A public man is only half known, unless viewed through his
private, personal character. Next to
knowing a great man personally, is to know him through a faithful account of
him by one who did know him personally.
Boyhood
of
General J.E.B. Stuart
by David French Boyd
“Do you know my son Jeems?” was asked me by an old Virginia
gentleman at the Grayson Springs in the summer of 1845.
I had not then the honor of knowing “Jeems.” He was, however, at the time at Wytheville,
my home; and his father naturally supposed that I had met him. But soon I did have the honor of his
acquaintance, and for four years [illegible] we were chums – schoolmates and
playfellows, and always till his death intimate friends.
The great Virginia cavalryman was born in Patrick County,
Virginia, in 1833 – the youngest son of the honorable Archibald Stuart, but
from his twelfth year he lived with his brother, William Alexander Stuart, in
Wythe County. He was named for his
uncle (by marriage) James Ewell Brown, who was the judge of our district. These initials gave him his popular name,
“Jeb,” at West Point and in the army.
As a boy in Virginia, he was alwas known as Jim (or “Jeems”) Stuart.
The original home of the Stuarts was in Augusta County, at
Stuart’s Draft, near Staunton. They
were of the old Scotch-Irish stock of the Valley. And what men has this Valley produced! … Independence, sturdy self-reliance, rugged honesty, courage,
strong common sense, energy, fortitude and force of character, with kindness of
heart and a devout Christian spirit, seemed to be breathed in the air of the
Valley. Plain, strong, natural race,
were the original settlers, whose sense of justice and brotherly love was the
law of the land – and their only law.
…
The farm, in Wythe County, immediately adjoining that in which
young Stuart passed so much of his life, was the home of John C. Calhoun’s
father. The old citizens used to say
that Calhoun himself was born there – and not in South Carolina. The Cove farm three miles north of Stuart’s
boyhood home, was settled by Davy Crockett’s father; and Crocketts by the
hundreds live around there yet – with this magnificent physique, and warm,
generous hearts – and as good fighters as ever old Davy was. Wythe County is noted for its large, tall
men. It is the blood of the Crocketts,
the Grahams and the Holstons that did it.
…
I have thus spoken at length of Stuart’s boyhood home – his
environment, and the atmosphere he breathed.
They could but help make the hero.
But, besides the [illegible] and inspiring traditions of his home, there
was an advantage of that day, for a boy, if which I wish to speak. It hardly exists now. And not [illegible] a man’s native land –
its topography, climate, traditions and people among whom he was reared, is not
to know him.
…
Such a mother had Stuart; to her was he most indebted for
what he was; intellectual, noble, courtly as was his father. Psychologists, and other [illegible]
observer of men, tell us that we get our mental faculties from our mothers, and
our morals from our fathers. This
accounts for some of us being so bad.
But Stuart was an exception – blessed in both father and mother, and was
good in morals, as well as strong in intellect and refined in manners.
…
Stuart, as a boy, was of florid complection, light hair and
blue eyes, with strong features, and pleasant, [illegible] face; above medium
size, and somewhat inclined to be corpulent.
He was rather an ugly boy: at West Point he was nicknamed “Beauty,” though
he became a fine-looking man. He grew
rapidly; was loose-jointed, gawky; still of great activity and strength. Like a stringly, yearling colt on a
bluegrass pasture, the observing eye might see in him a future winner. He was full of life and fun; loved to be
outdoors, and to romp and play. He was
fond of horseback riding and hunting. A
fearless rider, the wilder and more spirited the horse, the more enjoyment for
him. He was an exceptionally fine
rifle-shot, and with what glee in the early spring, as the robins would hop up
on the fresh-ploughed furrow-ridge, would he crack their heads off! This to him was the poetry of
rifle-shooting. Healthy and robust, he
could endure any amount of bodily strain and fatigue. He was of sanguine temperament and buoyant spirits. Like all such boys, he was fond of fun,
frolic and fight: it was but letting off steam – some of the over-full force
and life, which coursed in his vigorous body.
