
wagons or the enemies he had slain with his own hand. I never
knew him to purchase any portion of his own or his horse's
accoutrements—saddle, bridle, halter, sabre, pistols, belt, carbine,
spurs, were all captured from the enemy. His horses were in
the same category, and he rarely kept the same riding-horse
long. They were with great regularity shot under him; and he
mounted the first he found running riderless, or from which his
pistol hurled one of the enemy.
I have spoken of his modest, almost shy demeanour. All
this disappeared in action. His coolness remained unaffected,
but he evidently felt himself in his proper element, and entitled
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to direct others. At such moments his suggestions were boldly
made, and not seldom resulted in the rout of the enemy. The
cavalry once in motion, the quiet, modest gentleman was metamorphosed
into the fiery partisan. He would lead a charge
with the reckless daring of Murat, and cheer on the men, with
contagious ardour, amid the most furious storm of balls.
His disregard of personal exposure was supreme, and the idea
that he was surrounded by peril never occurred to him. He
has repeatedly told the present writer, with that simplicity and
sincerity which produce conviction, that in action he was wholly
unconscious of the balls and shells flying and bursting around
him—that his interest in the general result was so strong as to
cause him to lose sight of them. Those who knew him did not
venture to doubt the assertion.
He delighted in the wild charge, the clash of meeting squadrons,
and the roar of artillery. All these martial sights and
sounds ministered to the passionate ardour of that temperament
which made him most at home where balls were whistling,
and the air oppressive with the odour of battle. But, I think,
he even preferred the life of the scout—the long and noiseless
hunt for his foe—the exercise of those faculties, by
means of which an enemy is surprised and destroyed—the single
combat with sabre and pistol, often far off in the silence of
the woods, where a dead body half concealed amid the grass is
all that remains to tell the tale of some hand-to-hand encounter.
The number of such contests through which Farley had passed
would seem incredible to those who did not know him, and thus
comprehend how the naked truth of his career beggared romance.
He rarely spoke of these affairs, and never, unless to certain
persons, and under pecnliar circumstances. He had a great
horror of appearing to boast of his own exploits, and so greatly
feared securing the reputation of colouring his adventures that he
seldom alluded to them, even. Fortunately for his memory,
many persons witnessed his most desperate encounters, and still
live to testify to the reckless daring of the young partisan.
With these his eventful career will long remain the subject of
fireside tales; and in the coming days of peace, when years
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have silvered the hair of his contemporaries, old men will tell
their grand-children of his strange adventures and those noble
traits which made his name so famous.
To the world at large, he will always thus appear—as the
daring partisan and adventurous scout—as one who risked his
life in a hundred hot encounters, and in all those bloody scenes
never quailed or shrank before a foe, however powerful or dangerous.
But to those who lived with him—heard his low,
friendly voice, and saw every day his bright kindly smile—he
appears in a different character. To such the loss we have sustained
is deeper—it seems irreparable. It was the good fortune
of the writer of these lines to thus see the brave young man—
to be beside him in the field; and, at home, to share his confidence
and friendship. Riding through the summer forests, or
wandering on across the fields of broom-straw, near Fredericksburg—
better still, beside the good log-fire of winter—we talked
of a thousand things, and I saw what a wealth of kindness, chivelry,
and honour he possessed—how beautifully the elements
were mixed in his character. Brave and true—simple and
kind—he passed away; and among those eminent natures
which the writer encountered in the late struggle, few are remembered
with such admiration and affection as this noble son
of Carolina.
The best conclusion of this brief and inadequate sketch will
be the meution made of the brave partisan in General Stuart's
report of the battle of Fleetwood. It is as follows:
“Captain W. D. Farley, of South Carolina, a volunteer aide
on my staff, was mortally wounded by the same shell which
wounded Colonel Butler, and displayed even in death, the same
loftiness of bering and fortitude which characterized him
through life. He had served, without emolument, long, faithfully,
and always with distinction. No nobler champion has
fallen. May his spirit abide with us.”
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I never knew a braver or lovelier spirit than Hardeman Stuart's.
When the wave of war rolled over his young head and swept
him away, one of the truest gentlemen of the South disappeared.
