But if Jackson never failed to take advantage of his opponent’s blunders, it might be said that he sometimes laid himself open to defeat. Grant and Sheridan, had they been in place of Shields and Frémont, would hardly have suffered him to escape from Harper’s Ferry; Sherman would probably have crushed him at the Second Manassas; Thomas would not have been surprised at Chancellorsville. But Jackson only pushed daring to its limits when it was safe to do so. He knew the men he had to deal with. And in whatever situation he might find himself he invariably reserved more than one means of escape.

On the field of battle his manœuvres were always sound and often brilliant. He never failed to detect the key-point of a position, or to make the best use of the ground. On the defensive his flanks were always strong and his troops concealed both from view and fire; on the offensive he invariably attacked where he was least expected. He handled the three arms, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, in the closest combination and with the maximum of effect. Except at Kernstown, where Garnett interfered, his reserve was invariably put in at exactly the right moment, and he so manipulated his command that he was always strongest at the decisive point. Nor did he forget that a battle is only half won where there is no pursuit, and whenever he held command upon the field, his troops, especially the cavalry, were so disposed that from the very outset the enemy’s retreat was menaced. The soldiers, sharers in his achievements, compared his tactical leading with that of others, and gave the palm to Jackson. An officer of his staff, who served continuously with the Army of Northern Virginia, says: “I was engaged in no great battle subsequent to Jackson’s death in which I did not see the opportunity which, in my opinion, he would have seized, and have routed our opponents;”[[7]] and General Lane writes that on many a hard-fought field, subsequent to Chancellorsville, he heard his veterans exclaim: “Oh for another Jackson!”

Until Jackson fell the Army of Northern Virginia, except when his advice was overruled, had never missed an opening. Afterwards it missed many. Gettysburg, which should have been decisive of the war, was pre-eminently a battle of lost opportunities, and there are others which fall into the same category. It is a perfectly fair assumption, then, that Jackson, so unerring was his insight, would not only have proved an efficient substitute for Lee, but that he would have won such fame as would have placed him, as it placed his great commander, among the most illustrious soldiers of all ages. With any of his contemporaries, not even excepting Lee, he compares more than favourably. Most obedient of subordinates as he was, his strategical views were not always in accordance with those of his Commander-in-Chief. If Jackson had been in charge of the operations, the disastrous battle of Malvern Hill would never have been fought; Pope would have been cut off from the Rappahannock; McClellan would have found the whole Confederate army arrayed against him at South Mountain, or would have been attacked near Frederick; and Burnside would have been encountered on the North Anna, where defeat would probably have proved his ruin. It is difficult to compare him with Lee. A true estimate of Lee’s genius is impossible, for it can never be known to what extent his designs were thwarted by the Confederate Government. Lee served Mr. Davis; Jackson served Lee, wisest and most helpful of masters. It would seem, however, that Jackson in one respect was Lee’s superior. His courage, physical and moral, was not more brilliant or more steadfast; his tactical skill no greater; but he was made of sterner stuff. His self-confidence was supreme. He never doubted his ability, with God’s help, to carry out any task his judgment approved. Lee, on the other hand, was oppressed by a consciousness of his own shortcomings. Jackson never held but one council of war. Lee seldom made an important movement without consulting his corps commanders. Jackson kept his subordinates in their place, exacting from his generals the same implicit obedience he exacted from his corporals. Lee lost the battle of Gettysburg because he allowed his second in command to argue instead of marching. Nor was that political courage, which Nelson declared is as necessary for a commander as military courage, a component part of Lee’s character.[[8]] On assuming command of the Army of Northern Virginia, in spite of Mr. Davis’ protestations, he resigned the control of the whole forces of the Confederacy, and he submitted without complaint to interference. Jackson’s action when Loring’s regiments were ordered back by the Secretary of War is sufficient proof that he would have brooked no meddling with his designs when once they had received the sanction of the Cabinet. At the same time, it must remain undetermined whether Jackson was equal to the vast responsibilities which Lee bore with such steadfast courage; whether he could have administered a great army, under the most untoward circumstances, with the same success; whether he could have assuaged the jealousies of the different States, and have dealt so tactfully with both officers and men that there should have been no friction between Virginians and Georgians, Texans and Carolinians.

It is probable that Jackson’s temper was more akin to Grant’s than Lee’s. Grant had the same whole-hearted regard for the cause; the same disregard for the individual. He was just as ready as Jackson to place a recalcitrant subordinate, no matter how high his rank, under instant arrest, and towards the incompetent and unsuccessful he was just as pitiless. Jackson, however, had the finer intellect. The Federal Commander-in-Chief was unquestionably a great soldier, greater than those who overlook his difficulties in the ’64 campaign are disposed to admit. As a strategist he ranks high. But Grant was no master of stratagem. There was no mystery about his operations. His manœuvres were strong and straightforward, but he had no skill in deceiving his adversary, and his tactics were not always of a high order. It may be questioned whether on the field of battle his ability was equal to that of Sherman, or of Sherman’s great antagonist, Johnston. Elsewhere he was their superior. Both Sherman and Johnston were methodical rather than brilliant; patient, confident, and far-seeing as they were, strictly observant of the established principles of war, they were without a touch of that aggressive genius which distinguished Lee, Grant, and Jackson.

