t Front Royal. He had vainly protested
against the false strategy imposed by the Government from Washington,
and he was not a free agent now. Yet, even so, his force was at
least a menace to Jackson, who had only two chances of getting
away to aid in the defeat of McClellan and the saving of Richmond.
One was to outmarch the converging Federals, gain interior lines
along the Valley, and defeat them there in detail. The other was to
march into friendly Maryland, trusting to her Southern sentiments
for help and reinforcements. He decided on the Valley route and
marched straight in between his enemies.

His fortnight's work, from the nineteenth of May to the first of
June, inclusive, is worth summing up. In these fourteen days he
had marched 170 miles, routed 12,500 men, threatened an invasion
of the North, drawn McDowell off from Fredericksburg, taken or
destroyed all Federal stores at Front Royal, Winchester, and
Martinsburg, and brought off safely a convoy seven miles long.
Moreover, he had done all this with the loss of only six hundred,
though sixty thousand enemies lay on three sides of his own sixteen
thousand men.

His remaining problem was harder still. It was how to mystify,
tire out, check short, and then immobilize the converging Federals
long enough to let him slip secretly away in time to help Johnston
and Lee against McClellan. Jackson, like his enemies, moved through
what has been well called the Fog of War--that inevitable uncertainty
through which all commanders must find their way. But none of his
enemies equaled him in knowledge, genius, or character for war.

The first week in June saw desperate marches in the Valley, with
the outnumbering Federals hot-foot on the trail of Jackson, who
turned to bay one moment and at the next was off again. On the
sixth the Federals got home against his rear guard. It began to
waver, and Ashby ordered the infantry to charge. As he gave the
order his horse fell dead. In a flash he was up, waving his sword
and shouting: "Charge, for God's sake, charge!" The Confederate
line swept forward gallantly. But, just as it left the wood, Ashby
was shot through the heart. His men avenged him. Yet none could
fill his place as a born leader of irregular light horse.

Next morning the hounds were hot upon the scent again: Shields
and Fremont converging on Jackson, whom they would run to earth
somewhere north of Staunton. But on the eighth and ninth Jackson
turned sharply and bi