The old Greek dogma that the favourites of the gods die
early, had in him another illustration. His figure moved before
the eyes of those who loved him for a moment only; his brave
gay voice was heard; his bright smile shone—then he flitted
from the great arena like some youthful actor, who has played
his allotted part, and is seen no more.
It was not necessary to know him long to love him. He was
with his Virginia comrades for a brief space only, but he soon
won every heart. His kindness, his courage, his high-bred
courtesy and delightful gaiety, made him the most charming of
companions. Every one loved him. Indeed, to know him was
to love him; and since his death even strangers have spoken of
him in terms of the warmest affection, so deeply had he impressed
all who saw him.
He was scarce twenty-one when he died, and in the flush of
youth and joy and hope. He was a native of the great State of
Mississippi, where hearts are warm and tempers impulsive. The
bright sun of the farthest South seemed to have fired his blood;
and on the battle-field he fought with the gallantry and nerve, the
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vigour and Elan of one of Napoleon's young heroes of the grand
armée.
His laughing face looked out on the world with an exquisite
frankness; the lips were mobile, joyous, and expressive; the
large, honest eyes met your own with smiles in their blue
depths, which spoke the real character of the youth. I was first
attracted toward the youthful stranger by the dash and nerve of
his behaviour on the field. It was in the battle of Cold Harbour,
where he served as a volunteer upon the staff of General
Stuart. He was the model of an aide-de-camp that day, and was
specially mentioned in the general's official report for the valuable
services which he rendered. I saw him frequently on this
occasion, and was struck with his great gallantry. Nothing
could exceed the gay ardour of his bearing, the joyous abandon
with which he threw himself into the contest, his ardent and
complete performance of all duties assigned to him. He courted
danger with a boyish gaiety which shone in his dancing eyes
and on his smiling lips, and seemed to covet opportunities of
exposing himself to the heaviest fire, in the thickest portion of
the fight. No bullet touched him, however; the shot and shell,
bursting and plunging everywhere, seemed determined to avoid
him and do him no harm. He came out of the battle gay, laughing,
and unharmed as he had entered it. At the “White House,”
afterward, he went with Pelham in that boyish frolic, the chase
of the gunboats, and then we rode back “all a summer's day”
to the banks of the Chickahominy, conversing. The delightful
gaiety of the boy made the long, hot miles of sandy highway
slip away unseen; and here I first obtained an insight into the
character of the noble young Mississippian, before a stranger,
but to be to me from that moment a valued friend.
His gallantry during the battle had attracted attention, and he
now secured, through his cousin, General Stuart, the commission
of captain in the signal corps. He performed the duties of his
rank with alacrity, and I had frequent opportunities of seeing
and conversing with him. As I have said, to know him was to
love him. There was so much candour and sincerity in his character,
such a light-hearted gaiety and sweetness of temper, that he
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became a favourite even with those who saw with difficulty any
merit in their brother men, and repelled all sentiments of liking
for their fellow-creatures. Even the surly melted, and grew
smiling as his cheerful voice saluted them, and I think the sourest
of curmudgeons would have doue him a favour without being
solieited. His voice had a special charm in its tones. It was what
the French call caressante. In the accent and intonation of every
word which he uttered it was impossible not to discern the goodness
of his heart. Distress had never yet laid its heavy hand upon
him, and he seemed as free from all knowledge or suspicion of
human bitterness or meanness. He looked into the face of the
world with a smile full of friendly regard, and the hard, cold world
relaxed in its scowl, and smiled back kindly in response. Suspicion
or misanthropy never appeared to have visited him; and
living, as it were, in an atmosphere of joy and hope and youthful
gaiety, he made all around him gay, and had the whole world
for his friends.
The brief season of respite from hostilities which followed the
battles around Richmond soon came to an end. General Stuart
broke up his headquarters in the old grassy yard of Hanover
Court-house; his bugle sounded to horse; and the cavalry
advanced to place itself on the right of the army about to give
battle to Pope on the Rapidan. Here Hardeman Stuart left us,
in performance of his duties as signal officer—and I never saw
him again but for a single moment. That meeting was on the
field of Manassas, when the opposing lines were about to grapple;
when the Southern army, hungry, weary, and travel-worn,
but undaunted, was about to enter upon the decisive conflict with
its old adversary.
