Andrew Jackson Dialectical Journal

Meanwhile Loring had allowed his men to make camp a few miles south of Jackson. He was outraged and commanded Loring to bring his men up immediately. Loring was furious over Jackson’ insensitivity and “madness” but obeyed and led his men through the night, without food, to Jackson. Friday, January 3, dawned clear and cold. General Garnett, Stonewall’s replacement as commander of the Stonewall Brigade allowed his men to built fires and cook some of their rations. Jackson rode up and demanded an explanation. “I have halted the men to let the men cook their rations.” Jackson shot back, “There is no time for that!” Garrett persisted, “But it is impossible for the men to march further without food.” Jackson looked slowly over his old brigade and

gave Garnett a sharp look, “I have never found anything impossible with this brigade.” (4) A few minutes later and the Stonewall brigade were plodding along with the rest of the force north toward Bath. Jackson sincerely could not understand why soldiers would want to eat when there was an opportunity for battle.

The night of January 3, a heavy snow fell and that next morning there were white grave-looking mounds all around the ground — as the snow had covered the sleeping soldiers.

These ermine grace were broken up by the awaking men “as if a resurrection was in progress,” one of the officers recalled. It was not until the evening of the next day an exasperated Jackson rode into Bath ahead of his troops. From a prominence overlooking the Potomac River, he saw the enemy fleeing and knew it would be impossible to catch them. They were able to capture 24 prisoners for their pains, but nothing more could be accomplished.
Bad roads, terrible weather, inexperience in command and among the men, along with a lack of close coordination all made this action one of little consequence, hardly worth the suffering the men endured. The soldiers of Loring in particular were pushed to the edge of mutiny. One Tennessean wrote, “They called him ‘Tom Fool Jackson.’ They blamed him for the cold weather, they blamed him for everything.” (5) After three more days, Jackson turned the men back south. The weather was still terrible and the way back was no easier than the way up had been. John Lyle of the 4th Virginia said that the march was reminiscent of Napoleon crossing the Alps. The road was covered with ice and extremely treacherous for both the horses and the men. Men broke arms in falls and several horses died, while many had icicles of blood hanging from their bodies. On at least two occasions Jackson

himself dismounted to help push a wagon to keep it from sliding back down a hill. It was nightmarish trek.

When the men arrived at Unger’s Store, they received word that Union troops had overrun the small force of Confederate militia at Hanging Rock, the only Confederate outpost between Romney and Winchester.

The Confederates had abandoned almost everything including two cannons. The road was opened all the way to Winchester but the Federals failed to press their advantage. This didn’t help Jackson’s frustration. He was aching to be on the march but the men and especially the horses simply could not do

it.

Preparations for the advance were nearly complete when word was received that the Union forces had abandoned Romney and had done so in something akin to a panic. Jackson viewed this as nothing short of a miracle. In fact, the Federals had grossly exaggerated the size of Jackson’s force and when they heard of their advance, quickly abandoned Romney.

By January 13, the force was ready to move and Jackson led his men toward Romney. A thaw had turned the roads which were frozen sheets of ice into mud pits making travel most difficult if not so dangerous as before. The Stonewall Brigade led the way. The morale of many was sustained by Jackson himself. One of the soldiers wrote, “Muddy roads and many streams to cross. At every step some one cursing ‘old Jackson’ for taking us on such a march at such a time and in such weather. In the midst of the cursing and grumbling, along rides our general on Old Sorrel. Immediately the cursing stops, and all with one accord begin to cheer. He gallops by, his cap in hand and eyes to the front, his staff following him as best they can . . . Though the march was hard and toilsome, we felt that he knew what he was doing and that it was for the best.” (6)

Not all the soldiers were so optimistic, however. One of the artillerymen noted, “That little old faded cap that General Jackson wears may shelter a brain that is filled with . . . war maps, and battle-field plans, but if he thinks we are Indian-rubber and keep on courting Death with impunity . . . he will find that by the time the robins sing again half of his command will be in the hospital or answering roll call in some other clime.” (7)