His religious liberality.
A very remarkable illustration of
Jackson's religious liberality was shown just before the
battle of Chancellorsville.
We had been ordered to send to the rear all surplus baggage, and to illustrate how rigidly this was done—only one tent, and that a small one, was allowed for the headquarters of the corps.
It was intended to make the campaign of 1863 a very active one. ‘We must make this campaign,’ said
Jackson, ‘an exceedingly active one.
Only thus can a weaker country cope with a stronger.
It must make up in activity what it lacks in strength, and a defensive campaign can only be made successful by taking the aggressive at the proper time.
Don't wait for the adversary to become fully prepared, but strike him the first blow.’
When all the tents, among other surplus baggage, were taken away, a
Roman Catholic priest of one of the
Louisiana regiments sent in his resignation because he could not perform the duties of his office without the privacy of a tent.
Jackson asked me about Father——; I told him he was one of the most useful men in time of battle that we had; that I would miss his services very much.
He ordered that this
Roman Catholic priest should retain his tent, and he was the only man in the corps who had that privilege.
We now approach the close of
Jackson's career.
Wonderful career!
Wonderful in many respects, and to some minds more wonderful in that it took him only two years to make his place in history.
Caesar spent eight years in his first series of victories, and some two years more in filling out the measure of his great reputation.
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Napoleon, teaching the lesson of indifference to danger to the boys he gathered around him, after the fatal
Russian campaign, said: ‘The cannon balls have been flying around our legs for twenty years.’
Hannibal's career occupied about fifteen years. No other great commander in the world's history has in so short a time won so great a fame as
Jackson.
Two years, crowded with weighty deeds, now draw to a close, and
Chancellorsville witnesses, perhaps, the most important single incident of his life as a soldier.
The whole story has been too often told.
Hooker, in command of what was called by the
North, ‘the finest army on the planet,’ crossed the
Rappahannock and marched to
Chancellorsville.
He had 123,000 soldiers,
Lee less than 58,000.
Notwithstanding,
Hooker was frightened at his own temerity in coming within striking distance of
Lee and
Jackson, and he at once set his whole army to work to throw up entrenchments and make abatis of the most formidable character.
Lee and
Jackson had to meet the present difficulty without the aid of a large portion of their army, absent with
Longstreet.
Lee and
Jackson!
How well I remember their meeting before this battle, and their confiding conference!
How these two men loved and trusted each other!
Where in all history shall we find a parallel to their mutual faith and love and confidence?
I can find none.
Said
Jackson: ‘
Lee is a phenomenon.
I would follow him blindfold.’
And
Lee said to an aide de camp of Jackson's, who reported that
Hooker had crossed the river, ‘Go back and tell
General Jackson that he knows as well as I what to do.’
After they arrived in front of
Hooker our movements are described in a hitherto unpublished letter of
General Lee's. That great commander, after saying that he decided not to attack in front, writes as follows: ‘I stated to
General Jackson that we must attack on our left as soon as practicable,’ and he adds, ‘in consequence of a report from
General Fitz. Lee, describing the position of the
Federal army and the roads which he held with his cavalry leading to its rear,
General Jackson, after some inquiry concerning the roads leading to the
Furnace, undertook to throw his command entirely in
Hooker's rear, which he accomplished with equal skill and boldness.’
General Jackson believed the fighting qualities of the Army of Northern Virginia equal to the task of ending the war. During the winter preceding
Chancellorsville, in the course of a conversation at
Moss Neck, he said: ‘We must do more than defeat their armies; we must destroy
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them.’
He went into this campaign filled with this stern purpose; ready to stretch to the utmost every energy of his genius, and push to its limit all his faith in his men in order to destroy a great army of the enemy.
I know that this was his purpose, for after the battle, when still well enough to talk he told me that he had intended, after breaking into
Hooker's rear, to take and fortify a suitable position, cutting him off from the river and so hold him, until between himself and
General Lee the great Federal host should be broken to pieces.
He had no fear.
It was then that I heard him say: ‘We sometimes fail to drive them from position; they always fail to drive us.’
Never can I forget the eagerness and intensity of
Jackson on that march to
Hooker's rear.
His face was pale, his eyes flashing.
Out from his thin, compressed lips came the terse command: ‘Press forward, press forward.’
In his eagerness, as he rode, he leaned over on the neck of his horse as if in that way the march might be hurried.
‘See that the column is kept closed and that there is no straggling,’ he more than once ordered, and ‘Press on, press on,’ was repeated again and again.
