CHAPTER TWELVE
When Major Thomas J. Jackson, known to most of his friends as Tom, reported for duty at VMI on August 13, 1851, he was twenty-seven years old. By most accounts and photographic evidence he was, if not exactly handsome, a reasonably good-looking young man. He was tall. At just under six feet, he was nearly five inches taller than the average American male of the era. He weighed about 170 pounds. He wore his medium-brown hair short, in the military style of the day, and sported side-whiskers that extended nearly to the bottom of his chin—another army affectation. He had a wide forehead; a sharply defined, aquiline nose; a small, firm mouth; and strikingly transparent gray-blue eyes. When he walked onto the campus of VMI to watch a cadet parade and drill, he wore his very best outfit: a double-breasted blue frock coat, tapered white pantaloons, immaculate white gloves, a new kepi cap, and artillery boots—all in all, the very picture of a young West Point graduate and Mexican-American War hero about to assume an important professorship.
Except that none of it quite worked. The kepi, for one thing, was oddly positioned, pushed a bit too far forward, so that instead of looking jaunty, or stylish, it seemed somehow awkward. And even casual observers could not miss Jackson’s newly blacked boots. Worn outside his pantaloons, they were both enormous and highly visible. One could only speculate—and many did—on the size of the feet they must have housed. When he walked, in those unnaturally long strides that reminded one of his friends of “a dismounted horseman,” the gigantic boots were even more noticeable.1 Even among the large crowd that had assembled to watch the cadets, Jackson stood out. There was something about him, then and later, whether in full prewar dress or in his later customary dishevelment, that was inescapably conspicuous. His welcome to the Virginia Military Institute, before anyone knew who he was or even that he had officially arrived, came in the form of a taunt, shouted by one of the cadets, aimed directly at him, and heard by everyone on the parade ground: “Come out of them boots!” the cadet yelled. “They are not allowed in this camp.”2 As it happened, that ill-mannered shout was an appropriate beginning to the most important and character-defining decade in Jackson’s life. It signaled the trials that this terribly earnest and very different young man was going to face, both at VMI and with the wider public.
The Lexington he encountered in 1851 was a handsome, mountain-bracketed town of sturdy brick and clapboard homes and soaring church steeples built on an elevated ridge at the southern end of the Shenandoah Valley. It was a place of high, sculpted hills and miniature valleys within valleys, picturesque farms, clear rivers, and mountains that loomed up on either side of the town and were capped with snow in the winter: the Blue Ridge to the east, the Alleghenies to the west. The valley, which ran in a southeast-to-northwest line from Roanoke to the Maryland border, had been settled in the 1700s by Scots-Irish and German settlers who had migrated from Pennsylvania and pushed southward along the forks and tributaries of the Shenandoah River. They had built a world that was utterly different from the land east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. That was old-line, tidewater Virginia country, very English, very Episcopal, with roots going back to the earliest days of American settlement. In the valley people spoke with a different accent, worshipped differently, and put on, as they viewed it, fewer airs. They were mostly middle-class farmers and merchants, exemplary, upwardly mobile Americans of the era: hardheaded, hardworking, practical, devout, and not at all fancy. Their beliefs tended toward the dissenting Protestantism of Luther and Calvin. And they valued education almost as highly as they did their religion. It was said that the Scots-Irish settlements in the valley, in the words of one resident, “were noted for three things: churches, academies of learning, and distilleries.”3 (The latter provided the valley’s surfeit of pastors with material for many temperance sermons.) Unlike tidewater Virginia, there were few large plantations and very little conspicuous wealth, though there was hardly any poverty, either.