Going back in memory to that time, I recall with melancholy
interest the little trifling details of this my last meeting and “last
greeting” with Hardeman Stuart. I was riding, about noon, to
the front of Longstreet's line in search of General Stuart. Under
a tree, immediately in rear of his front line, General Longstreet
had just dismounted, and was taking off a brown linen overall,
the face of the “old war horse” composed, good-natured, but
`full of fight.” Learning from him that General Stuart was
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“just on the right of his line,” I rode in that direction along
the front of the infantry drawn up for battle; the men kneeling
on the left knee; the bayonets bristling above; finger on trigger;
eyes fixed intently on the crest in front over which the
advancing enemy were about to appear.
I went on, and in crossing a fallow of considerable extent,
passed one of those small wooden houses which dot the region
around Manassas. Often as I beheld such spectacles, this melancholy
mansion attracted my attention. It was torn and dismantled—
the huge besom of war seemed to have swept over it,
sparing its very existence only from a sense of its insignificance.
In the broken-down porch were some frightened young women,
and crowds of soldiers had straggled up to cool their parched
lips from a well in the yard.
There were swarms of these crowding around the nearly
exhausted well, and others basked in the sun with a careless air,
which indicated natures callous to the coming battle.
All this was taken in at a single glance, and I was galloping
on, when suddenly I heard a voice which uttered my name.
I drew up and turned around. As I did so, a form detached
itself from the rest, came running toward me with the gay exclamation,
“How d'ye, Captain!” and I recognised Hardeman Stuart.
But what a change! He had always been the neatest person
imaginable in his dress and appearance. His brown hair had
always been carefully parted and brushed, his boots as polished
as assiduous rubbing could make them, and his new uniform coat,
with its gay new braid, had been almost too nice and unwrinkled
for a soldier.
His appearance was in vivid contrast with all this. He was
coatless, unwashed, his boots covered with dust; and his
clothes had the dingy look of the real soldier, who is so often
compelled to lie upon the ground, and to sleep in his apparel.
His hair was unbrushed, and hung disordered around his face,
and the gallant young captain of the Signal Corps had the
appearance of a sapper and miner.
But the face was unchanged—that was the same; gay,
ardent, joyous, as he held out his hand, and grasped mine with
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the same old friendly manner. The young captain was the
image of martial energy and abandon. The bright smile broke
forth from his face like sunshine, and his cheerful voice as he
greeted me was full of the old kindly music.
He was evidently overjoyed to see a familiar face among all
the strange ones around him, where the eye met only alien
glances; to press a friendly hand where none seemed ready to
stretch forth and greet him.
I can see the bright face now, as he turned it up and smiled;
hear the voice with its tones of boyish music as he related his
misfortunes. He had posted himself upon a ridge with his
detachment, and from his station was signalling the movements
of the enemy, when a strong force surprised him, and compelled
him to retire precipitately.
So sudden was the attack that he was very nearly captured.
His horse had been tied near; the young officer's uniform coat,
which he had taken off, from the heat of the weather, strapped
behind the saddle—and there was no time to mount. He
escaped in the woods with his men minus horse and coat; but
seemed to regard the whole affair as an excellent jest, and only
the ordinary “fortune of war.”
His gay laughter followed the narrative, and I remember the
ardent light of the blue eyes looking out from the tangled
curls of the brave boy.
“Well, Hardeman, you have had bad luck,” I said, “but get
another horse and come on.”
“I intend to; tell the General I'll soon be there.”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye.”
I shook the brave hand and rode on. I was never more to
touch it.
I have scarcely the heart to continue my narrative and relate
the sequel. Something affects the throat as you think of these
dead comrades whose hands you have clasped, whose voices you
have heard. Some of the sunsbine left the world when they went,
and life grows dull.
Poor Hardeman! But how can I call him poor? Rich, rather,
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beyond the wealth of kingdoms; for he died in the bloom of
youth, before sorrow touched him, fighting for his native land.
He did not succeed in procuring a horse, which is always difficult
just before a battle; and his brave young soul revolted
from inaction at that moment. He must take his part in the
action, in one capacity if not in another; if not as captain, then
as private; and this resolution was speedily carried out. Procuring
a musket and cartridge-box—old friends of his before his
promotion—he sought for his old Mississippi company, entered
its ranks, charged with them, and fell, shot through the heart.