Nevertheless, to put Jackson above Grant is to place him high on the list of illustrious captains. Yet the claim is not extravagant. If his military characteristics are compared with those of so great a soldier as Wellington, it will be seen that in many respects they run on parallel lines. Both had perfect confidence in their own capacity. “I can do,” said Jackson, “whatever I will to do;” while the Duke, when a young general in India, congratulated himself that he had learned not to be deterred by apparent impossibilities. Both were patient, fighting on their own terms, or fighting not at all. Both were prudent, and yet, when audacity was justified by the character of their opponent and the condition of his troops, they took no counsel of their fears. They were not enamoured of the defensive, for they knew the value of the initiative, and that offensive strategy is the strategy which annihilates. Yet, when their enemy remained concentrated, they were content to wait till they could induce him to disperse. Both were masters of ruse and stratagem, and the Virginian was as industrious as the Englishman. And in yet another respect they were alike. “In issuing orders or giving verbal instruction, Jackson’s words were few and simple; but they were so clear, so comprehensive and direct, that no officer could possibly misunderstand, and none dared disobey.”[[9]] Exactly the same terms might be applied to Wellington. Again, although naturally impetuous, glorying in war, they had no belief in a lucky star; their imagination was always controlled by common-sense, and, unlike Napoleon, their ambition to succeed was always subordinate to their judgment. Yet both, when circumstances were imperative, were greatly daring. The attacks at Groveton and at Chancellorsville were enterprises instinct with the same intensity of resolution as the storm of Badajos and Ciudad Rodrigo, the passage of the Douro, the great counterstroke of Salamanca. On the field of battle the one was not more vigilant nor imperturbable than the other, and both possessed a due sense of proportion. They knew exactly how much they could effect themselves, and how much must be left to others. Recognising that when once the action had opened the sphere in which their authority could be exercised was very limited, they gave their subordinates a free hand, issuing few orders, and encouraging their men rather by example than by words. Both, too, had that “most rare faculty of coming to prompt and sure conclusions in sudden exigencies—the certain mark of a master-spirit in war.”[[10]] At Bull Run, Jackson was ordered to support Evans at the Stone Bridge. Learning that the left was compromised, without a moment’s hesitation he turned aside, and placed his brigade in the only position where it could have held its ground. At Groveton, when he received the news that the Federal left wing was retreating on Centreville across his front, the order for attack was issued almost before he had read the dispatch. At Chancellorsville, when General Fitzhugh Lee showed him the enemy’s right wing dispersed and unsuspecting, he simply turned to his courier and said, “Let the column cross the road,” and his plan of battle was designed with the same rapidity as Wellington’s at Salamanca or Assaye.

It has been already pointed out that Jackson’s dispositions for defence differed in no degree from those of the great Duke. His visit to Waterloo, perhaps, taught the American soldier the value and importance of concealing his troops on the defensive. It was not, however, from Wellington that he learned to keep his plans to himself and to use every effort to mislead his adversary. Yet no general, not even Napoleon himself, brought about so many startling surprises as Wellington. The passage of the Douro, the storm of the frontier fortresses, the flank attack at Vittoria, the passage of the Adour, the passage of the Bidassoa—were each and all of them utterly unexpected by the French marshals; and those were by no means the only, or the most conspicuous, instances. Was ever general more surprised than Masséna, when pursuing his retreating foe through Portugal, in full anticipation of “driving the leopards into the sea,” he suddenly saw before him the frowning lines of Torres Vedras, the great fortress which had sprung from earth, as it were, at the touch of a magician’s wand?

The dispatches and correspondence of the generals who were opposed to Wellington are the clearest evidence of his extraordinary skill. Despite their long experience, their system of spies, their excellent cavalry, superior, during the first years of the Peninsular War, both in numbers and training, to the English, it was seldom indeed that the French had more than the vaguest knowledge of his movements, his intentions, or his strength. On no other theatre of war—and they were familiar with many—had they encountered so mysterious an enemy. And what was the result? Constantly surprised themselves, they at length hesitated to attack even isolated detachments. At Guinaldo, in 1812, Marmont, with 30,000 soldiers, refused to assault a ridge occupied by no more than 13,000. The morning of Quatre-Bras, when that important position was but thinly held, even Ney was reluctant to engage. In the judgment of himself and his subordinates, who had met Wellington before, the fact that there were but few red jackets to be seen was no proof whatever that the whole allied army was not close at hand, and the opportunity was suffered to escape. Other generals have been content with surprising the enemy when they advanced against him; Wellington and Jackson sought to do so even when they were confined to the defensive.

