April 26,
I was hesitant to read a book about Stonewall Jackson for the simple reason that I hate the guy. At this point, I’m sure you’re saying, But Matt, what about all those Hitler books you read? You don’t like him, do you? And you make a good point. I do read a lot of Hitler books. Arguably too many. And I do not like Hitler. The difference, though, is that a Hitler book is generally not supportive of the man. Meanwhile, a Stonewall Jackson book runs a strong chance of being a fawning hagiography.
(This is a good time to state unequivocally: I’m not comparing Stonewall Jackson to Adolf Hitler. No one is like Hitler except Hitler).
It was with this anti-Jackson mindset that I read James Robertson’s massive one-volume life of Jackson, imaginatively titled Stonewall Jackson: The Man, the Soldier, the Legend. Generally, as a life rule, I tend to avoid books with subtitles featuring “the [blank], the [blank], the [blank]," since I find them untrustworthy. In this case, though, Robertson’s book came highly recommended, including a New York Times review written by Stephen Sears, one of our preeminent Civil War scholars.
My one line conclusion: this is a great book about a huge jerk.
Robertson’s biography is a heavily-researched, vividly-detailed, boot-level recounting of Jackson’s life, from his orphan upbringing in Virginia (modern day West Virginia) to his fever-addled, post-arm-amputation death at age In dense pages, relying heavily on Jackson’s correspondence, you get a visceral feel for this man, and are left free to make your own judgments on his character and his generalship.
Since this book is so tightly focused, it does not have the space to give a broader context to Jackson’s life. You don’t get a lot of information about supporting players in the Jackson drama, or much background to the crucial events in which he participated. This can make the Civil War battles that Robertson recreates a bit hard to follow for the uninitiated. I mention this not as criticism but as warning, since in all other respects, this biography is so good that it transcends its genre. It is a book that can be enjoyed beyond those with a niche interest in the Civil War.
Robertson crams his story with details, creates a potent sense of Jackson’s physical and internal world, and manages to do this while proving that being an academic and being a good writer are not mutually exclusive.
Having some facility with Jackson’s Civil War exploits, I was most interested in his early life. The solitary upbringing amongst extended family; his middling exploits as a cadet at West Point; his solid (if somewhat exaggerated) performance in the Mexican War; and his below-average tenure as a professor at the Virginia Military Institute.
Jackson’s road to everlasting fame (or infamy) did not follow a straight trajectory. It was dotted with personal tragedies, including the death of his first wife. Robertson is a skillful enough writer to make you feel the emotions of these long-ago deaths, and to elicit human sympathy for a man who has been turned into marble. It’s hard to take historical figures and make them into once-living men and women, but Robertson joins a small list (Massey, Caro, Goodwin) who have that ability.
Stonewall Jackson is told mostly in narrative fashion. Much of it reads like a novel, and like a novel, it has some plot holes. (For instance, Jackson’s favorite horse disappears and is never “found” until Jackson is riding it a few pages later).
Based on reviews I’d read, I expected Robertson to explode some cherished myths or reframe our understanding of Jackson. I didn’t see much of that at all. To be sure, there are some places where Robertson disrupts his story to analyze the historical record. For instance, we learn that Jackson didn’t suck on lemons, but preferred peaches. I know what you’re thinking: Stop the presses! We also discover that Jackson never once acted as the only sentry while his entire army slept. That’s nice to know. But it’s worth mentioning that if you ever thought Jackson acted as the only sentry for his sleeping army, you are an idiot.
Most biographers have some sympathy for their subjects, if not outright adoration. Robertson is too much a professional to pound the drum for Jackson; however, it is quite evident that he is a Jackson champion.
Exhibit one: slavery.
In a book this big, about the Civil War, you might expect a few mentions of slavery. And that’s what you get. A few mentions of slavery. Like, maybe three paragraphs.