As his body, so his mind. It was clear, strong and quick –
attentive and retentive, of great powers of concentration, and rather
imaginative or [illegible]– enjoying the romantic and dramatic in life or
literature. Plutarch’s Lives,
Shakespeare and Milton were favorite books with him. He was an excellent student, and could stand much close, hard
study. He loved to excel – loved
applause; showed great energy, pluck and persistence, and stood high in his
classes.
His over-sensitiveness – ever more than ready to take
offense at real or supposed injustice or slight, made his judgment at times
appear faulty, and his ways rather quixotic.
But in the face of real danger, the greater it was, the better control
he had of his faculties. Then was he
full of resource, self-reliant, self-confident, bold, aggressive – and a
dangerous boy to tackle.
He was in every sense the soul of honor – sincere, frank,
truthful, scorning everything fake, mean or low, and especially did he despise
a man who could do a mean thing. He was
morally pure – free from all the vices, great and small, with which average
young humanity is afflicted.
He was neat in person and dress, but never seemed to care
whether his clothes fitted him or not; and for foppish manners or effeminacy,
he had a contempt.
Though he was never rude, vulgar or impolite, yet was he so
thoroughly boyish and natural – free and easy, that he may be said to have
lacked dignity. If dignity means
high character and self-command, then was he dignified; but if dignity means [illegible], majestic bearing and quiet repose, then he didn’t have it – at
least, never as a boy, nor do I believe even as a man, for he was always
a-going, or making a fuss. He was too
natural to be dignified as the world calls dignified. He was simply a bundle of never-tiring,
noisy energy – never at rest or quiet, with a great big heart that loved
everybody and everything that breathed.
Nature made him akin to all animal life; and he thoroughly loved
nature. To him, merely to live was a
joy.
Pure nature is passionate, breaks out blindly with the ardor
of a child; obeying only the impulse of the moment. Check, or contradiction, to it is like the red rag to the bull;
it makes nature mad. Stuart never liked
to be checked or contradicted – never liked to be thwarted or opposed: it
excited him; it made him mad – and stronger! He was a born leader – naturally striving for the top, as the
eagle soaring in the sky, to find the greater freedom from restraint, and the
greater power to command. He was ambitious
as a boy at play, as a student at school, as a soldier in the army, and loved
success and praise. He wanted no one to
excel him; he strove to outrank all – a very laudable ambition, especially in
one who accorded to everyone his merit, and in generous rivalry loved everyone.
Of great faith in himself; believing himself equal to any
position he might attain; proud of honors conferred upon him, and delighting in
the ceremonials of place and preferment; yet he was not vain, self-assertive,
or arrogant, but modest withal. He was
a noble, generous, chivalrous boy, as he was a noble, generous, chivalrous man.
But he had one little weakness – the result again of his
naturalness. In the heat and glow of
play – at the critical moment, were he and his side defeated, say, in a
game of ball, how he would sometimes lash this or that poor innocent fellow for
being the cause of his defeat!
‘Twas his imagination at work.
He seemed to fancy that somebody had not done his part. The first fellow he got to, was the unlucky
one: on him he poured his vial of wrath.
But the excitement over, the sting of defeat abating, and his sense of
justice returning, how like a man would he acknowledge the wrong done, and beg
pardon! This trait, I am told, he had
on field of battle. It could but be so;
for what is natural in the boy, is apt to crop out in the man; and, in Stuart’s
case, age and experience seemed to modify but little the naturalness of the
boy. He was a boy when I knew him as
well; he was a boy-man, when he wore the general’s stars. He was the same natural, happy disposition,
whether at play or at church, on where – with its fiery breath, “the dreadful
cannon screamed the loud halloo of death.”
