Jackson had anticipated an attempt by someone in the war department to limit his parameters and he would not have it. The resignation was both polite and real. Between the lines, Jackson said that if anyone tries to impose his will on me, I will quit.
The storm in the press was predictable. Hillary was pilloried, threatened, castigated, ridiculed and called a traitor. By the time he arrived at camp, had his presence there been known, he would not have lived an hour. Even the newspaper correspondents would have helped string him up. That evening, in his tent, Hillary was trying to think of some way to evade the storm and if possible throw it back on Jackson. It was unthinkable that a brute like a common field commander could make him into a pariah. By the morning’s meeting, Hillary was sure, he would think of some way to put the matter right.
When the tent entrance flapped back, without so much as a polite knock being given, Hillary raised himself to his full five feet five inches and prepared to give the offender a shrill tongue lashing.
To his dismay, Hillary recognized the craggy features of Stonewall Jackson. Quickly putting on a smile and holding out his hand, Hillary began to mumble placating remarks in the vein that he couldn’t think how such misunderstandings occur but that he was sure . . .
“I did not come here to pass amenities or civilities with you,” interrupted Jackson, ignoring Hillary’s outstretched hand. “I came here to tell you that you are a scoundrel and a damned liar. You have conspired against me and I will not have it. If you were any part of a man, I would slap your face and force you to resent it. And I tell you right here, right now, that if you ever interfere with me again, or cross my path in any way, you will do so at the peril of your life.”
Jackson’s eyes, those pale blue lights, seemed to strike into Hillary’s dark soul. Hillary could only gulp and nod, his heart beating wildly. Jackson turned on his heel and stamped out of the tent.
Hillary’s lily white hands fluttered about like trained doves, fanning his face, feeling his heart, grasping his constricted throat, taking his pulse. It was some moments before he was able to speak loudly enough to have his orderly bring him water, then brandy, then whiskey.
Throughout his sleepless night, Hillary suffered alternating bouts of fear and loathing. In the morning, he sent a note to the meeting that he was indisposed and not only withdrew any remarks which General Jackson might have found offensive, but seconded any plans which the hero of the Confederacy might have. He only wished to serve, Hillary added, and regretted that his fervor may well have been misplaced and misunderstood.
Back in Richmond, where the press still sent storms crashing over his balding, jowly head, he bravely appeared before them, impeccably but foppishly dressed, and read a strongly worded statement of self condemnation.
Hillary had groped for the proper verbal hair shirt, then donned it articulately for the public prints. He would never presume to order the gallant hero Jackson, he said, but in his zeal to serve the Confederacy he had been too emphatic in suggesting a plan for Jackson’s consideration. Said plan was now withdrawn. Long live Stonewall Jackson.
Since the day Hillary was, as he thought it, crucified by the press, he became on the surface the South’s most vociferous admirer of Stonewall Jackson. One mention of Stonewall and Hillary commenced to coo. It was hero worship, long and loud. Inwardly, he seethed.
Suddenly, somehow, shipments of supplies to Jackson began to go awry.
And Hillary began to research reports for a weakness in Jackson, a flaw in Jackson’s personality. He found it. Unfortunately, it was a flaw ready made for exploitation by a schemer and would-be demagogue. For the taciturn Jackson not only expected too much of his own officers, he demanded it of them. He would have them be like him. And though they tried their best to live up to his expectations, it was simply beyond them.
Since boyhood, Jackson had lived his life by one cardinal rule; he could be whatever he willed himself to be. He could not learn that he could not will other men, no matter how hard they tried, to become what he was.
At one time or other, every general officer under Jackson was under court-martial. On one occasion, every officer on his staff was under court-martial at the same time. Few of the courts-martial ever came to trial. Usually, whoever had fallen into disfavor with Jackson accepted punishment, which normally was nothing more than having to trail the marching columns for a day or two, eating the dust of twenty-five thousand men stepping doubletime. Canon swallowed his share. But it galled.
Most of the time, such punishment was given when a commander failed to depart on time with his troops, or arrive at destination on time. Canon understood the importance of such timing, especially in light of Jackson’s hit-and-run tactics. But still it galled. Stonewall Jackson’s men loved him. With his officers, the relationship was often love-hate.
Following the Battle of Second Bull Run/Manassas, though, all was well in camp and in Richmond. The Army of Northern Virginia basked in the glow created by long laudatory articles in Southern newspapers. They reveled as Northern newspapers cried out for leaders like Lee and Jackson, or at least for leaders who might give these men a decent fight.
The continued successes of Lee and Jackson were having worldwide impact. England and France seemed on the verge of pledging allegiance to Richmond, but proponents of the Southern cause, in debates in their houses of government, could not quite swing the required support.
While foreign backers pointed to Lee and Jackson, their adversaries pointed to generals U. S. Grant and William Sherman. They were winning in Mississippi and Tennessee—much like Lee and Jackson were winning in the east.
The South needed to do something truly dramatic to bring on much needed aid, and it was up to Lee and Jackson to come up with the idea. During the first three days of September, following the victory at Manassas, senior commanders spent hours in Lee’s tent. The Southern army had once again abandoned the plains of Manassas and taken to the cool mountainsides for rest and recovery. Still, commanders both North and South knew Lee was poised near the Potomac. Practically everyone knew a Southern invasion of the North was being discussed, if not planned.
The morning of September 4, Canon was called to Jackson’s tent. Canon felt wonderful, invigorated. The air was cool and bracing, pure as spring water. Smells of rich pine firesmoke mingled with the aromas of boiling coffee and bacon being fried. Banjoes and mouth harps twanged happy tunes.
The whole army was happy. Happy to be alive. Canon knew it was natural for survivors of such a holocaust as Manassas to celebrate life and victory. Word had gone around camp that the army might be about to invade the North, and that meant fighting nearly every day. Bullets would be flying again soon enough. But today they were alive and were heroes. It was a happy time.
At Jackson’s tent, Canon rapped twice on the tent pole and pushed inside the flap. Jackson had tied back one corner of the tent roof, and it was light and airy inside. Fully uniformed, sitting bolt upright on his cot so as not to compress his inner organs, Jackson held in his hands the brigadier general’s collar star he had worn as commander of the Virginia Brigade.
Jackson looked up at him, and Canon thought the look somehow different from the casual Jackson glance. The pale eyes never looked more vivid.
“Colonel,” said Jackson, “let us assume for a moment, and this is between you and me, that I have been promoted.” Canon was surprised. Jackson already held the rank of lieutenant general, which was the highest rank attainable. Canon could only assume that Lee was about to be returned to Richmond and that Jackson was going to take full command of the Army of Northern Virginia. He said nothing.
“You have a way with words. If you were going to pin my new badges of rank on me in front of the men, what would you say on my behalf?” asked Jackson.
Canon was nonplussed, then irritated. So it happens to us all, he thought. Even Jackson. Perhaps he is human after all. Jackson had never sought flattery, even shunned it. Now he apparently wished it. Disappointing. But if anyone deserved praise, Canon thought, it was Jackson. Still, he was uneasy. It was so out of character for Jackson that he couldn’t fathom