They Called Him Stonewall

by Davis, Burke;

  Out of concern for the mother’s health, the children were scattered: Warren to her brother, Alfred Neale, near Parkersburg, where he prepared for a brief life of teaching school; Thomas and Laura to the country home of their grandmother, Edward Jackson’s widow. The grandmother lived near the village of Jane Lew, not far from the original site where old John Jackson had fought Indians and buffalo. The departure for this home marks the beginning of the T. J. Jackson legend.

  It is a family tradition that the five-year-old Tom, displaying the fearless spirit of an incipient lieutenant general, ran into the woods and hid from a bachelor uncle sent to fetch him, and returned only at night. After two days of bribery and persuasion, the children agreed to leave their mother and went to the big home on the West Fork of the Monongahela, where they were to spend many happy years with the grandmother, a couple of maiden aunts and a clutch of high-spirited, godless bachelor uncles.

  Julia Jackson died in Tom’s sixth year, and shortly after the parting from her the children were carried to her deathbed for a scene of prayer and blessing that made a deep impression on the boy; the children returned immediately to the farm. The grandmother died in 1835, and Tom was sent to the home of a cousin, William Brake, near Clarksburg, on the theory that the old homestead was no longer a fit place to raise children, since the maiden aunts had married and the matriarch was gone. Tom could not bear the new home for long. He ran away into Clarksburg; he told relatives in a firm, young voice, “I have disagreed with Uncle Brake. I have left him, and I’m not going back.” He got a riotous welcome on his return to the home of the bachelor Jacksons—in particular from Uncle Cummins, who was the head of the horse-loving, fox-hunting, race-crazy clan.

  There followed a boyhood idyll. Tom grew up on the ample farm, dividing his time between a jockey’s saddle on the four-mile track of the place and the farm chores; he is said to have directed crews of Negroes at felling timber, to have worked with millers in the family gristmill, tended sheep, flailed the flax crop, caught monstrous fish in the clear streams, gone coon hunting and boating on the West Fork, and, though probably inconstantly, attended a country school.

  One summer, according to the legend, he and Warren drifted down the Ohio in a log canoe, spending some time with relatives; and then, striking out for themselves, they passed the winter and spring on an island in the Mississippi, far down in Kentucky. They cut firewood for passing boats, and they returned by steamer with nothing to show for their labors but new trunks, though Warren soon developed tuberculosis, as his mother had before him. At nineteen Warren was dead.

  The Jacksons remembered Tom’s devotion to learning, and that he lay on the floor to study while a slave held a blazing pine knot over his head—the bargain being that, as Tom learned, and the slave held the hissing light, the boy would pass on the knowledge and both become educated. It is said that the slave learned enough to enable him to escape via the Underground Railway.

  In 1838, when Tom was fourteen, he had his first job, and his first contact with the church which was to mean so much to him. He worked on the Parkersburg-Staunton Turnpike and each Sunday walked three miles to hear a neighborhood minister. There is no more than a hint as to why he did so; perhaps he was in unconscious protest against the godless home of his uncles. In any event, this and other signs of strong character so impressed a local squire, Colonel Alexander Withers, that in 1841 he got for Tom a constable’s post. His duties were inconsiderable: the serving of legal papers for the most part. It is likely that Uncle Cummins and others of his kin, numerous in the county, helped to put Tom on the public payroll.

  The first instance of Jackson’s lifelong concern over his health was an attack of dyspepsia at this period. He thought life on horseback might improve his condition, even as he rode through the hills bringing tidings of trouble to neighbors and kin. He had a reputation as a steady, dependable boy, far from brilliant, with no signs of eccentricity.

  His Uncle Cummins evidently gave him free rein; the nephew was to write in later years: “Times are very different from what they were when I was at my adopted home. None to give their mandates, none for me to obey but as I chose, surrounded by my playmates and relatives, all apparently eager to promote my happiness.”

