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"It was he, Stonewall Jackson, shot down in the darkness and by mistake by our own men!" "Was he hurt badly?" "One arm was shattered completely, and he was shot through the hand of the other." The moonlight shone on Harry's face just then, and the colonel, as he looked at him, drew in his breath with a deep gasp. "So bad as that!" he muttered. "I did not think our champion could fall."
Referring to the false rumors that were not only coming to our ears from these various sources, but even appearing in the Northern papers, I said: "That Lee will attempt to raid into the North, after the manner of 'Stonewall' Jackson, is possible, perhaps probable, but when he comes we shall hear of it before he wakes up President Lincoln to demand that the keys to the White House be turned over to 'Jeff' Davis.
First, they would die for those battle-flags and the cause they represented; second, they would die for one another, comrades, brethren! third, they would die for Stonewall Jackson! They lifted their voices for him now, gaunt and ragged troops with burning eyes. Stonewall Jackson! Stonewall Jackson! Virginia! Virginia! Virginia! the South! the South!
In front were Rodes's skirmishers, and Rodes's brigades formed the first line. The troops of Raleigh Colston made the second line, A. P. Hill's men the third. A battery four Napoleons were advanced; the other guns were coming up. The cavalry, with Stonewall Brigade supporting, took the Plank road, masking the actual movement. On the old turnpike Stonewall Jackson sat his horse beside Rodes.
Wellington, the Iron Duke, is reported to have said, "A man of fine Christian sensibilities is totally unfit for the position of soldier." But Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. Jackson prayed as they fought; in victory and in defeat alike they turned towards God. Jackson, who won the name of "Stonewall," might have been the son of old Ironsides himself.
He foresaw the long march through the thickets of the Wilderness, Stonewall forming the line of battle in the deep roads late in the evening, almost in sight of Hooker's camp, the sudden rush of his brigades and then the terrible battle far into the night. He shook himself. It was uncanny. The past was the past. Dreams were thin and vanished stuff. Once more he was in the present and saw clearly.
It made a low thunder, so many soldiers' voices. Always, on these nights, in some glade or meadow, with some regiment or other, there was found the commander of the 2d Corps. Beneath the cathedral roof of the forest, or beneath the stars in the open, sat Stonewall Jackson, worshipping the God of Battles. Undoubtedly he was really and deeply happy.
Tom's smile would have stamped him as the son of the grim old ex-artilleryman in any court of inquiry. "Did your old general ever go into battle with the idea that he was bound to be licked, pappy?" he asked. "Who? Stonewall Jackson? Well, I reckon not, son." "Neither shall we," said Tom laconically. "We are going in to win.
Sometimes the skiff is named after its owner's wife or sweetheart, as "Maggie G.," "Polly H.," or from the rustic goddesses, "Pomona," "Flora," "Ceres;" on the Kentucky shore, we have noted "Stonewall Jackson," and "Robert E. Lee," and one Ohio boat was labeled "Little Phil."
The quiet home at Lexington reveals more of the real man than the camps and conflicts of the Civil War, and no picture of Stonewall Jackson would be complete without some reference to his domestic life. "His life at home," says his wife, "was perfectly regular and systematic.
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