This raises a question of continuing importance. The necessary qualities of high military command manifestly are administrative skill and diligence, strategical and logistical sense, military imagination, initiative, resourcefulness, boldness coupled with a grasp of practicality, ability to elicit the best of men, and the more personal qualities of character, endurance, courage, and nervous control. Are these essential qualities possessed, or may they be developed, by more than a minute fraction of those who can perform well the lesser military duties? Ere the Army of Northern Virginia passed the high noon of Chancellorsville, it was plain that a good general had been a good officer from the time of his first commission. No less was it plain that a man would not of necessity be a good general because he had been an excellent captain or had a creditable record as a colonel.
On the basis of that established truth of command in one great American army, it perhaps is a mistake to assume that when a small nation wages a long war it trains in the exacting but instructive school of battle an inexhaustible supply of competent general officers. Instead, where capable officers rise fast, their deaths or invalidism may mean that less competent men will succeed them. Whether the necessary standard of command can be sustained, in the face of heavy casualties in the corps of officers, may depend less on training and combat experience than on the size of the population. A martial tradition, public respect for the profession of arms, and the long-continued service of a well-trained general staff may be ponderable factors, but unless there is vast manpower from which to sift and develop good soldiers, mere experience may not be enough to assure continuing good field command above the grade of colonel.
A writer of biography can ask for nothing more interesting than to begin with a score of names in printed military dispatches and then to work over historical materials of many sorts until names become personalities, characteristics emerge, and reports take on the sound of a voice. At first, one had the feeling that these Confederates had ridden so far toward oblivion that one could not discern the figures or hope to overtake them before they had passed over the horizon of time. In the end, there was the sensation of reaching their camp, of watching the firelight on their faces, of hearing their brave and genial conversation.
The product of selection, training, combat, and survival was not a composite or a “typical” officer. Lee’s lieutenants named in these pages interest by reason of their differences, not of their similarities. When one is able, at last, to forget the poignancy of the ninth of April and to look back over the four years, the throng and the clash of personality, in an age of individualism, puts talk of “type” out of place.
Were ever men more consistently themselves? Beauregard, with a Napoleonic complex and a reputation to maintain; Joe Johnston, who had a grievance, a scorn of detail, and an amazing ability to make men believe in him; Magruder, the ever-galloping giant; Gustavus Smith, possessed of a sensitive pomposity that offset his administrative ability and colored curiously his unwillingness to assume responsibility; Harvey Hill, whom combat stimulated and routine paralyzed; the political generals, similar only in their self-confidence and in their flow of fiery eloquence; Powell Hill, who was full of contradictions, able and negligent, cooperative with his subordinates and both punctilious and contentious in his dealings with his corps chief; Old Pete Longstreet, brusque but self-contained, always at his best in battle, a reliable lieutenant but beyond his depth in autonomous command; Jeb Stuart, a praise-loving exhibitionist, as colorful as his uniform, a superb intelligence officer, and an instructor who always trained a sufficient number of capable men to make good his losses; Dick Anderson, too much of a gentleman to assert himself; Wade Hampton, the grand seigneur and huntsman who developed with each new responsibility but never, like Stuart, looked on war as a sport; the ramrod John B. Gordon, whose attack was sharp though his sentences might be florid; diminutive Billy Mahone, growing up as soon as he got a division; John B. Hood, with capacities as a combat officer that were matched by the valor of his troops; William N. Pendleton, able as an organizer and always explaining something at great length and in labyrinthine sentences; Fitz Lee, the laughing cavalier, and Tom Rosser, the daring Lochinvar; Pelham and Pegram, seldom together but always in spirit the Castor and Pollox of the guns; Heth the ill-fortuned and Wilcox the observant; Pender the diligent and Ramseur the hard-hitting; the caustic Early and the Nordic Rodes—the list lengthens but all stand out as individuals. Devotion and that same quality of individualism are all they have in common. Beside this score, a hundred in memory ride past, to be recognized, greeted, and perhaps forgotten again. When the rear file passes, one is regretful that more of them could not be sketched, but one is grateful for the privilege of hearing so many of them talk and of watching them fight.