Lexington, staunchly Presbyterian, Scots-Irish, and dominated by Washington College and the Virginia Military Institute, was very much of that valley. It was also, like most towns in that area, built on a very small scale. The 1850 census revealed 1,743 souls; of these 1,105 were white, 552 were slaves, and 86 were free blacks.4 Even Lexington’s leading institutions were small: VMI had only 5 professors and 117 students when Jackson arrived. Washington College, virtually across the street, had only five professors and a few hundred students.5 The colleges were the center of the town’s social world, and Jackson, VMI’s new professor of natural and experimental philosophy and a highly eligible bachelor whose Mexican-American War exploits had preceded him into the town (his Florida exploits, fortunately, had not), was in the midst of it, whether he liked it or not. Lexington was an intensely social place, where its residents, in all seasons, constantly paid social calls on one another and liked throwing parties. And it was in this small, narrowly circumscribed world—so profoundly different from West Point or the regular army, where he had spent the previous eight years—that Jackson’s unusual personality came into full view.6
To people who met him socially, his most striking trait was his silence. Where others might expect a minimum of social chatter, a casual comment, a piece of common small talk about the weather, or a small de rigueur politeness, he was often determinedly quiet. When he did speak, he could be maddeningly literal. A visiting Englishman, discussing history, once said to him, using a typically British prefix, “You remember, Major, that at this point Lord Burleigh was Queen Elizabeth’s great counselor,” Jackson immediately interrupted him, saying, “No, I don’t remember, for I did not know it.”7 When later asked whether he understood that the man’s saying “you remember” was just a figure of speech, Jackson said, “I am quite aware that he did not intend to gauge my knowledge of history. But nothing would have induced me to make the impression on him that I knew what I did not.”8 Similarly, when someone used the term “you know” in casual conversation, again, as a mere figure of speech, Jackson would frequently interrupt to say that he did not know.
He refused to go along with the most routine conventions of everyday conversation. He would not say that he wished that any circumstance was different than it was, meaning he could not bring himself to wish that it were warmer, or less windy, or even that some accident had not happened. If someone said, “Don’t you wish it might stop raining?,” he would reply with a quiet smile, “Yes, if the Maker of the weather thinks it best,”9 thus instantly killing the conversation. He would not acknowledge that he envied anyone, for any reason. He would not engage in flattery of any kind, even to give an idle compliment to a host. He absolutely refused to judge people or to say anything derogatory about them, even when badgered to do so. One such conversation, rendered later by a close friend, went like this:
“Hasn’t your old army friend Captain C— some right objectionable habits?” he was asked.
“C— ? Oh, C— has some fine points of character,” said Jackson.
“But it seems to me that he is wanting in fixed principles.”
“Indeed? It would give me pain to think so.”
“Come now, Major, I know that you understand Captain C— thoroughly, and I am sure you must disapprove of him.”10
But Jackson never gave in.
Much of this behavior grew out of his faith, his desire to be uncompromisingly truthful at all times, and his very particular sense of Christian courtesy. He explained his refusal to voice disapproval of others by saying, “It is quite contrary to my nature to keep silence where I cannot but disapprove. Indeed I may as well confess that it would often give me real satisfaction to express just what I feel, but this would be to disobey the divine precept [judge not lest ye be judged], and I dare not do it.”11 One of his favorite books was George Winifred Hervey’s The Principles of Courtesy, which laid down specific behavioral rules under such rubrics as “humility,” “gravity,” “salutations,” “gentleness,” “deportment in the street,” and “deportment at church.”12 Always intent on improving himself, Jackson had compiled, while a student at West Point, a lengthy list of sayings, aphorisms, and proverbs under three categories: rules for conversation, choice of friends, and general principles. The following small sample explains at least some of his 'margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-align: justify;line-height:normal'>—Endeavor to be at peace with all men. Never speak disrespectfully of anyone without a cause.
—Never try to appear more wise or learned than the rest of the company.
—Use no hurtful deceit: think innocently and justly, and if you speak, speak accordingly.
—If you speak in company, speak late.
—Avoid triumphing over an antagonist.