The slavery issue is swept under the rug in the most regressive way possible. Jackson was a slave owner, but in Robertson’s view: “He probably opposed slavery.” What’s the evidence for this? Nothing. He never said he opposed it. He never freed his slaves. And he fought with desperate ferocity to protect the institution. Robertson’s supposition comes from this: I like the guy so he must have been opposed to slavery.
Certainly, Robertson makes sure to mention Jackson’s black Sunday school. He holds this up as evidence of Jackson’s enlightenment. I hold this up as evidence of Jackson being a demented d-bag. By starting a Sunday school, you are acknowledging the humanity of black people; that they, unlike animals, are people, capable of thought, faith, and prayer. Yet despite this acknowledgment, you keep them in chains.
To Robertson’s credit, all of Jackson’s lesser characteristics are on full display. He was prickly, obnoxious, oft-rude, and a whiny hypochondriac. One of the more entertaining sections of this book is a richly-detailed encounter in Florida between a young Jackson and his commanding officer over perceived slights. It was a classic “nothing fight” that both men seemed churlishly willing to fight to the grave.
The overriding theme that runs through Jackson’s life is his religion. Of all other facets, this gets the most attention. On countless pages, Robertson plays up the Christian soldier angle while strongly endorsing Jackson’s faith.
Fortunately, Robertson gives you enough information to make your own judgment, which I did. What struck me about Jackson’s faith was how its outward humility (leaving everything to the hands of God) actually manifested itself in an insufferable arrogance. Did Jackson really walk around thinking his every trip to the outhouse was God’s command? Didn’t his God have other things to worry about? This is not an attack on religion, only a commentary on Jackson’s small-minded concept of his Creator as a narrowly-focused micromanager.
Unsurprisingly, since it filled every corner of his life, Jackson’s Christianity dovetailed with his slaveholding tendencies. As Robertson explains, Jackson believed that because God willed slavery no man had the right to challenge that will. (This worked out quite well for white slaveholding Christians, but hey, they didn't make the rules. God did). This kind of hypocrisy is startling in the 21st century but…Well, it was also noxious in the 19th century, as demonstrated by less-famous contemporaries of Jackson such as Douglass, Tappen, Garrison, Stowe, Tubman, Beecher, et. al.
Jackson never had the self-awareness to recognize his own crap. Indeed, he was boldly ignorant of it. In a letter that Robertson excerpts, Jackson states that the chief “sin” of the Confederate States of America is Sunday mail delivery. Yup. That’s our Jackson! Four million people treated as chattel – chained and whipped and beaten and raped – but our real moral shortcoming is delivering letters on the Sabbath.
It almost leads one to wonder whether Jackson – after he’d been struck down by his own troops on the night of his greatest victory – ever considered that God had watched him all along. That God had judged him all along. And that God had been displeased. Probably not.
All that aside, the chief thing you learn in this biography – perhaps any good Civil War biography – is that good generals get too much credit and bad generals get too much blame. The Civil War was modern in many ways – weaponry, transportation, even communication – but battlefield command-and-control remained the same as it had for centuries.
Unable to see the whole field at once, and unable to receive instantaneous updates, a general’s direct influence waned the higher up the ranks he went. He could devise the most ingenious plan imaginable, but all of that could unravel due to a mistranslated order, a lazy subordinate, or a wrong turn.
At Chancellorsville, the scene of Jackson’s great victory and fatal wounding, the Union General Joseph Hooker had a marvelous plan. It looked so good on paper it should’ve been framed. But in reality, when Hooker stopped his march into the Wilderness, he didn't know where his own troops were positioned, much less his enemies. He didn't know that General Oliver Otis Howard had left his flank dangling in midair.
Stonewall Jackson’s lasting feat is that he found Howard’s dangling flank and smashed it to pieces. Things might have been different had Howard taken basic precautions to anchor his flank and to entrench. It also might have turned out differently if the Union commanders – including Dan Sickles, who nearly lost the battle of Gettysburg – who actually saw Jackson’s supposedly-secret flanking movement had interpreted it correctly.
It wasn’t God who made Jackson a great general. It was ruthlessness, decisiveness, courage, ego and luck. Lots and lots of luck.