Editorial Note
STEPHEN W. SEARS
I have long regarded Lee’s Lieutenants as the most important single work of Confederate historiography ever published. Exceedingly close association with Douglas Southall Freeman’s masterwork, in the fashioning of this abridgment, has served only to confirm that opinion. The encomium “most important” can of course be applied just as well to Freeman’s R.E. Lee. Yet before the four-volume Lee was published, in 1934-35, General Lee was hardly unknown to students of the Civil War. By contrast, before Lee’s Lieutenants was published, in 1942-44, almost all the Confederate officers depicted in these pages were virtual strangers. Adequate biographies had been published of only two of them, Jackson and Jeb Stuart. In his Foreword, Freeman recalls that when he began his work he was concerned that these lieutenants of Lee’s might have “ridden so far toward oblivion that one could not discern the figures or hope to overtake them before they had passed over the horizon of time.” It was a labor of six years, but Freeman captured them all, for all time.
In abridging the original three volumes of Lee’s Lieutenants into one volume, the focus has been steadfast on the subtitle of the work—“A Study in Command.” The watchword here is command. Of necessity much has been pared from the original work, but everything of substance—everything—relevant to the command structure of the Army of Northern Virginia and how it operated has been retained. This made up the unique quality of Lee’s Lieutenants, and that uniqueness is the same whether it is between two covers or between six.
Freeman’s concern for what he called “the hurried reader” led him to put peripheral material into fourteen appendices. These have been deleted from this abridgment. The other large saving has been found in the detail of the battle accounts; that, after all, comprises the one thing collectively that can be found elsewhere. What cannot be found elsewhere, what cannot not be duplicated, is Douglas Southall Freeman’s interpretations of the officers who made up the high command of the Army of Northern Virginia through four years of war. Those interpretations remain, intact and unchanged and as valid now as they were more than a half century ago.
While the pace of the narrative here inevitably is faster, the voice is still Freeman’s. Wherever bridging and paraphrases are required, they are constructed from Freeman’s words and phrases. Documents in many cases are extracted or summarized. The footnotes of course required recasting. They serve now simply as source notes and are found in the back of the book. Anything in the footnotes essential to the narrative has been worked into the text.
In the Notes and the Bibliography, certain manuscripts put into print since Lee’s Lieutenants was published are cited in their printed form. Two examples are the journal of Jedediah Hotchkiss and the letters of Dorsey Pender. The narrative has been corrected to reflect C. Van Woodward’s definitive edition of Mary Chesnut’s diary. Where practicable, the present ownership and location of cited manuscripts is indicated. It is hoped these alterations will make the work and its sources more accessible to students of the war and of the Confederacy.
Dramatis Personæ
Listed in substantially the order of their appearance in the narrative. Ages are those of the birthday nearest the outbreak of hostilities, April 1
861.
PIERRE GUSTAVE TOUTANT BEAUREGARD
Professional soldier, “Hero of Sumter,” he comes to Virginia with high reputation easily won during the initial hostilities at Charleston. He is forty-three, an admirable actor in a martial role, and he displays great self-confidence on the basis of limited experience with troops. From the outset he shows a lack of the sense of logistics and grossly overestimates the strategical combinations possible with green troops and inexperienced staff, but he has the good fortune to rout the enemy at Manassas, July 21, 1861. The aftermath of this victory brings to light some curious mental qualities and a singular infelicity in writing. All these combine to get him into trouble with the President and the War Department. Latin in look, he is of medium height and middle weight. His soldiers call him “Old Bory” and say he has the eye of a bloodhound. Lettered admirers insist he might have been the reincarnation of one of Napoleon’s marshals.
JOHN BANKHEAD MAGRUDER
“Prince John” he is to all his acquaintances, fifty-one, a professional soldier with some antebellum experience as an artillerist. He is handsome, perfectly uniformed, insistent, impatient, and theatrical, and he always appears at a gallop. Despite a slight lisp, he loves to talk and he writes ceaselessly to his superiors. A certain aptitude for independent command he possesses, and with it ability to bluff an adversary. After winning much applause for the first Confederate victory in Virginia, he gradually becomes entangled in a large military organization, which irks him unreasonably. In the end, when his great opportunity comes in the defense of Richmond, he shows a weakness not uncommon in war—an excited, overzealous desire to do all his work in person.
