It is related that a good priest, once a chaplain in Taylor’s Louisiana brigade, concluded his prayer at the unveiling of the Jackson monument in New Orleans with these remarkable words: “When in Thine inscrutable decree it was ordained that the Confederacy should fail, it became necessary for Thee to remove Thy servant Stonewall Jackson.”[[5]] It is unnecessary, perhaps, to lay much forcible emphasis on the personal factor, but, at the same time, it is exceedingly essential that it should never be overlooked.
The Government which, either in peace or war, commits the charge of its armed forces to any other than the ablest and most experienced soldier the country can produce is but laying the foundation of national disaster. Had the importance of a careful selection for the higher commands been understood in the North as it was understood in the South, Lee and Jackson would have been opposed by foes more formidable than Pope and Burnside, or Banks and Frémont. The Federal Administration, confident in the courage and intelligence of their great armies, considered that any ordinary general, trained to command, and supported by an efficient staff, should be able to win victories. Mr. Davis, on the other hand, himself a soldier, who, as United States Secretary of War, had enjoyed peculiar opportunities of estimating the character of the officers of the old army, made no such mistake. He was not always, indeed, either wise or consistent; but, with few exceptions, his appointments were the best that could be made, and he was ready to accept the advice, as regarded selections for command, of his most experienced generals.
But however far-reaching may be the influence of a great leader, in estimating his capacity the temper of the weapon that he wielded can hardly be overlooked. In the first place, that temper, to a greater or less degree, must have been of his own forging, it is part of his fame. “No man,” says Napier, “can be justly called a great captain who does not know how to organise and form the character of an army, as well as to lead it when formed.” In the second place, to do much with feeble means is greater than to do more with large resources. Difficulties are inherent in all military operations, and not the least may be the constitution of the army. Nor would the story of Stonewall Jackson be more than half told without large reference to those tried soldiers, subalterns and private soldiers as they were, whom he looked upon as his comrades, whose patriotism and endurance he extolled so highly, and whose devotion to himself, next to the approval of his own conscience, was the reward that most he valued.
He is blind indeed who fails to recognise the unselfish patriotism displayed by the citizen-soldiers of America, the stern resolution with which the war was waged; the tenacity of the Northerner, ill-commanded and constantly defeated, fighting in a most difficult country and foiled on every line of invasion; the tenacity of the Southerner, confronting enormous odds, ill-fed, ill-armed, and ill-provided, knowing that if wounded his sufferings would be great—for drugs had been declared contraband of war, the hospitals contained no anæsthetics to relieve the pain of amputation, and the surgical instruments, which were only replaced when others were captured, were worn out with constant usage; knowing too that his women-folk and children were in want, and yet never yielding to despair nor abandoning hope of ultimate victory. Neither Federal nor Confederate deemed his life the most precious of his earthly possessions. Neither New Englander nor Virginian ever for one moment dreamt of surrendering, no matter what the struggle might cost, a single acre of the territory, a single item of the civil rights, which had been handed down to him. “I do not profess,” said Jackson, “any romantic sentiments as to the vanity of life. Certainly no man has more that should make life dear to him than I have, in the affection of my home; but I do not desire to survive the independence of my country.” And Jackson’s attitude was that of his fellow-countrymen. The words of Naboth, “Jehovah forbid that I should give to thee the inheritance of my forefathers,” were graven on the heart of both North and South; and the unknown and forgotten heroes who fought in the ranks of either army, and who fought for a principle, not on compulsion or for glory, are worthy of the highest honours that history can bestow.
Nor can a soldier withhold his tribute of praise to the capacity for making war which distinguished the American citizen. The intelligence of the rank and file played an important rôle in every phase of a campaign. As skirmishers,—and modern battles, to a very great extent, are fought out by lines of skirmishers—their work was admirable; and when the officers were struck down, or when command, by reason of the din and excitement, became impossible, the self-dependence of the individual asserted itself with the best effect.[[6]] The same quality which the German training had sought to foster, and which, according to Moltke,[[7]] had much to do with the victories of 1870, was born in both Northerner and Southerner. On outpost and on patrol, in seeking information and in counteracting the ruses of the enemy, the keen intelligence of the educated volunteer was of the utmost value. History has hitherto overlooked the achievements of the scouts, whose names so seldom occur in the Official Records, but whose daring was unsurpassed, and whose services were of vast importance. In the Army of Northern Virginia every commanding general had his own party of scouts, whose business it was to penetrate the enemy’s lines, to see everything and to hear everything, to visit the base of operations, to inspect the line of communications, and to note the condition and the temper of the hostile troops. Attracted by a pure love of adventure, these private soldiers did exactly the same work as did the English Intelligence officers in the Peninsula, and did it with the same thoroughness and acuteness. Wellington, deploring the capture of Captain Colquhoun Grant, declared that the gallant Highlander was worth as much to the army as a brigade of cavalry; Jackson had scouts who were more useful to him than many of his brigadiers. Again, in constructing hasty intrenchments, the soldiers needed neither assistance nor impulsion. The rough cover thrown up by the men when circumstances demanded it, on their own volition, was always adapted to the ground, and generally fulfilled the main principles of fortification. For bridge-building, for road-making, for the destruction, the repair, and even the making, of railroads, skilled labour was always forthcoming from the ranks; and the soldiers stamped the impress of their individuality on the tactics of the infantry. Modern formations, to a very large extent, had their origin on American battle-fields. The men realised very quickly the advantages of shelter; the advance by rushes from one cover to another, and the gradually working up, by this method, of the firing-line to effective range—the method which all experience shows to be the true one—became the general rule.