He was fond of the society of ladies; and especially did he
enjoy the company of the more intelligent and refined ladies beyond his own
age. They had a great charm for him; he
loved to talk with them freely. In his
own family, and among his own female relatives, he was fortunate in this
respect. His mother and sisters were
highly gifted women; and his cousin, Miss Jane Brown, in whose company most of
his boyhood was spent, was admittedly one of the sweetest talkers, and most
entertaining, in all Virginia. Of a
mind of wondrous sprightliness, widely and deeply read in history and
literature, especially fond of Shakespeare and the Bible, the spirit of which
had become a part of her, I well remember the charm of her conversation. She was a queenly woman – high, commanding,
stately, whether at the table or in the saloon, at the dinner or in the dance;
she could talk of stately matters with bewitching wisdom, or play her smiling,
classic wit or humor like a fairy, and command men to do her homage, our [illegible] to dignity, sweetness and grace.
[Here Flora inserted a note: “Are you not mistaken? My recollection of Cousin Jane is that she was
small – not over 5 feet tall.”]
With these surroundings and influences, how could young
Stuart – his instincts and aspirations well in accord, grow up other than a
self-respecting, high-toned, courteous, well-informed, refined gentleman? He had “high-erected thoughts seated in the
heart of courtesy.”
“But now those white unblemish’d manners, whence the fabling
poets took their golden age, and found no more amid these iron times.”
Stuart and his brothers were all very fond of their mother
(nee Pannill); and as soon as the little fellows reached the age of dissention
[?] and division, she made each and every one of them promise never to drink a
drop of intoxicating liquor of any kind.
This promise all of them faithfully kept. No man ever knew the dashing trooper – boy or man, to “drink a
drop”! He was, however, very social and jovial – loved to be with friends,
loved especially, as I have said, the company of ladies, and loved to dance and
to sing. Boy and man, he was always
a-singing – that happy, joyous nature of his.
And good Lord, how he could sing negro songs and Methodist hymns!
Though he could play on no instrument, he was passionately
fond of music – fondest of the banjo, and delighted to sing and dance to
it. In Virginia, there was a noted
family of banjo-players – Joe Sweeney and his brothers. Some yet living remember old Joe Sweeney,
and how proud he was that he had played before Queen Victoria! Well, to anticipate somewhat, it happened
that young Dick Sweeney was a private in one of Stuart’s cavalry
regiments. Stuart had him detailed at
his headquarters; and every blessed thing Dick Sweeney did, was to ride along
after Stuart, banjo strapped to saddle – his friends – the Yankees –
permitting; and when they would reach a neighborhood of pretty girls, there
would be a night of it – banjo, dance and song!
Still Stuart was a pious, Christian man – trained in Sunday
school, and a regular church attendant.
He felt it no wrong, however, to give expression to his joyous spirit in
song and rhythmic motion. He but obeyed
the prompting of his nature. One need
not be formal, or unnatural, to be religious.
The test at last of a Christian is kindly feeling, high thinking and
noble doing – love of God and fellow-man.
And whatever else Stuart’s nature may have prompted him to do, it never
allowed him to wrong his neighbor, or to fail in reverence for his Maker or
love for his Saviour. This brilliant
soldier was a beautiful Christian, view him in any light you will.
But to return to his boyhood.
Our first schoolmaster, in common, was Mr. Richard T.
Mathews; next we had Mr. P.S. Buckingham – both lawyers, who supplemented their
fees with wielding the rod of correction and enlightenment. Mr. Mathews was a refined, cultivated
gentleman, of an old aristocratic family – his maternal grandfather, General
Alexander Smythe, long member of Congress, and for a time commander of the
American army on the Canada frontier in the war of 1812. We were all very fond of Mr. Mathews. He was so kind and sympathetic, so well-bred
and dignified. But once he lost his
temper with me, and was, I think, unjust to me. However, as the case was prima facie against me, I could
not well complain that he would not try the case at all, but proceeded at once
to execute sentence.