—Say as little of yourself & friends as possible.13
Though much of his social behavior had its roots in this strict personal code, Jackson was also deeply shy by nature, evidence of which was his terrible discomfort in any situation that required him to speak publicly. This, too, was on display in his first years in Lexington for all to see. He had joined the local debating society in the interests of self-improvement, and it periodically fell to Jackson to stand up and say something on some public issue of the day. His early efforts were excruciating to watch and embarrassing for both the flustered, red-faced Jackson and his listeners. When his turn came, he would stand and begin to speak, seem to lose himself in confusion, then stop abruptly. After a pause, he would resume speaking, continue haltingly for a while, then finally stop altogether, sometimes in midsentence. He would then sit down, staring straight in front of him. The debate would resume without him. Even more remarkable than this public mortification, though, was Jackson’s refusal to accept defeat. He would often rise a second or even a third time on the same evening, undoubtedly to a good deal of wincing in the hall. Often these repeated efforts ended exactly as the first one had: abruptly, and with no resolution.14 Once his performance was so inept that he even made the town newspaper, which referred to the “nervous speech of Major Jackson,” making a point—cruelly, thought Jackson’s friend Harvey Hill—of putting the word in italics.15
His shortcomings as a speaker were apparent in church, too. When his pastor, the Reverend William S. White, urged more parishioners to lead prayers in weekly meetings, Jackson went to see him. He told the minister that he wanted to comply but was afraid that he might not make a favorable impression on the congregation. “But you are my pastor and the spiritual guide of the church,” he continued, “and if you think it my duty, then I shall waive my reluctance and make the effort to lead in prayer, however painful it might be.”16 White did call on him at the next meeting, and Jackson led the prayer in his faltering, agonizing, cringe-inducing way. The prayer was indeed just as painful for the audience as he said it might be. But here, too, Jackson refused to quit. When White, out of respect for Jackson’s feelings, did not call on him for the next few weeks, Jackson protested. “My comfort or discomfort is not the question,” he said. “If it is my duty to lead in prayer, then I must persevere in it until I learn to do it aright, and I wish you to discard all consideration for my feelings.”17 Though he was never eloquent, Jackson eventually learned to stand and speak or lead prayers competently, and without humiliation.
There were other idiosyncrasies, too—so many that they were difficult to keep track of. Though he was devoutly religious, and dutifully went to church several times a week, he was also famous for falling asleep during the service. He did this at almost every service, usually during the sermon. Because he insisted on sitting perfectly erect in his pew, the moment that sleep overtook him was a dramatic one, as he suddenly tilted to one side. This caused much mirth among the VMI cadets in the gallery, who watched and waited for it.18 Jackson was fully aware of his problem, and it was typical of his stubbornness that he refused to do anything about it. When asked by female friends why he did not just lean back in his pew, so as to be less conspicuous—and less of a bad example to the cadets—Jackson replied, “I will do nothing to superinduce sleep by putting myself at ease, or making myself more comfortable; if, however, in spite of my resistance I yield to my infirmity, then I deserve to be laughed at, and accept as punishment the mortification I feel.”19 So he was humiliated by what happened to him. But he stuck to his principles, which held that yielding to sleep while trying to sit rigidly upright was a weakness that somehow deserved punishment. Indeed, Jackson always sat bolt upright, no matter where he was. He never crossed his legs. He never allowed his back to touch a chair. And church was not the only place he took public naps. He sometimes fell asleep, too, in the midst of conversations with friends.20 These were the same friends who had to endure him standing up during his visits to them because he said it helped his alimentary canal stay straight. No matter what was happening or what interesting or momentous conversation was under way, Major Jackson would rise and leave, without fail, at 9:00 p.m.
To many of Jackson’s acquaintances, the oddest thing of all about him was his obsession with his health. Though some who knew him considered him a hypochondriac, he was plagued by several very real, chronic illnesses.21 When he arrived at VMI in the summer of 1851, the uveitis that he had first experienced in 1849 had become so acute that he felt pain just trying to focus his eyes on objects. He saw spots—floaters—and was at times so extremely sensitive to light that he feared he might go blind. He would never read at night, which led to what many considered his most eccentric 'font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman",serif;color:blue'>22 To persons without an understanding of such an affliction, that might seem very odd behavior indeed.