He died where he fell, and sleeps in the weird path of Manassas.
God rest his soul!
Such was the fate of Hardeman Stuart—an event which brought
the tears to many eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood—
and here my sketch might end. I will add, however, a somewhat
curious incident which occurred a day or two after the
battle.
General Stuart followed the enemy on Sunday, and coming
up with his rear at the bridge over Cub Run, had a slight artillery
engagement, and took many prisoners. The bridge was
destroyed and the cavalry turned to the left, and making a circuit
came into the Little River turnpike, at the mouth of the
Frying Pan road. Proceeding down the turnpike in the direction
of Germantown, a squadron captured a company of the
enemy's cavalry; and advancing further to a small tavern on the
roadside, took prisoners another company who were feeding their
horses in fancied security at the place.
This cavalry formed a portion of that which had operated in
the battles around Groveton; and in possession of one of the
men was found Hardeman Stuart's coat, captured with his horse
and accoutrements on the mountain.
There was no trouble at all in identifying the coat. In the
breast pocket was his captain's commission.
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I FOUND in an old portfolio, the other day, the following slip
from a Norfolk paper of the year 1862:
“The Confederate steamer Arrow arrived here this morning,
from Currituck, having communicated with a steamer sent down
to Roanoke Island under a flag of truce. She brought up the
bodies of Captain O. J. Wise, Lieutenant William Selden, and
Captain Coles. Captain Wise was pierced by three balls, and
Lieutenant Selden was shot through the head. The Yankees
who saw Captain Wise during the fierce and unequal contest,
declare that he displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed.
Alas, that he has fallen in a contest so unequal! But who has
fallen more honourably, more nobly? Young Selden, too, died
at his gun, while gallantly fighting the enemy that had gathered
in so superior numbers upon our shores.
“Last night, when the steamer arrived at Currituck, General
Wise directed that the coffin containing the remains of his son
be opened. Then, I learn from those who were present, a scene
transpired that words cannot describe. The old hero bent over
the body of his son, on whose pale face the full moon threw its
light, kissed the cold brow many times, and exclaimed, in an
agony of emotion: `Oh, my brave boy, you have died for me,
you have died for me.”'
What an epitaph!
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The gray-haired father, forgetting the past and the future, losing
sight, for the moment, of the war and all other things—
bending and weeping over the dead body of the son who “had
displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed”—giving his
heart's blood to the cause he loved—the annals of tragedy contain
no spectacle more touching!
Of the remarkable young man who thus poured forth his
blood, and passed away, before the age of thiry, in defence of
his native soil, I propose to give a few personal recollections.
It is hard that a noble soul should go from the haunts of the
living, to be remembered only by the small circle of loving
friends who knew and appreciated him. And though I shall
not attempt anything in the shape of a memoir of young Jennings
Wise, my few words may not prove uninteresting to those
who watched, from a distance, his meteoric career, and perhaps
admired his brave spirit, while ignorance of his real character
led them to misunderstand him.
Jennings Wise!
How many memories that name recalls!—memories of gentleness
and chivalry, and lofty honour, to those who knew him
truly—of fancied arrogance and haughty pride, and bloody instinets,
to those who accepted common rumour for their estimate
of him. For there were many rumours of this description
afloat—and it must be acknowledged that there was some excuse
for the misconception. He had little of the spirit of conciliation
if he believed a man to be his foe; managed early to arouse bitter
enmities; and continued to defy his opponents without
deigning to explain his character or his motives. Before he was
better understood—when the mists were only beginning to clear
away, and show his virtues of devotion, and patriotism, and
kindness—death called him.
Born in Virginia, and going in his early manhood to Europe,
as Secretary of Legation, he there perfected himself in riding,
fencing, and all manly exercises; studying political science, and
training himself, consciously or unconsciously, for the arena upon
which he was to enter soon after his return. He came to Virginia
at a time when the atmosphere was stifling with the heat
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of contending factions in politics, and becoming the chief editor
of the Richmond Enquirer, plunged into the struggle with all
the ardour of a young and ambitious soldier who essays to test
the use of those arms he has been long burnishing for battle.