Jim Stuart and I were playing marbles at recess in the
gravelly lane back of the school. He
never tried harder in after years to win a fight than he did as a boy to win a
game of marbles. His whole soul was in
the game; and when he would begin to lose, he would get mad, and rather
domineering; and apt as not there would be a fight. Well, on this occasion, I beat him. He accused me of cheating – and, maybe, I did a little;
anyway, he had to hatch up some excuse to ease his feelings for getting beat;
and the first thing I knew he began beating me. He was somewhat older, and considerably the larger boy; but I was
the more active, and had to keep my wits about me, to keep from getting a good
beating. So in the melee, I caught him
by the hair; jerked his head down, and at the same time gathering up a handful
of sharp gravels, struck him – gravels, hand and all on the head. The blood spurted out in a dozen little
streams. Stuart was scared, and so was
I – at the sight of the blood. He ran
off to the school-master crying. Soon
the bell rang to come back to books.
When I entered the school-room, there was Jim all bloody; and there was
Mr. Mathews with a handful of switches.
He wouldn’t let me say a word in my defense. He wore me and the switches out together. But what hurt the worse: Jim meanwhile
finding he was only scratched a little, was off in his corner a-grinning! He knew that he really was in the wrong, and
in his manly, generous way acknowledged it afterwards. He was as ready to acknowledge a wrong, as
to resent a wrong. We were all the
better friends for our fight. Fighting
is good for boys – as good as playing, and just as natural. Let them fight; it makes them better men.
Our next school-master, Mr. Buckingham, was a queer specimen
of humanity. A good teacher – one of
the best I ever had, and a fair lawyer; he was the son of a poor, humble
Methodist preacher in Montgomery County.
The boy attracted the attention of Hon. Ballard Preston – afterwards
member of Congress and secretary of the Navy under President Taylor. Mr. Preston educated him, and made a lawyer
of him. But Buckingham was vain and
foolish; ashamed of his humble origin, and tried to conceal it, or ignore it;
and being about the size of Mr. Preston, he tried as much as possible to
look like him, and act like him – side-whiskers, walk and all – even to aping
Mr. Preston’s tone of voice – and his deafness! I never knew such perfect gratitude (?) to a
benefactor. It was funny. But he was a superb teacher. No teacher was ever more faithful; none, in
my experience, more successful. I
remember his peculiarity: a few short lessons every day, and those few so
thoroughly learned, in every possible way in which the subjects could be considered,
that they ever became a part of ourselves.
Stuart and I were grounded by him in Latin, Greek and algebra. For two years, we had the good fortune to be
under his instruction. He also paid
great attention to composition and declamation, in which Stuart excelled.
But Stuart and Buckingham didn’t always agree. Both were high-tempered, and occasionally
there was a row – with Buckingham getting the best of it. He punished severely. Once I remember – after Jim had had a severe
case of typhoid fever, and all his hair had come out – eyebrows, lashes and all
– he was ugly then, sure enough – how funny he looked, and ludicrously cried
out in his out-of-joint, “gosling” voice, when Buckingham was punishing him.
I can but remember another incident at this school. One May morning Jim and I were basking in
the sun on top of a neighboring chicken coop, and getting our Latin
lesson. Jim got his first, and then
began dancing around and singing. I
asked him to stop – he was disturbing me; he did stop, but only to grab me by
the foot, and give me a whirl; and down off that chicken-coop I went,
head-foremost on the ground! He was
badly frightened, and I badly stunned only.
When I came to – well, I can see him now bending over me with his
auscious[?], sympathetic look, and hear his earnest loving words of apology and
regret: “Oh, I didn’t mean to do it!
You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.” How he did pet me!
Such was Stuart. At
times, his sense of fun, or adventure, would bubble over – take complete
possession of him, and he would lose all sight of danger to himself and
others. Such he often was on the field
of battle. And no one knew this
peculiarity of his better than himself.
