Sigel and Reynolds’ four divisions passed through Gainesville, not five miles from Sudley Springs, and for a time were actually in contact with Jackson’s outposts; and yet Sigel and Reynolds mistook Jackson’s outposts for reconnoitring cavalry.  Again, when King’s single division, the rear-guard of Pope’s army, appeared upon the turnpike, Jackson attacked it with the idea that it was the flank-guard of a much larger force.  Nor was this want of accurate intelligence due to lack of vigilance or to the dense woods.  As a matter of fact the Confederates were more amply provided with information than is usually the case in war, even in an open country and with experienced armies.

But if, in the most favourable circumstances, a general is surrounded by an atmosphere which has been most aptly named the fog of war, his embarrassments are intensified tenfold when he commands a portion of a divided army.  Under ordinary conditions a general is at least fully informed of the dispositions of his own forces.  But when between two widely separated columns a powerful enemy, capable of crushing each in turn, intervenes; when the movements of that enemy are veiled in obscurity; when anxiety has taken possession of the troops, and the soldiers of either column, striving hopelessly to penetrate the gloom, reflect on the fate that may have overtaken their comrades, on the obstacles that may delay them, on the misunderstandings that may have occurred—­it is at such a crisis that the courage of their leader is put to the severest test.

His situation has been compared to a man entering a dark room full of assailants, never knowing when or whence a blow may be struck against him.  The illustration is inadequate.  Not only has he to contend with the promptings of his own instincts, but he has to contend with the instincts and to sustain the resolution of his whole army.  It is not from the enemy he has most to fear.  A time comes in all protracted operations when the nervous energy of the best troops becomes exhausted, when the most daring shrink from further sacrifice, when the desire of self-preservation infects the stoutest veterans, and the will of the mass opposes a tacit resistance to all further effort.  “Then,” says Clausewitz, “the spark in the breast of the commander must rekindle hope in the hearts of his men, and so long as he is equal to this he remains their master.  When his influence ceases, and his own spirit is no longer strong enough to revive the spirit of others, the masses, drawing him with them, sink into that lower region of animal nature which recoils from danger and knows not shame.  Such are the obstacles which the brain and courage of the military commander must overcome if he is to make his name illustrious.”  And the obstacles are never more formidable than when his troops see no sign of the support they have expected.  Then, if he still moves forward, although his peril increase at every step, to the point of junction; if he declines the temptation, although overwhelming numbers threaten him, of a safe line of retreat; if, as did Jackson, he deliberately confronts and challenges the hostile masses, then indeed does the soldier rise to the highest level of moral energy.