DANIEL HARVEY HILL
Former professional soldier, educator, textbook author, and distinguished Presbyterian layman, age forty, Hill has an accidental spine injury and an exceedingly sharp tongue. In looks he is cadaverous and has haunting eyes. He is in combat as capable as in camp he is critical. Off duty he is unpretending. His judgment of men always runs to an extreme. In the days after Malvern Hill there are indications that he lacks some quality of leadership. It is not so much a lack of control of his critical and sometimes gloomy temperament as it is a disgust for routine administrative duty and a singular unwillingness to make important decisions off the field. He increases his reputation as a combat officer but barely escapes disaster at South Mountain in Maryland, where the full responsibility rests on him. It is his fate—not unusual in war—to be denied the service he magnificently performed and to be assigned unwelcome duty for which he has no aptitude. He leaves the scene of his Virginia successes and returns once and briefly in 1864.
ROBERT SELDEN GARNETT
A solitary, professional soldier, age forty-one, of intellectual stock, wholly devoted to his profession, frozen by grief to seeming austerity, but regarded as a leader of great capacity and high promise, he passes from the stage early in the first act of this tragedy.
JOSEPH EGGLESTON JOHNSTON
He considers himself the ranking officer of the United States army who joins the Confederacy and he resolves that he shall be so accepted. About him, at fifty-four years of age, are some magnetic and winning qualities which make his friends and most of his subordinates devoted to him. He has, also, unmistakable strategical sense, though doubts concerning his administrative capacity and his attention to detail gradually accumulate. Early he acquires a grievance which embitters all his dealings with the administration. Johnston is alarmed, also, to discover how readily secrets of military importance leak out, and probably for this reason he is excessively reserved in dealing with the President and the War Department. His peculiarities clash with those of the commander-in-chief until his acts are hampered and his response to orders or to suggestions is unpredictable. A difficult and touchy subordinate he is, though a generous and kindly superior—in sum, a military contradiction and a temperamental enigma. In appearance he is small, soldierly, and graying, with a certain gamecock jauntiness.
NATHAN GEORGE EVANS
Of the devil-may-care type of soldier, he is age thirty-seven, bold, reckless, schooled in Indian fighting. Savage in appearance until he smiles, he has one fine scene and then leaves the stage, to return for a time in the late summer of 1862. His nickname is “Shanks.”
GUSTAVUS WOODSON SMITH
Street commissioner of New York City, former army engineer and private engineering contractor, age thirty-nine, Smith was a somewhat late arrival on the battlefield. Bulky, occasionally frowning, and always determined to impress, he is an assured administrator who maintains suavely pleasant relations with his superiors and subordinates and enjoys high rank and reputation though he is little experienced with troops. To his intimates he is “G.W.” There is a suggestion of politics in his eminence. Somewhat pompously he proceeds to his first great hour of responsibility, at Seven Pines, and then collapses mysteriously. Upon his recovery it is soon apparent that the administration has lost faith in his abilities and intends to assign him to quiet sectors. He resents this. Although he does not meet the requirements of even a minor mission in North Carolina, he raises a storm because he is not made a lieutenant general. When he is put off with assuaging words, he is provoked to tender his resignation, which President Davis gratefully and caustically accepts. Smith is seen no more in the Army of Northern Virginia.