And in still another respect may a likeness be found. Jackson’s regard for truth was not more scrupulous than Wellington’s. Neither declined to employ every legitimate means of deceiving their enemies, but both were absolutely incapable of self-deception. And this characteristic was not without effect on their military conduct. Although never deterred by difficulties, they distinguished clearly between the possible and the impossible. To gain great ends they were willing to run risks, but if their plans are carefully considered, it will be seen that the margin left to chance was small. The odds were invariably in their favour. In conception as in execution obstacles were resolutely faced, and they were constitutionally unable to close their eyes to contingencies that might prove ruinous. The promise of great results was never suffered to cajole them into ignoring the perils that might beset their path. Imagination might display in vivid colours the success that might accrue from some audacious venture, but if one step was obscure the idea was unhesitatingly rejected. Undazzled by the prospect of personal glory, they formed “a true, not an untrue, picture of the business to be done,” and their plans, consequently, were without a flaw. Brilliant, indeed, were the campaigns of Napoleon, and astonishing his successes, but he who had so often deceived others in the end deceived himself. Accustomed to the dark dealings of intrigue and chicanery, his judgment, once so penetrating, became blunted. He believed what he wished to believe, and not that which was fact. More than once in his later campaigns he persuaded himself that the chances were with him when in reality they were terribly against him. He trusted to the star that had befriended him at Marengo and at Aspern; that is, he would not admit the truth, even to himself, that he had been overdaring, that it was fortune, and fortune alone, that had saved him from destruction, and Moscow and Vittoria, Leipsic and Waterloo, were the result.

But although there was a signal resemblance, both in their military characters as in their methods of war, between Wellington and Jackson, the parallel cannot be pushed beyond certain well-defined limits. It is impossible to compare their intellectual capacity. Wellington was called to an ampler field and far heavier responsibilities. Not as a soldier alone, but as financier, diplomatist, statesman, he had his part to play. While Napoleon languished on his lonely island, his great conqueror, the plenipotentiary of his own Government, the most trusted counsellor of many sovereigns, the adviser of foreign Administrations, was universally acknowledged as the mastermind of Europe. Nor was the mark which Wellington left on history insignificant. The results of his victories were lasting. The freedom of the nations was restored to them, and land and sea became the thoroughfares of peace. America, on the other hand, owes no single material benefit to Stonewall Jackson. In the cause of progress or of peace he accomplished nothing. The principle he fought for, the right of secession, lives no longer, even in the South. He won battles. He enhanced the reputation of American soldiers. He proved in his own person that the manhood of Virginia had suffered no decay. And this was all. But the fruits of a man’s work are not to be measured by a mere utilitarian standard. In the minds of his own countrymen the memory of Wellington is hallowed not so much by his victories, as by his unfaltering honesty and his steadfast regard for duty, and the life of Stonewall Jackson is fraught with lessons of still deeper import.

Not only with the army, but with the people of the South, his influence while he lived was very great. From him thousands and ten thousands of Confederate soldiers learned the self-denial which is the root of all religion, the self-control which is the root of all manliness.[[11]] Beyond the confines of the camps he was personally unknown. In the social and political circles of Richmond his figure was unfamiliar. When his body lay in state the majority of those who passed through the Hall of Representatives looked upon his features for the first time. He had never been called to council by the President, and the members of the Legislature, with but few exceptions, had no acquaintance with the man who acted while they deliberated. But his fame had spread far and wide, and not merely the fame of his victories, but of his Christian character. The rare union of strength and simplicity, of child-like faith and the most fiery energy, had attracted the sympathy of the whole country, of the North as well as of the South; and beyond the Atlantic, where with breathless interest the parent islands were watching the issue of the mighty conflict, it seemed that another Cromwell without Cromwell’s ambition, or that another Wolfe with more than Wolfe’s ability, had arisen among the soldiers of the youngest of nations. And this interest was intensified by his untimely end. When it was reported that Jackson had fallen, men murmured in their dismay against the fiat of the Almighty. “Why,” they asked, “had one so pure and so upright been suddenly cut down?” Yet a sufficient answer was not far to seek. To the English race, in whatever quarter of the globe it holds dominion, to the race of Alfred and De Montfort, of Bruce and Hampden, of Washington and Gordon, the ideal of manhood has ever been a high one. Self-sacrifice and the single heart are the attributes which it most delights to honour; and chief amongst its accepted heroes are those soldier-saints who, sealing their devotion with their lives, have won