As illustrations, I remember one day coming across him and his staff;
and seeing an old friend of mine, and a relative of Stuart’s, with him, I
said;” What! Are you here?” Stuart spoke up laughingly: “Yes, I’ll give
him a chance soon to lose his head!”
To use his own words, he frequently bit off more Yankees
than he could chew! [Flora’s
annotation: “Please omit – a thing may be said that does not read well.”] Yet, he always fought his way out.
In 1849, Stuart entered Emory and Henry College, the
Methodist college of the Holston Conference, Dr. Collins, President. The college was noted for classical learning
and oratory. In no school in Virginia
were the literary societies so valuable an adjunct to the training proper of
the college. It was, indeed an
intellectual treat to attend the commencement exercises, and listen to the
contest for the orator’s medal. It was the
great occasion of the year in our part of Virginia.
Stuart was distinguished there for his classical scholarship
and oratory. He was a natural-born
orator as well as a natural-born fighter.
As a lawyer and public speaker, he could but have attained high
distinction. He was descended from a
long line of able lawyers, orators and soldiers: his father, member of Congress
and officer in the War of 1812, and his great grandfather, Major Alexander
Stuart, distinguished for his gallantry at the battle of Guilford Court House,
was wounded and captured by the British, but soon made his escape. He was also nearly related [Flora’s annotation:
“but ‘half-blood’”] to Hon. Alexander H.H. Stuart, member of Congress
and secretary of the interior under President Fillmore, and among Virginia’s
ablest public men – one of her most profound jurists, finished orators and
accomplished gentlemen.
Yes, was Jeb Stuart a blooded nag – high-strung,
game, spirited, gentlemanly. Every
thought, act and instinct but showed it.
General Sedgwick of the Federal army said of him, that “he was the
finest cavalryman ever ‘foaled’ on the American continent.” [Flora’s annotation: “I have always shrunk
from that speech of Gen. Sedgwick. He
was a coarse man -- & I object to the quotation.”] I – who perhaps knew him best before his
entrance at West Point, now say that had Stuart never become a soldier, he
would, doubtless, have been one of Virginia’s most distinguished civilian sons. It was in him – in his blood. He had the talent and the ambition, the
driving force and the endurance, magnetism as well as enthusiasm, and better –
the character; and no matter in what line of life, his taste might have led
him, he would have been among the very first.
His tastes were literary as well as soldierly: tam Minerva quam
Marte. He was a great reader of history
and literature, and was better educated when he went to West Point than the
average graduate on leaving there. The
average West Pointer knows little but mathematics, and not much of that. He is driven too rapidly over the course to
digest it properly. As a literary
school, West Point is nothing.
It was Stuart’s intention before the War, to quit the army
and become a lawyer. He was, indeed,
reading law while in the army. [Flora’s annotation: “He was examined in Law while stationed at Fort Riley, Kan., in 1859-60 –
and passed a very creditable examination.”]
Stuart could hardly be at Emory and Henry, or anywhere, long
without something out of the usual happening.
At a camp-meeting at the Chilhouse Springs, near the college, something did
happen – a “difficulty” with a watermelon man. Stuart took umbrage at something the fellow did or said; and the
battle of the watermelons began. The
students rallied to Stuart, and the country-people to the watermelon
vendor. Melons and rinds flew thick and
hard. A number were put hors de combat
– knocked down and bruised, but no serious injury done except to the watermelon
man. He lost his melons.
But Stuart was never in a “difficulty” such as the
little Texas boy defined the word at school: “Where one feller shoots another,
and t’other feller cuts him with a knife.”
However, it must be admitted that, a few years later, he was in some
rather serious “difficulties” of the Texas kind – and no small “difficulties”
either.
From the junior class at Emory and Henry College, Stuart
went, in 1850, to West Point. From that
time on, he was more or less a public character. On this part of his life, I now touch but little. His accomplished adjutant general, Major
H.B. McClellan – cousin of General George B. McClellan, has ably written his
military life. It is his boy-life, and
his character then, that I have wished to present.
I had preserved, up to the war, a number of his letters –
and a charming letter-writer he was – mainly of the period of his youth, which
would give much light, and be interesting now; but unfortunately, in 1863, my
dear old mother, to whom I had entrusted these, and other valuable letters,
hearing that the Federal army was heading her way, imagined womanlike that she
was the objective point, and to save my precious letters from desecration, as
she feared, she burnt them up! So, I
have had to draw on my memory, and my heart, for what I now say of the boyhood
and youth of this brilliant young man. … It was my good fortune to know
intimately, before the war, two of the most brilliant men of the war: one, the
subject of this sketch; the other, the great Federal General – Sherman, under
whom I had served for two years in a civil capacity. I knew both well, and loved both – Stuart like a brother, Sherman
like a father. I am indebted to them
for happy memories, noble examples, lasting benefits. It is a proud satisfaction that I enjoyed their intimate
friendship. A public man is only half
known, unless viewed through his private, personal character. Next to knowing a great man personally, is
to know him through a faithful account of him by one who did know him
personally. I have tried, therefore to
do my humble part, for the youth of our country, in telling of both these
distinguished men, just as I knew them in the intimacy of unreserved personal
intercourse. Both were educated at West
Point, and officers of the U.S. Army; but bred in different civilizations --
North and South, and looking from different standpoints at the relations
between the States and the Union, they saw their duty differently; but each, as he saw it, did his duty
manfully. Both are noble examples of
American manhood, greatness and patriotism.
General Stuart was happily married, before the war, to the
daughter of General Philip St. George Cooke, then Lieutenant Colonel of 1st
U.S. Cavalry [Flora crossed this out and inserted "Colonel of 2nd U.S.
Dragoons"].
Mrs. Stuart, and a son and daughter survive. For many years she has been the accomplished
and successful Principal of the Virginia Female Institute at Staunton. In thus heroically battling her way, alone
and unaided, through life, has she shown the independence, self-reliance and
indomitable spirit of her distinguished husband. Tel General, telle Madame!
As fate would have it, General Cooke, Stuart's
father-in-law, commanded McClellan's cavalry on the Chickahominy, while his
son-in-law commanded Lee's cavalry. It
was then that Stuart made his famous ride around the entire circuit of
McClellan's army -- his right flank literally bearing on McClellan all the way
around, so confined was the ground within which only could Stuart move.
I was in the Infantry of Jackson's Corps, and would
occasionally meet with General Stuart.
He was the same genial, pleasant boy at the head of Lee's cavalry that I
used to know back in Wythe County at school.
His boyishness would stick out even on grave occasions. I remember at the Second Manassas, when
Jackson was then between Pope and McClellan, and Longstreet thirty six hours,
or more, behind him -- a Federal corps having checked him for a time at
Thoroughfare Gap. Ewell had held back
Hooker as long as he could at Bristoe Station, and had fallen back on Manassas
Junction.
Times looked squally; all felt the seriousness of the
situation. Wonder if Lee himself could
have gotten out of that scrape, as Old Jack did! Going near the Depot, I recognized Stuart on the platform --
fighting jacket on, black plume in his hat, and literally dancing -- as on the
old chicken coop years before, the old Virginia jig: "First upon the
heeltap, then upon the toe; every time I turn around, I jump, Jim
Crow!" Excusably, I thought it a
good time to "see" him; but as I drew near, there was the old Presbyterian
Elder -- Stonewall -- half-sitting, half-leaning on the head of a barrel -- old
hat pulled down over his eyes, arms folded, and evidently in deep
meditation. I stopped. It wouldn't do to disturb him -- that
strange, silent man, whom all put their faith in, yet none understood, and all
-- except Stuart, stood in awe of: The man who thought it a sin to read a
letter from his wife on Sunday, but all right to kill 10,000 men on
Sunday! Oh, no; I didn't dare disturb
him then, when all those mighty hosts were closing in on him and his
little army -- to crush us, and he our only hope! I stopped, but kept looking.
Stuart seemed to be reporting the situation, for he was the eye and ear
of the army; Jackson only occasionally saying a word, and never looking up;
Stuart all the while hopping about, spurs a-jingling.
There they were -- Puritan and Cavalier! Fine natures both, but of totally different
types. Jackson was not of puritan
blood; but he was of puritan character -- as much so as Cromwell. Naturally serious, meditative, combative --
his meditative character gave him moral rule, and his combative character gave
him moral force. Jackson looking within
upon sinful, helpless man was habitually grave and sad; Stuart looking without
upon smiling, lovely nature, was habitually joyous and glad. Danger made Jackson more thoughtful and
prayerful; it made Stuart more joyous and playful. Different both, yet both original: Each a law unto himself,
self-reliant, self-regulating. They
were never so strong and efficient, as when acting on their own [illegible] and
judgment, and in their own responsibility – off by themselves, depending solely
on themselves. Subordination, or
restraint, weakened their powers – clouded their genius. General Lee recognized this, and allowed
them both the utmost latitude, or discretion.
And did ever a general have two such lieutenants? They were a mighty power in the skilful hand
of Lee; yet greatest when not under him, or anyone.
Though so different in temperament, habits and ways of
looking at life – one only in purity of character, lofty purpose and
devotion to duty. Jackson and Stuart
attracted each other, and seemed instinctively to feel that they were the
complements, the one of the other, and were personally very fond of each
other. Jackson unbent to Stuart more
perhaps than to any one else in the army, and Stuart, more than any one else,
was free and easy with him. Their
little courtesies were marked and graceful.
Just before the battle of Fredericksburg some ladies of
Baltimore sent Stuart a superb new uniform; but it didn’t fit him. He presented it to Jackson, who – strange to
say of him, who cared so little for what he wore, or how he looked – first
appeared in it on the morning of that battle.
His men could scarcely believe their eyes. What! Old Jack in a
brand-new uniform all be-starred and be-laced!
Impossible! His troops always
cheered him when they caught sight of him in camp or battle. It seemed to abash him as it would a little
child; and he would put spurs to his horse and gallop away. This morning, when his men recognized their
idol under his gilded toggery, they cheered all the louder, and he dashed along
his battle line all the faster, till heaven and earth fairly shook with the
“Old Yell.” Little did the brave boys
in blue, the thousands and tens of thousands, drawn up in that fatal
butcher-pen just below, know why that mighty shout went up. And little did Jackson know: he wasn’t
giving thought to uniform! No
doubt he thought the cheering but excessive enthusiasm of his men.
Stuart that day
amused himself stealing artillery – levying on all idle guns he could find,
till he had forty pieces. Cavalry-man
as he was, he was very fond of artillery.
These forty guns, he placed on Burnside’s left flank between Hamilton’s
Crossing and the River, and did frightful execution. But he, personally, had a narrow escape. A piece of shell cut off a handful of his
heavy beard! He was always in battle
too reckless of his own person.
Next day, there was a flag of truce to bury the dead and
care for the wounded. During the truce,
officers and men of the two armies mingled freely; and it was a touching sight:
The meeting like brothers of the old army officers – Confederate and Federal,
there on that blood-drenched field, in the midst of the tens of thousands of
dead and dying. The meeting between
General Stuart and General Sumner, his old colonel of the 1st U.S.
Cavalry, was particularly touching.
They were very fond of each other.
It was Jackson’s custom to have religious services held in
his camp, whenever practicable. These
services were usually held at his headquarters; and thousands – officers and
men, attended. The last Sabbath before
the battle of Chancellorsville, and the last public religious service Jackson
ever attended, there was a mighty throng there to listen to his chaplain, Dr.
Lacy – and to see Jackson in his simple, quiet, impressive attitude of prayer
and devotion. On such occasions,
Jackson was the central, magnetic figure, ranking every one – even General Lee,
as the true, earnest, pious man of God; just as he is bound in time, and
history, to become the great central figure of the Civil War. His unique religious character, with his
military genius and tragic death, will make him so. Man may be wicked, but he [illegible] righteousness; his ideal,
and idol, at last, is the real, pious man.
Virtue alone is lasting. True
manliness must centre on Godliness.
It was a lovely April morning, when Jackson’s last great
Sabbath meeting was held. General Lee
and most of his generals were there – Stuart among them. The devout chaplain prayed for us and the
South – nay, even for our enemies, the army in our front and the peoples of the
North – that all might have the light to see the right, and the force to do
it. Then came the hymns, sung by the
assembled thousands of brave Christian men, who knelt only to God – pouring
forth a mighty volume of sacred song, soul-stirring Southern song, softly and
devoutly rolling heavenward in praise of their maker – Stuart’s rich, deep
voice plainly heard. Nothing like
Jackson’s religious army meetings since the days of Cromwell.
Could the Federal Army, and Mr. Lincoln, have been there
that Sabbath, to join in those services, the war would have ended then
and there! Why should not such
men – Americans all, dwell together in brotherhood and peace – forever?
Stuart, as I have said, was a Methodist [Flora's annotation: “Gen. Stuart’s mother & four of his sisters were Episcopalians,
& in 1859 he was confirmed by Bishop Hawkes of Mo. in Christ’s Church St.
Louis.”] and had been so from his boyhood. [Flora crossed this out and wrote
“17th year.”] What a
Methodist preacher he would have made!
Whitefield, nor Bascom, nor Moffatt could have surpassed him in
pulpit-oratory. And religious as
Jackson was – (believed to be the most religious man in the army, if not in our
whole country) for the religious spirit seemed to be the ruling force with him
in all he thought and did: I doubt if on that beautiful Sabbath morning, even
Jackson himself had religious fever more than Stuart. He was as earnest and sincere as Jackson. Jackson was sad and repressive;
Stuart joyous and demonstrative. The
one a Presbyterian, the other a Methodist [Flora, to drive home the point that Stuart was an Episcopalian, crossed out "Methodist" added an exclamation point] both ready for prayer or fight. They were men and Christians first, then
soldiers; yet always Christians. With
both: Deo duce, ferro comitante.”
The next Sabbath, how all was changed! Jackson lying mangled and dying at Chancellorsville
– killed by the men who had prayed and sung with him the Sabbath before; Stuart
singing again, ‘tis true, but leading Jackson’s corps into the battle – his
loud, clear voice ringing above the roar of the guns: “Old Joe Hooker, come out
of the Wilderness!”
Chancellorsville, not Gettysburg, was the turning point of
the War. There Jackson fell! I never knew what faith was, until I fell
under the spell of this wonderful man.
There is a force of faith in the spiritual world as there is a force of
gravity in the [illegible] world.
Jackson’s men followed him through faith, as through faith Christians
follow Jesus.
I left the Virginia Army after Chancellorsville, to go to
the Trans-Mississippi Department. At
Gordonsville, on my way, I met General Stuart.
He took me off to a log for a talk.
When I told him where I was going, he didn’t like it, and made me
promise, if things didn’t suit me out there, to let him know, and he would have
me assigned with him.
While we were sitting on the log talking, I noticed General
Asa Rogers of Loudoun, the state auditor, approaching – a huge bouquet in his
hand, and a bevy of pretty girls following.
In a neat, little speech, he presented the bouquet to General Stuart,
for the girls; and Stuart made one of his happy, appropriate replies. Then turning to me, he said: “Dave, you see
I am as fond of the girls as ever.”