  The shade of Cummins which lingers indicates a vigorous character, a man whose love for litigation, a family failing, caused him feuds with prominent men of the area and consumed much of his income in court; a citizen of influence and a king-maker whose blessing launched many a political career. He was one of the thousands who died in California in the turbulent Gold Fever of ’49. Tom, when told of the death of Cummins, was to write: “This is news which goes to my heart. Uncle was like a father to me.”

  In 1842, Tom was struck by the accidental good fortune which was to mold his life. A boy from his district, having won a place at West Point, withdrew, and there was a vacancy for Western Virginia. Tom, who learned overnight of the glories of the Academy and the military life, determined to have the place. There is no evidence that he had yearned to be a soldier, nor even that he had ever seen one; his interest in military matters, so the family memories run, had been limited to marching at the head of playmates as a child, imagining himself at war. In any event, West Point seemed a glittering opportunity to better himself, and Tom bent his every effort toward going there.

  Cummins was a major help, for Samuel S. Hayes, the district Congressman, was a friend, and Hayes wrote from Washington that he would give all possible help. Hayes was probably astonished to see Tom walk into his office a few days later on the strength of nothing more than a kindly letter to an influential constituent. There is a legend that Tom hurried to Washington much as he was to hurry his columns of riflemen in later years, and that he rode desperately across country to overtake a stagecoach which he had missed at Clarksburg, sending home a slave with his winded horse.

  To Congressman Hayes as to Cummins and all others, the grim-faced boy confessed a lack of training to fit him for West Point, but threatened such application to duty that he would be able to remain in the Academy. The session had already begun, and there was probably scant competition for the post. Hayes took young Jackson to the Secretary of War, who approved the candidate despite his shortcomings, and after a brief tour of Washington, including a peek at the city from atop the half-built Capitol, the impatient Tom was off for West Point. He arrived on the historic plain, July 1, 1842.

  Jackson’s entrance was observed by a little group of cadets which included three future Confederate generals: A. P. Hill, George Pickett and Dabney H. Maury. In later years, Maury wrote:

  “A cadet sergeant came by us conducting a newly-arrived cadet to his quarters. This newcomer attracted our attention at once. He was apparently about 20 years of age, was well-grown; his figure was angular and clumsy; his gait was awkward. He was clad in old-fashioned Virginia homespun woolen cloth; he bore across his shoulders a pair of weather-stained saddle bags, and his hat was one of those heavy, low-crowned, broad-brimmed wool hats usually worn in those days by overseers, county constables, wagoners, etc. He tramped along by the side of the sergeant, with an air of resolution, and his stolid look added to the inflexible determination of his whole aspect, so that one of us remarked, ‘That fellow has come here to stay.’

  “So much did he impress me that I made inquiry at once about him, and found he was from Virginia. I then sought him out and endeavored to show him some especial interest, and to let him know that he was not without friends in that strange land. He was not at all demonstrative, however, and seemed determined to hew out his own career.”

  Jackson stayed at West Point, but he was for long uncomfortable and the butt of many cadet pranks because of the irresistible combination of country inelegance and grave earnestness which he offered to tormentors.

  The Academy tradition is that he studied long after lights out by banking coals upon his fire and lying before it, boning up on subjects in which he found himself years behind, particularly algebra and geometry
.

  General John Gibbon recalled for a biographer a scene of Jackson at the blackboard in a classroom, so ill at ease that he squirmed in pain, smeared chalk over hands, face and uniform, and sweated so freely that he was for years a marvel to his mates. The boys called him “The General.”

  Jackson soon won the sympathy of instructors. He had a frank, manly approach to his ignorance, and often confessed that he could not recite the day’s lesson since he was months behind and had not mastered earlier assignments.

  He found life no easier outside the walls. Despite his training as a jockey, he was an ungainly figure on a dragoon’s saddle, and never achieved the form required in taking jumps on cavalry horses.