THOMAS JONATHAN JACKSON
A mediocre teacher at the Virginia Military Institute and a former professional soldier, age thirty-seven, profoundly and, some say, fanatically religious, Jackson had a precise regard for discipline and army regulations. A man of contrasts so complete, he appears one day a Presbyterian deacon who delights in theological discussion and, the next, a reincarnated Joshua. He lives by the New Testament and fights by the Old. Almost six feet in height and weighing about 175 pounds, he has blue eyes, a brown beard, and a commonplace, somewhat rusty appearance. His students called him “Tom Fool Jackson.” To his soldiers he is “Stonewall” or “Old Blue Light” and then “Old Jack.” From the first scene he grows in importance until he becomes the hero of the drama, and then, abruptly, he fails in a climactic hour and raises a question as to whether he can work in harness. After moving against Pope in semi-independent command, Lee joins him and he develops incredibly and gives by his brilliant obedience to orders the unqualified answer to the ugly questions asked after the Seven Days. His are the most shining of the army’s achievements during the period of its greatest prowess. He wins first place professionally among Lee’s lieutenants and in popular reputation exceeds his chief; but in army administration he is not uniformly successful. Perhaps because of his stern conceptions of duty, he is exacting of his subordinates. The result is a continuing bitter quarrel with A. P. Hill and inability to find men who fulfill his standards of command. Although he always is marching or winning a battle or preparing for another, he cannot forget the home he has not visited in two years or the baby he has never seen. In the spring of 1863 he does not attempt to conceal his satisfaction at having his family visit him. After that comes what the Greeks would have termed apotheosis.
JAMES LONGSTREET
He first seeks staff appointment as paymaster, the position he had held in the United States army, though he is a graduate of West Point. He receives line commission and soon displays administrative capacity, power to win the respect of his subordinates, and a calm imperturbability in battle. Until an epidemic kills three of his children, he is a somewhat gay comrade; thereafter he is absorbed in his duty. Blunt and roughly bantering, he is not ill-natured. In height he is about 5 feet 10½ inches, age forty. He is slightly deaf, but a dignified, impressive man, known to his soldiers as “Old Pete.” If he is not brilliant in strategy or in conversation, he is solid and systematic. Ambitious he is, also, but not disposed to pick quarrels. The secret of his power is his incredible nervous control. He never gets tired. As the senior lieutenant general and commander of the First Corps, his opportunities are not so numerous nor so dazzling as Jackson’s. During a period of
ten months, except for one afternoon near Manassas, he does not have to fight an offensive battle. This experience may have spoiled him, may have led him to think that if he chooses a good position and remains there, an impatient enemy will attack and give him all the advantage of the defensive. Nobody seems aware of this at the time. In Lee’s eyes, Longstreet remains what he called his stout lieutenant after Sharpsburg—my “war horse.” Longstreet is dependable, solid, an excellent tactician. Stonewall Jackson’s death then leaves him first in reputation among Lee’s lieutenants. He is beguiled by circumstances into thinking himself a strategist as well as an executive officer. His failure at Gettysburg is one result of his mistake concerning his aptitudes. Sent to the Army of Tennessee, he is disillusioned and embittered. Slowly he loses faith in victory, but he unflinchingly returns to his corps after a wound received in his great hour. At the end he stands by his chief and says, “General, unless he offers us honorable terms, come back and let us fight it out!”
RICHARD STODDERT EWELL
From graduation at the Military Academy a trooper, and for most of his career as a soldier, an Indian fighter, at forty-four years old he is, at his quarters, an unsoldierly person, bald, pop-eyed, and long-beaked, with a piping voice that seems to fit his appearance as a strange, unlovely bird; he probably has stomach ulcers and chronically complains of headaches, sleepless nights, and indigestion; but he quickly shows that he has a chivalrous, fighting spirit along with a sharp tongue and an odd sense of humor. He acquires friends unnumbered. They are not quite so irreverent as the soldiers who style him “Old Bald Head.” For three weeks of brilliant performance he is the character sui generis of Lee’s army. Then he loses a leg. For months he is an impatient invalid. His career has a curious sequence—wound, promotion, marriage. When he, as notorious a bachelor as Jubal Early, returns to the army with a wife, he is cheered and she is welcomed. Soon there is a suspicion that he is changed and not altogether for the better. It may be difficult for even a lieutenant general to have two commanders. He dazzles and then dismays the army during the advance into Pennsylvania. After exploits that would have added to the fame of Stonewall himself, he loses the power of decision. He cannot exercise the discretion allotted him, though he often has displayed sound judgment when operating alone or under Old Jack, who always said, “Do this.” Dick Ewell’s decline is of the body and of the intellect. His spirit is as firm as ever.
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