Every man in the ranks knew that we were engaged in some great flank movement, and they eagerly responded and pressed on at a rapid gait.
Fitz Lee met us and told
Jackson he could show him the whole of
Hooker's army if he went with him to the top of a hill near by. They went together and
Jackson carefully inspected through his glasses the
Federal command.
He was so wrapped up in his plans, that on his return he passed
Fitz Lee without saluting or even thanking him, and when he reached the column, he ordered one aide to go forward and tell
General Rodes, who was in the lead, to cross the
Plank Road and go straight on to the
Turnpike, and another aide to go to the rear of the column and see that it was kept closed up, and all along the line he repeatedly said: ‘Press on; press right on.’
The fiercest energy possessed the man, and the fire of battle fell strong upon him. When he arrived at the
Plank Road he sent this, his last message, to
Lee:
The enemy has made a stand at Chancellorsville.
I hope as soon as practicable to attack.
I trust that an ever kind Providence will bless us with success.
And as this message went to
Lee, there was flashing along the wires, giving brief joy to the
Federal Capital,
Hooker's message: ‘The enemy must either ingloriously fly, or come out from behind
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his defences and give us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him.’
Contrast the two,
Jackson's modest, confident, hopeful, relying on his cause and his God.
Hooker's frightened, boastful, arrogant, vain-glorious.
The two messages are characteristic of the two men and the two people.
But this battle has been so often described in its minutest detail that I forbear to tax your patience.
I forbear for another reason.
While I can write about it, I cannot speak of it to old soldiers without more emotion than I care to show.
The result of that great battle the wide world knows.
Except for the unsurpassed, the wonderful campaign of 1864, this is perhaps the finest illustration of
General Lee's genius for war, and yet, in writing to
Jackson he says: ‘I have just received your note informing me that you are wounded.
I cannot express my regret at its occurrence.
Could I have directed events, I would have chosen, for the good of the country, to have been disabled in your stead.
I congratulate you on the victory, which is due to your skill and energy.’
See the noble spirit of our great commander!
Not further removed is pole from pole than is any mean jealousy, or thought of self, in his great soul.
He at heart obeyed the hard command that ‘In honor ye prefer one another.’
This note displays his greatness, yet it is also history, in that we know on his testimony that
Jackson shared with him the glory of that battle.
These great soldiers loved and trusted one another, and in death they are not divided.
How sacred is the soil of
Lexington!
for here they rest side by side.
The story of
Jackson's death is so familiar to you all that, though intimately associated with its scenes, I will not narrate it. I will only declare that he met this great enemy as he had met all others, calmly and steadily, expecting, as always, to conquer, but now trusting, not in his own strength—not as heretofore in the prowess of mortal arms, nor in the splendid fibre of mortal courage, but in the unseen strength upon which he always relied—the strength that never failed him— and so, foreseeing the rest that awaited him on the other side, he crossed over the river.
My hand is on my mouth and my mouth is in the dust.
Already I have told you much that you already knew.
In this, I beg you to observe, I have but fulfilled my promise.
My apology is that we are in
Lexington, and that we stand by the grave of
Jackson.
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Under such circumstances, love does not seek new stories to tell, new incidents to relate.
Just to its own heart or to some sympathizing ear, it goes over the old scenes, recalls the old memories, tenderly dwells upon and tells them over and over again.
Says farewell, and comes back again and stands silent in the presence of the dead.
And so, I finish what I had to say, and bid farewell to
Stonewall Jackson.
And yet, all is not said, for here in
Lexington, even in the presence of his mighty shade, our hearts bow down and we are awed by another presence, for the towering form beside him is that of
Robert Lee.
Thought and feeling and power of expression are paralyzed.
I cannot help you now with words, to tell all that is in your hearts.
Time fails, and I trust to your memories to recall a group more familiar, in whose presence perhaps we would not be so oppressed, and yet a list of names that ought to be dear to
Lexington.
I think that in the wide, wide world no town of equal size has had so long a list of glorious dead; so many around whose memories a halo of glory gathers.
Reverently I salute them all.
And so I leave the grave of my general and my friend, knowing that for centuries men will come to
Lexington as a Mecca, and to this grave as a Shrine, and wonderingly talk of this man and his mighty deeds.
I know that time will only add to his great fame.
I know that his name will be honored and revered forever, just as I know that the beautiful river, flowing near by, will sing an unceasing requiem to his memory—just as I know that the proud mountains, like some vast chain of sentinels, will keep eternal watch over his honored grave.
