Stonewall

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This scene depicts General Jackson (his young friend Willy refers to him in the heat of battle by his old rank of "Major") as he makes a last stand with his troops at the Battle of First Manassas, from whence he gained the sobriquet "Stonewall."

Willy turned and saw that his old Sunday School teacher had stopped Little Sorrel out front of his men. The squat little animal faced directly into the storm of fire and thunder that bore down upon him. But Jackson was not even watching the charging Federals. He stared toward heaven, his eyes closed, his lips moving, and his arms spread wide, palms open upward, as if appealing his case to the ultimate arbiter of justice . . .

Willy stared at the general and shook his head.

"Why don't he fall?" came a voice from behind.

"Why don't he get down before they knock him down?" came another.

"He's protected, sure, like General Washington with Braddock against them Indians when seventeen bullets tore his clothes. He can't fall."

"Down," Willy said, his quavering voice lost in the din. "Get down, Major Jackson. Get down sir!"

"You get down, blast you, boy," McCullough growled, grabbing Willy's arm to pull him back to the ground. But Willy broke free as though the lean hard McCullough had no more strength than a soft young Lexington lass. Then the man was on his feet, hollering for his friend to get down.

"Come back here, Willy Preston!" McCullough shouted.

But Willy was walking wraithlike toward Jackson. He did not see a minie ball tear the top of a nearby rider's head off, along with the tall black Prince Albert hat he wore.

"Major Tom Jackson, come down off that horse!" Willy screamed.

He did see one bullet tear through the left side of Jackson's coat, then another his right sleeve. Another blew away the leather strap upon which his field glasses hung over his shoulder. As Jackson remained rigid and erect upon Little Sorrel, the horse as stationery as he, looking straight through the windows of heaven, no cannon, no bullets, no Yankee onslaught, no war, nothing at all, but heaven . . . and God . . . and the Lamb . . . Willy stepped finally around to grab Sorrel's bit and bridle, as McCullough rose behind him, and a score more men around McCullough.

Willy stared up into Jackson's face. The boy's jaw went slack. The general's countenance blazed with an incandescence singularly reflective of. . . the very glories and beauties of the Eternal . . . the Majestic . . . the Holy.

And what is it that he is saying? the boy strained to detect.

"O GOD the Lord, the strength of my salvation, thou hast covered my head in the day of battle . . . "

Then two dead Confederates tumbled into Willy, knocking him down. And something went terribly wrong with Jackson . . . "Major Jackson!" . . . Willy screamed.

A musket ball blew a hole in Jackson's left hand, shearing off part of one finger and damaging another. Another bullet tore into Little Sorrel, and when horse and rider had spun around, blood sprayed the air from Jackson's torn hand and dappled Willy's chest. Terror filled the boy's face as he saw blood streaking Jackson's cheeks and cap. But fire blazed across the Virginian's bloodied visage and he raised his ruined hand, raining crimson, and charged his men: "Reserve your fire till they come within fifty yards, then fire and give them the bayonet; and, when you charge, yell like furies!"

And so was born the Rebel yell.

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