  Jackson began with the most lowly group of his class, which the Point called The Immortals, and it appeared that he would drop even below them and into oblivion at the end of his first year. But his struggles were valiant and endless. He later said, “I do not remember having spoken to a lady while I was at West Point”—and he evidently did little else but wage his uphill battle for belated learning. This was most severe in the study of French, but serious on every front. His grade standing at the end of the first year was precarious, but he clung on: Of a class of 72, he stood 70 in French, 51 in general merit, 45 in mathematics. He drew 15 demerits.

  A few stories accumulated about him during his stay. One was that a fellow cadet substituted his uncleaned musket for that of Jackson, when inspection was imminent. Jackson was known to be scrupulously neat, but he accepted the demerits without protest, refusing to report the incident to his officers. But when he discovered the identity of the culprit, he had to be sat upon to prevent his taking the case directly to the commandant. Jackson insisted that the scoundrel be dismissed for conduct unbecoming a gentleman.

  Another story was that his roommate, acting as orderly-sergeant, offered Jackson immunity from answering roll calls in the chill dawn. But despite his urging, and assurances that his absence would not be reported, Jackson steadfastly refused, and met the painful duty each day.

  Most of the stories have about them an air of having been conceived, or enlarged, after Jackson’s rise to fame. Some of the developing signs of character, however, are unmistakable. Here, for example, Jackson began the curious health regimen which was to lead him over the country in search of relief for his vague ills. Here he began his habit of sitting bolt upright, to protect the natural alignment of his internal organs. He also wrote a book of maxims, boyish and derivative, but indicative of his cast of mind. A few samples:

  Disregard public opinion when it interferes with your duty.

  Sacrifice your life rather than your word.

  You may be whatever you resolve to be.

  Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off unnecessary actions.

  Be not disturbed at trifles, nor at accidents.

  The tough young mind, yet unformed, seemed to be groping for a rigid creed.

  At the end of the second year his standing had improved: 52 in French, 18 in mathematics, 30 in general merit. He drew only 11 fresh demerits. But a pair of new menaces had risen: in drawing he was 68; in engineering, 55.

  In a letter to his sister Laura, in January, 1844, he spoke of his health, his examinations, his improved rank, and then:

  I am almost homesick, and expect to continue so until I can have a view of my native mountains … my pay when I leave this institution will be about $1,000 a year; though fate may decree that I shall graduate in the lower part of my class, in which case I shall have to go into the infantry, and would receive only $750 a year.… But be that as it may, I intend to remain in the army no longer than I can get rid of it with honor, and means to commence some professional business at home.

  At the end of his third year, Jackson had risen further: 11 in philosophy, 25 in chemistry, 59 in drawing, 20 in general merit. And, he added: “In conduct, one.”

  In letters to Laura at this period he wrote:

  I am enjoying myself very well, considering that I am deprived of the blessings of a home.… I have before me two courses. The first would be to follow the profession of arms; the second, that of a civil pursuit, as law. If I should adopt the first I could live independently and surrounded by friends whom I have already made, and have no fear of want.… If I adopt the latter … my exertions would have to be great in order to acquire a name. This course is most congenial to my taste, and I expect to adopt it, after spending a few years in pursuing the former.

  And:

  My constitution has received a severe shock, but I believe I am gradually recovering. My exercises this year with the broadsword as well as the small are well calculated to strengthen the chest and the muscles. So that I have some reason to believe that they will have the desired effect of restoring me to perfect health.…

  And, in April, 1846:

  … Rumor appears to indicate a rupture between our government and the Mexican. If such should be the case the probability is that I will be ordered to join the army of occupation immediately, and, if so, will hardly see home until after my return, and the next letter that you will receive from me may be dated from Texas or Mexico.…

  Tom graduated in July with a distinguished class that had dwindled to sixty members. He ranked 17 in general merit, 12 in engineering, 5 in ethics, 11 in artillery, 11 in mineralogy and geology, with 7 demerits for the year. He made his lowest rank—21—in the study of infantry tactics.