He did not laek for opponents, for a great contest was raging,
and the minds of men were red-hot with the mighty issues of
the time. He had scarce thrown down the glove when many
hands were extended to take it up. Then commenced a strife
on the political arena, in which the opponents fought each other
with bitter and passionate vehemence. What the pen wrote, the
pistol, unhappily, was too often called upon to support; and the
young politician was ere long engaged in more than one duel,
which achieved for him a widely-extended notoriety and a venomous
party hatred. Of these quarrels I do not design to speak.
It is no part of my purpose to inquire who was to blame or who
was faultless; and I would not move the ashes resting now upon
the details of those unhappy affairs, under which the fire perhaps
still smoulders, full of old enmities. That he was carried
away by passion often, is unfortunately too true; but he had no
love for conflict, and publicly declared his aversion to “private
war.” Unhappily the minds of his political opponents were too
profoundly swayed by the passions of the epoch to give him
credit for these declarations. They were not listened to, and the
young politician became the mark of extreme political hatred.
The sins of passion and the heated arena were regarded as the
coolly planned and deliberately designed crimes of a moral monster,
who had never felt the emotion of pity or love for his
brother man. Intelligent and honourable persons believed that
all the young man's instincts were cruel; that his hatreds were
capricious and implacable; that his nature was that of the tiger,
thirsting for blood; his conscience paralysed or warped by a
terrible moral disease. His splendid oratory, his trenchant;
pen, the dash and courage of his nature, were allowed; but
these were his only “good gifts;” he was, they said, the Ishmael
of the modern world.
All this he knew, and he continued his career, trusting to
time. He fought for secession; joined the First Virginia
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Regiment, and served at Charlestown, in the John Brown raid.
Then war came in due time. He was elected captain of the
Blues—the oldest volunteer company in Virginia—took the
leadership from the first, as one born to command, and fought
and fell at that bloody Roanoke fight, at the head of his company,
and cheering on his men.
His body was brought back to Richmond, laid in the capitol,
and buried, in presence of a great concourse of mourners, in
Hollywood Cemetery. That was the end of the brief young
life—death in defence of his native land, and a grave in the beloved
soil, by the side of the great river, and the ashes of Monroe,
brought thither by himself and his associates.
Then came a revulsion. His character was better understood;
his faults were forgotten; his virtues recognised. Even his old
opponents hastened to express their sympathy and admiration.
It was remembered that more than once he had refused to return
his adversary's fire; that championship of one whom he loved
more than life had inflamed his enmity—no merely selfish considerations.
His sweetness of temper and kindness were recalled
by many, and the eyes which had been bent upon him
with horror or hatred, shed tears beside the young soldier's
grave.
Oh, tardy justice of good men! Oh, laurel-wreath upon the
coffin!—soft words spoken in the dull, cold ear of death! This
soul of chivalry and honour—this gentle, kindly, simple heart—had been branded as the enemy of his species—as a haughty,
soulless, pitiless monster!
In speaking of this young Virginia, I wish to espouse no
personal or party quarrel—to arouse none of those enmities
which sleep now—to open no old wounds, and to fan into flame
none of the heart-burnings of the past. Those who contended
with him most bitterly have long ago forgotten their feud.
Many shed tears for the noble youth when he fell, and speak of
him now as one of those great Virginians whom it is the pride
of our soil to have produced. They know him better now, and
understand that this man was no hater of his species—no Ishmael
of civilization, cold and haughty and implacable—but a
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beautiful and noble nature, attuned to every honourable impulse,
and only embittered temporarily by party passion. Dying, he
has suffered change; and there is a beauty in the pale, cold face,
which it never possessed while living. Traits never suspected
come out now, when Death has stamped the countenance with
his melancholy seal; and love and pity have quite banished the
old scorn and hatred. The green grass on his grave has covered
all enmity, and the love of friends has taken the place of the
bitterness of foes.
Among those friends who knew and loved him living, I count
myself. To know him thus was speedily to love him—for his
traits and instincts were so conspicuously noble and endearing,
that he irresistibly attracted the affection of all who were thrown
in familiar contact with him. How gentle, modest, and unassuming
these inner instincts of his heart were, those who knew
him in his private life will bear witness. They will tell you of
his honest and truthful nature; his unpretending simplicity;
his chivalric impulses, and nobility of feeling. Indeed, you
would have said that the Creator had breathed into this clay the
loveliest traits of humanity, and raised up in the prosaic nineteenth
century a “good knight” of old days, to show the loveliness
of honour.