Though his eye problems occurred intermittently during his adult life, his dyspepsia seems to have been a more or less permanent condition. In the mid-nineteenth century the term was a catchall, incorporating everything from simple indigestion or sour stomach to gastritis, acid reflux, peptic ulcer, parasites, and even stomach cancer. It is not clear exactly what Jackson suffered from. But it caused him so much discomfort that, according to one of his staff officers in the war, “When I expressed my surprise that a man in Richmond had committed suicide, driven to it by dyspepsia, [Jackson] said that he could understand that and thought that if a man could be driven to suicide by any cause, it might be from dyspepsia.”23 He suffered, too, from sinus and ear infections. One in particular, in 1858, was so severe that it left him almost completely deaf in his right ear.24
He sought water cures, or hydrotherapy, from Massachusetts to western Virginia, usually at mineral springs, where he would spend weeks at a time, taking cold-water baths and drinking the waters. He visited such establishments fourteen times during the course of his life, and invariably claimed that they had given him relief. As part of the “water cure” he sometimes wore wet shirts next to his body. He also strictly regulated his diet, sometimes adhering to a regimen of stale bread and cold water, eating meat less than once a month.25 He once spent a summer eating mostly fresh buttermilk and cornbread. As with everything else, he did not change his private behavior in public: from his days in postwar Mexico City onward he would bring his own food to dinner parties. “It is probable,” he wrote his sister, Laura, in 1850, “that I am more particular in my rules [about diet and health] than any person of your acquaintance.”26
Jackson was obsessive about anything that involved his health. In addition to his eyes and digestive system, he worried variously about his hearing, throat, liver, kidneys, nervous system, musculature, and the circulation of his blood. He read books on health, and was a diligent follower of the latest fads, including the inhalation of glycerin and nitrate of silver, and the swallowing of ammonia. He was a prodigious walker, traveling five miles a day, but he also engaged in the sort of strange-looking leaping exercises that his army colleagues at Fort Hamilton had noted. Then there were the stories that had passed into legend, many of which were recalled long after the war and may be apocryphal. During his early military service, according to a man who was in his class at West Point, Jackson “became convinced that one of his legs was bigger than the other, and that one of his arms was likewise unduly heavy. He had acquired the habit of raising the heavy arm straight up, so that, as he said, “the blood would run back into his body and lighten it.”27 Other stories were harder to verify, but circulated in Lexington nonetheless. According to one, the major believed that one side of him was smaller than the other, and to correct this he would exercise the smaller side more frequently, to “make it catch up with the other.” It was also reported that he had requested that his landlady not use pepper in his meals because, according to a cadet at the time, “whenever he got any pepper on his tongue, it always took away the use of his right leg.”28 When it came to the unusual Major Jackson, no story seemed too outlandish to believe.
In all of these stories—amusing and otherwise—there is Jackson’s terrible earnestness, his profound seriousness of purpose, and his unashamed, unflagging persistence in fulfilling that purpose. Though Jackson was in no sense naive, there is a simplicity and a purity about him—almost a sweetness, seen from the perspective of 160 years—that belies portrayals of him as nothing but an oddball and a crank, and a dour one at that. His behavior was never mean-spirited, never sullen or gloomy, and he rarely indulged a bad mood. Though he was stern, he was always polite, and almost always pleasant to those around him. People who did not know him well could not guess that his reticence in social situations grew from deeply held Christian principles. They could not understand that his often pathetic yet ultimately successful attempts at public speaking rose from personal principle and a conviction that he could overcome obstacles by sheer force of will. Thus he remained, for most people in Lexington in his early years there, a man imprisoned in the elaborate, codified, and highly idiosyncratic personality he had created for himself.