  In his class were Union generals of the future: McClellan, Stoneman, Couch, Gibbon, Foster, Reno. There were distinguished Confederates as well: A. P. Hill, Pickett and Maury, and D. R. Jones, W. D. Smith, and C. M. Wilcox.

  Jackson got a brevet lieutenant’s commission, in artillery, July 1, 1846. He left West Point with a reputation as a shy young soldier of sound mind, “but not quick.”

  Sylvanus White, a cousin, recalled that Tom stopped at home for a few days this summer before going to Mexico, and that he condescended to drill with the home guard. A Colonel McKinley persuaded Tom to take over a company and insisted, even when the fledgling soldier protested that he would not understand the Colonel’s commands. True to that prediction, the first company of Jackson’s career took off on a false course at an improper order, and went off the parade-ground, through the town. Tom marched it on, obeying orders to the letter.

  He was then off to war by a long route. He made his way from Fort Hamilton, on Long Island, to Pittsburgh, a four-hundred-mile journey, and then took a boat to New Orleans. He was thirty-six days on this trip, and K Company, First Artillery, was still far from the fighting. Jackson went to Monterrey, and then to Saltillo, reporting for duty; but even this invasion of Mexican soil did not suffice. On the eve of the battle of Buena Vista, he was ordered to join General Winfield Scott, who was ready to storm Vera Cruz.

  Jackson thought he would never see action. His impatience was recorded by D. H. Hill, an officer who was to become his brother-in-law.

  “I really envy you men who have been in action,” Jackson told Hill. “I should like to be in one battle.”

  Hill added: “His face lighted up, and eyes sparkled as he spoke, and the shy, hesitating manner gave way to the frank enthusiasm of the soldier.”

  On March 9, 1847, when he was barely twenty-three, Jackson had his first glimpse of war—and it was like a page from an Oriental fairy tale, a pageantry of color and high drama he would mention often, and never forget. He stood on one of the ships lying offshore as the armada of tiny surfboats swept for the beach. Jackson was near the island of Los Sacrificios, where Cortez had landed more than three hundred years earlier. The army’s bands blared over the water as the miniature boats hit the dazzling sands, and the figures of men crawled ashore like insects.

  Just a mile inland were the white walls of Vera Cruz, but there was no sign of life or resistance, and the American force quickly went ashore. By noon, almost all of Scott’s troops were strung out in their sandy camp, some 13,500 strong. At sunset, the gruff commander had completed
his council of war and was ready to invest the city. It would probably fall to an assault since it was defended by no more than four thousand Mexicans and had been deserted by Santa Anna; but Scott would use caution. For nine days he dug trenches, and for four days more he waited for heavy guns. Jackson at last saw fighting.

  He commanded a light battery and his were among the first guns fired. He was busy through the five days of bombardment before the rather informal defending army surrendered the city; the light battery’s guns were kept hot, and Jackson almost never left them. The result of his work came in a later promotion to the permanent rank of second lieutenant, “for gallant and meritorious conduct at the siege of Vera Cruz.”

  It was not all martial pomp for Jackson, however. Much later he was to confess a weakness on this battlefield to a woman friend, who wrote: “He has told me that his first sight of a mangled and swollen corpse on a Mexican battlefield as he rode over it the morning after the conflict, filled him with as much sickening dismay as if he had been a woman.”

  This weakness was not to endure.

  Vera Cruz surrendered its garrison, four hundred cannon and all its stores. Scott had lost but sixty-four men. Jackson was excited by victory, but there was a detachment of mind as he wrote to Laura of the details:

  The capitulation occurred yesterday.… The troops march out under the condition of not serving against us during the present war unless exchanged.… This capitulation … a regular siege … must in my opinion excel any military operations known in the history of our country.