This was one side of the young man's character, only. With
these softer traits were mingled some of the hardiest endowments
of strong manhood. No man was ever braver. Indeed, his
nerve had in it something antique and splendid, as of the elder
days of chivalry, when neither monster nor magician, giant nor
winged dragon, could make the heart of the good knight quail,
or move him from his steadfast purpose. What in other men
was the courage of habit, or training, or calculation of forces, was
in him that of native endowment and birthright. To match
himself, if need be, against any odds, however overwhelming,
and breast all opposition with a stubborn, dauntless front, was to
act as his character dictated, and to follow his temperament. The
sentiment of fear, I believe, never entered his breast; if it did, it
never stayed there long enough for him to make its acquaintance.
He would have led the charge of the English cavalry at
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Balaklava with the nerve and dash of Hotspur, glorying in the roar
of the enemy's artillery, and resolute to take their guns or die.
At Thermopylæ, he would have stood beside Leonidas, and fought
and died without the shudder of a nerve. In battle at the head
of his men, his coolness and resolution were invincible. The
grim front of war possessed no terrors for him, and he advanced into
the gulf of battle with the calmness of a holiday soldier on parade.
He was early in the lists as the advocate of resistance to the
North, and fought its opponents with persistent vehemence. To
“wait” was to sign the death-warrant of the State, he declared.
“God save the liberties of this brave old Commonwealth!” if
this was the course defined for her. What he preached he practised.
He sounded the onset, and the lines once in motion, he
took his place in the great army. At first as a private, with
musket on shoulder; eager, active, untiring; inspiring all with
his own brave spirit. Then, when his acknowledged capacity
for leadership placed him at the head of a command, he took the
post as his of right, and led his men as all who knew him expected.
How he led them on that disastrous day at Roanoke—
with what heroie nerve, and splendid gallantry, in the face of
the deadliest fire—let his old comrades in arms declare. There,
in the front of battle, he fell—giving his life without a single
regret to the cause he loved.
It was the phase of character, indicated above, which the
outer world chiefly considered, and estimated him by. Yet
this was by no means his most attractive phase. The dauntless
nerve, the stubborn and indomitable will, revealed themselves
on certain occasions only—the social virtues of the individual
were seen every day. It would be difficult to imagine
a human being more modest, kindly, and simple. His modesty
amounted almost to shyness; and it was doubtless this species
of reserve which led many to regard him as cold, and destitute
of feeling. Let it not be understood, however, that he was
subject to mauvaise honte—the diffidence of one who distrusts
his own powers, and shrinks from collision with other minds.
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His peculiarity was rather the reverse, as his perfect self-possession
and control of every faculty in public speaking indicated.
Self-reliance, rather than self-distrust, marked the character of
his intellect—boldness to undertake, and unshrinking courage to
execute. But in this there was no arrogance—no hauteur. In
the combat he would contend with all his powers, and shrink
from no odds: but the contest once over, the hot blood cool, the
old modesty returned, and the kindly, gentle smile. The indulgence
of his affections was evidently one of his chief happinesses.
He was fond of children, and delighted to play with them, sharing
their gambols and amusements with the bonhomie and abandon
of a boy. In such scenes, the vehement young politician no
doubt took refuge from the strife of the public arena, where so
many hot passions met and clashed, and found in the playful
antics of children the antidote to the scorns and hatreds of those
grown-up children—men. It was in the society of the eminent
Virginian, his father, however, that he seemed to experience his
greatest happiness; and his devotion to him was the controlling
sentiment of his being. If this sentiment impelled him to a partisanship
too violent at times, the fault will not be regarded as a
mean or ignoble one, nor detract in any measure from the
character here attributed to him, of the kindest and simplest of
gentlemen.