That the troops had faults, however, due in great part to the fact that their intelligence was not thoroughly trained, and to the inexperience of their officers, it is impossible to deny.
“I agree with you,” wrote Lee in 1868, “in believing that our army would be invincible if it could be properly organised and officered. There were never such men in an army before. They will go anywhere and do anything if properly led. But there is the difficulty—proper commanders. Where can they be obtained? But they are improving—constantly improving. Rome was not built in a day, nor can we expect miracles in our favour.”[[8]] Yet, taking them all in all, the American rank and file of 1863, with their native characteristics, supplemented by a great knowledge of war, were in advance of any soldiers of their time.
In the actual composition of the Confederate forces no marked change had taken place since the beginning of the war. But the character of the army, in many essential respects, had become sensibly modified. The men encamped on the Rappahannock were no longer the raw recruits who had blundered into victory at the First Manassas; nor were they the unmanageable divisions of the Peninsula. They were still, for the most part, volunteers, for conscripts in the Army of Northern Virginia were not numerous, but they were volunteers of a very different type from those who had fought at Kernstown or at Gaines’ Mill. Despite their protracted absence from their homes, the wealthy and well-born privates still shouldered the musket. Though many had been promoted to commissions, the majority were content to set an example of self-sacrifice and sterling patriotism, and the regiments were thus still leavened with a large admixture of educated and intelligent men. It is a significant fact that during those months of 1863 which were spent in winter quarters Latin, Greek, mathematical, and even Hebrew classes were instituted by the soldiers. But all trace of social distinction had long since vanished. Between the rich planter and the small farmer or mechanic there was no difference either in aspect or habiliments. Tanned by the hot Virginia sun, thin-visaged and bright-eyed, gaunt of frame and spare of flesh, they were neither more nor less than the rank and file of the Confederate army; the product of discipline and hard service, moulded after the same pattern, with the same hopes and fears, the same needs, the same sympathies. They looked at life from a common standpoint, and that standpoint was not always elevated. Human nature claimed its rights. When his hunger was satisfied and, to use his own expression, he was full of hog and hominy, the Confederate soldier found time to discuss the operations in which he was engaged. Pipe in mouth, he could pass in review the strategy and tactics of both armies, the capacity of his generals, and the bearing of his enemies, and on each one of these questions, for he was the shrewdest of observers, his comments were always to the point. He had studied his profession in a practical school. The more delicate moves of the great game were topics of absorbing interest. He cast a comprehensive glance over the whole theatre; he would puzzle out the reasons for forced marches and sudden changes of direction; his curiosity was great, but intelligent, and the groups round the camp-fires often forecast with surprising accuracy the manœuvres that the generals were planning. But far more often the subjects of conversation were of a more immediate and personal character. The capacity of the company cook, the quality of the last consignment of boots, the merits of different bivouacs, the prospect of the supply train coming up to time, the temper of the captain and subaltern—such were the topics which the Confederate privates spent their leisure in discussing. They had long since discovered that war is never romantic and seldom exciting, but a monotonous round of tiresome duties, enlivened at rare intervals by dangerous episodes. They had become familiar with its constant accompaniment of privations—bad weather, wet bivouacs, and wretched roads, wood that would not kindle, and rations that did not satisfy. They had learned that a soldier’s worst enemy may be his native soil, in the form of dust or mud; that it is possible to march for months without firing a shot or seeing a foe; that a battle is an interlude which breaks in at rare intervals on the long round of digging, marching, bridge-building, and road-making; and that the time of the fiercest fire-eater is generally occupied in escorting mule-trains, in mounting guard, in dragging waggons through the mud, and in loading or unloading stores. Volunteering for perilous and onerous duties, for which hundreds had eagerly offered themselves in the early days, ere the glamour of the soldier’s life had vanished, had ceased to be popular. The men were now content to wait for orders; and as discipline crystallised into habit, they became resigned to the fact that they were no longer volunteers, masters of their own actions, but the paid servants of the State, compelled to obey and powerless to protest.
To all outward appearance, then, in the spring of 1863 the Army of Northern Virginia bore an exceedingly close resemblance to an army of professional soldiers. It is true that military etiquette was not insisted on; that more license, both in quarters and on the march, was permitted than would be the case in a regular army; that officers were not treated with the same respect; and that tact, rather than the strict enforcement of the regulations, was the key-note of command. Nevertheless, taken as a whole, the Confederate soldiers were exceedingly well-conducted. The good elements in the ranks were too strong for those who were inclined to resist authority, and the amount of misbehaviour was wonderfully small. There was little neglect of duty. Whatever the intelligence of the men told them was necessary for success, for safety, or for efficiency, was done without reluctance. The outposts were seldom caught napping. Digging and tree-felling—for the men had learned the value of making fortifications and good roads—were taken as a matter of course. Nor was the Southern soldier a grumbler. He accepted half-rations and muddy camping-grounds without remonstrance; if his boots wore out he made shift to march without them; and when his uniform fell to pieces he waited for the next victory to supply himself with a new outfit. He was enough of a philosopher to know that it is better to meet misery with a smile than with a scowl. Mark Tapley had many prototypes in the Confederate ranks, and the men were never more facetious than when things were at their worst. “The very intensity of their sufferings became a source of merriment. Instead of growling and deserting, they laughed at their own bare feet, ragged clothes, and pinched faces; and weak, hungry, cold, wet and dirty, with no hope of reward or rest, they marched cheerfully to meet the warmly clad and well-fed hosts of the enemy.”[[9]] Indomitable indeed were the hearts that beat beneath the grey jackets, and a spirit rising superior to all misfortune,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine,