Heroes IV—Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson
Lest you think that all my heroes are fictional, let’s jump
to a few historical figures. First off: one of the greatest (arguably) military
men the Americas ever produced: Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson. Much as it embarrasses me to admit it, I still haven't finished Dabney's defining biography of him after three years of on-and-off effort. But I will. In the meantime, I still know a few things.
Born in the backwoods of Virginia
in 1824, he survived becoming an orphan, brutal work, and poor schooling until
he entered West Point at the age of eighteen. There he displayed a
single-minded determination that was to mark the rest of his life, rising from
dead last in the academic rankings to seventeenth by graduation. His peers
later said that if studies had lasted another year, he would have made first
place. He immediately left to fight in the Mexican war as an artilleryman,
earning some recognition for a gallant defense at Chapultepec. He was assigned
to the Virginia Military Institute after the war and taught there. While he was
a terrible teacher—he memorized his lectures, recited them by rote, and never deviated
from them—he was a better churchman, and taught Sunday school to the black
slaves of Lexington. His first wife died here in childbirth.
When the war broke out, he
organized the 2nd, 4th, 5th, 27th and
33rd VA Regiments into a brigade he commanded. On July 21st,
1861—156 years ago to the day—he led them to immortality on the fields of
Manassas. General Bee attempted to rally his fleeing troops by shouting, “Look
at Jackson! There he stands like a stone wall. Rally behind the Virginians!”
Both the commander and the brigade would ever after bear the sobriquet “Stonewall.”
Afterwards came the triumphs that
built his legend: The Valley Campaign, Second Manassas, Chancellorsville. His
audacity, speed, and coolness under fire all became parts of an enduring story
that was almost a myth. His basic Calvinistic believe in divine providence gave
him no cause for fear, his solitary devotion to duty left him no time for
playing politics. There were the enemy, and it was his God-given, terrible duty
to destroy them until they laid down their arms. With his brilliance came all
the usual idiosyncrasies of genius—he always stayed bolt upright even in the
saddle to keep his organs in place; sucked lemons; tended to throw his left
hand out, palm upright, as he waged battles and implored divine providence; and
tended to throw the full weight of military court-martial at subordinates who
committed very minor offences. But his soldiers loved him and he won battles—the
two ultimate tributes to a fighting commander.
He died of pneumonia May 10th, 1863, eight days
after being mistakenly wounded by his own troops after his great triumph at
Chancellorsville. He had cemented his place in history in a little under two years. A great soldier, a devout Presbyterian, and a doting husband,
he remains an inspiration to me and many others in North and South alike.