The intellect which accompanied this courageous spirit and
kindly heart was eminently vigorous and original. It was rather
that of the actor than the thinker—rather, ready, acute, inventive
and fruitful in resources—quick to move and to strike, in
debate or reasoning with the pen—than deliberate, philosophic,
or reflective. It wanted the breadth and depth which result
from study and meditation, but as a sharp and tempered weapon
to accomplish direct tangible results, it was exceedingly forcible
and effective. As a writer in the larger acceptation of the term,
he was not conspicuously endowed; but his style as a journalist
was fluent, eloquent, and when his nature was strongly moved,
full of power and the fire of invective. Some of his editorial
writings deserve to be collected, and preserved in a permanent
form, as among the most forcible expositions of the great
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principles involved in the struggle which absorbed the energies of the
South.
His most notable gift was unquestionably that of oratory. He
possessed native endowments which entitled him to very high
rank as a public speaker. In the columns of a daily journal his
powers were always more or less cramped, and did not assert
their full strength, but on “the stump” he was in his own element.
Here all the faculties of his intellect and nature had full
swing, and “ample room and verge enough” for their exercise.
The spectator saw at a glance that the young man with the thin
slight figure and quiet manner, was a born orator. His first
words justified the opinion, and stamped him as one born to
move, to sway, to direct the thoughts and the actions of men.
The crowd—that unfailing critic of a public speaker's ability—
always received him with acclamations, and hailed his appearance
on the rostrum with loud applause. They felt that, youth
as he was, and as yet untrained in the arts of the orator, he was
a match for the oldest opponents, and they were content to leave
the advocacy of great principles, at momentous crises, in the
hands of this young man—to accept and rely on him as their
champion.
He did not disappoint their expectations ever. A born politician,
and thrilling with the great party issues before the country,
he entered the arena with the bold and self-possessed demeanour
of one in his chosen element, and equal to the occasion. Political
history—the careers of public men—the principles underlying
the American frame of government—all were thoroughly
familiar to him, and his knowledge was available at a moment's
notice. His speeches were skilful combinations of philosophic
reasoning and hard-hitting illustrations. In the employment of
invective, his handling was that of a master; and when his scorn
of some unworthy action or character was fully aroused, his delivery
of the scathing sarcasm or the passionate defiance was
inexpressibly vehement and bitter. Those who have seen the
flashing eye and the scornful lip of the young orator at such
times, will not readily forget them, or wonder at the wild excitement
of the crowd as they listened to these outbursts. Even
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the cool intellects of old men were taken captive with the rest,
and I think all who heard the youthful speaker, came away with
the impression that time and training only were needed, to make
him one of the most famous orators of the old Commonwealth
which has produced so many giants.
With the termination of his speeches disappeared all the passion,
vehemence, and ardour of the man. The handkerchief
passed over the damp brow, seemed to wipe away all excitement;
and the fiery gladiator, swaying all minds by his fierce
invective, or his vivid reasoning, subsided into the quiet, almost
shy young man. The old modesty and simplicity of demeanour
returned, and the forces of the vigorous intellect returned to
rest, until some other occasion should call them into exercise.
I could add many things relating to this eminent young man
in his personal and private character, but the subject may not
interest the general reader as much as it does him who writes.
Perhaps, too, they are better kept for other years, when time
shall have extinguished the few heart-burnings that remain, and
obliterated the scars of old contests. I have thought it right,
however, to put thus much concerning him on record, without
shaping my discourse to please either friend or foe. Foes, I
believe, he has no longer. Even those who most bitterly opposed
him while living, now acknowledge his great qualities,
and lament his untimely end.
If enmity exist toward him in any heart, however, no answering
defiance comes back. The weapon of the good knight will
never more be drawn—he has fought his last battle and yielded
up his soul. He sleeps now quietly, after all the turmoils of
life—after heart-burnings and triumphs, and loves and hatreds—
sleeps in the bosom of the land he loved, and toiled, and thought,
and fought, and died for. His is not the least worthy heart
which has poured out its blood for Virginia and the South; and
in the pages of our annals, among the names of our dead heroes
who surrendered youth, and coming fame, and friends, and home,
and life for their native land—surrendered them without a murmur
or a single regret—among these great souls the Genius of
History must inscribe the name of Jennings Wise.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1867], Wearing of the gray: being personal portraits, scenes and adventures of the war. (E.B. Treat and Co., New York) [word count] [eaf521T].