Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  The first course of action was unthinkable and the second was very risky. Between unthinkable and risky, however, one had to go with risky.

  “Take a telegram for General Sherman, Lieutenant,” he said to a staff officer.

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  I believe the movement of a large portion of our forces against the enemy left flank to be risky but feasible. I think it decidedly better than butting against breastworks twelve feet thick and strongly abatised.

  Sherman might interpret the last sentence as a subtle criticism of his decision to attack at Kennesaw, but Thomas didn’t care. A subtle criticism was exactly what he intended.

  About twenty minutes later, Thomas received Sherman’s response.

  We shall move to the south against the enemy left flank with the whole army. Go where we may, we will find breastworks and abatis, unless we move more rapidly than we have heretofore.

  Thomas grinned and chuckled lightly. The last sentence was clearly a rebuke to the perceived slowness of the Army of the Cumberland, but Thomas let it go. He and Sherman might not have been the best of friends, despite having been roommates at West Point in the old days, but there was no reason they couldn’t work together effectively. It was true that any unbiased observer could see that Thomas’ military record was considerably superior to that of Sherman. If the world had been fair, Thomas reflected, he would have been given supreme command of the Union armies in the Western Theater rather than Sherman. But Sherman’s close friendship with General Grant had been the decisive factor.

  It had not been the only factor, as Thomas well knew. While few of his brother officers had ever said anything to his face about the fact that he had been born in Virginia, he knew that it was often on their minds and that it certainly colored their opinions.

  For a brief moment, he remembered the dark days of 1861, when secession had swept across the South. He and his fellow Southern officers had been faced with the most difficult choice of their lives. Should they follow their states out of the Union or should they remain loyal to the oaths they had taken to protect the United States Constitution? Most had followed their states. Thomas had remained loyal to his nation, donning a blue uniform rather than a gray one. And for that, he had been vilified by his own people.

  He had been told that his family had turned his portrait to the wall. He felt a sharp pang of pain when he remembered reading the only letter he had received from his two sisters since the start of the war, in which they had sternly suggested that he change his last name. According to rumor, whenever General Thomas was mentioned in the presence of his sisters, they drew themselves up stiffly and replied that they had no brother.

  The pain was the price he paid for doing his duty. In his mind, he had had no choice. An oath wasn’t something a honorable man could cast aside.

  He shook his head. Dwelling on the past was useless. It was better to focus on the task at hand. He called for his maps, and began dictating the marching orders that would take the Northern armies around the Confederate left flank.

  *****

  As the curtain of night drew over the Georgia sky, the mood at the headquarters of the Army of Tennessee was still celebratory. There was a great deal of laughter around the campfires, the sound of banjo playing and singing mixing with the crackling of burning logs. The smell of fire, whiskey and roasting pork hung tantalizingly in the air.

  Isolated from the celebration inside his tent, illuminated by the light of a few oil lamps, Johnston pondered his army’s next move. He had no doubt that, on the other side of the lines, Sherman was even then sitting in his own tent, trying to devise a new plan after having seen his frontal attack repulsed. Johnston knew he had precious little time before his Yankee adversary acted again.

  In view of current realities, Johnston did not see any option but to try to anticipate what Sherman would do and then take appropriate action. Looking at the map, he couldn’t see any means by which he could take the offensive. The Yankee troops always began to entrench the moment they came to a halt, constructing formidable fortifications in a matter of hours. Launching frontal assaults on such positions was little short of suicide, as the Yankees had themselves discovered earlier in the day.

  The location of Sherman’s flanks, as reported to him by his scouts, did not present him with much of an opening, either. They were strong and secure, with their approaches carefully screened by Yankee cavalry. Any attempt to attack his opponent’s flanks would quickly be detected. When Johnston had last attempted such a maneuver, in the closing days of the fighting around New Hope Church a month earlier, the result had been a bloody repulse, costing Johnston several hundred men that he could not afford to lose.

  Johnston had previously considered detaching a large force of infantry and sending it on a long march around Sherman’s line to attack the railroad which brought the enemy his supplies. But the Confederate lines were stretched terribly thin as it was, and if such an attacking force were discovered and attacked by superior numbers, it would be unlikely that any of his men would make it back to their own lines. It would be impossible to supply such a striking force in any event. While it would have been a daring move, Johnston had determined that it was far too great a risk. It was imperative above all that he keep the army intact.

  He continued staring down at the map, as though wishing it would change on its own, until his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of an aide-de-camp.

  “General Johnston?”

  “Yes?”

  “Senator Wigfall is here to see you.”

  “Ah, excellent!” Johnston said, rising from the table. “Send him in.”

  Wigfall threw back the flap of the tent and strolled inside. Wearing the dark civilian suit of a politician rather than the uniform of a general, Wigfall presented a large and formidable appearance, enhanced by his reputation as a rough man of the Texas frontier and an accomplished duelist. His age and increasing plumpness were only just beginning to wear away at his intimidating visage.

  Wigfall extended his hand and Johnston gripped it firmly.

  “Good to see you, my dear friend,” Wigfall said.

  “And you, Senator. Please, take a seat. I hope your trip is proceeding well?”

  “Well enough, I suppose. Our rail network still functions in the Carolinas and in that part of Georgia which has not yet fallen to the enemy. More or less, anyway.”

  “How do you intend to proceed from here?”

  “I can take the train from Atlanta to Meridian, rickety as the ride will surely be, but then I must find a way to cross the Mississippi River, which is infested with Yankee gunboats. If I can get to Shreveport, it will be easy for me to complete my trip to Texas.”

  “You hazard a great deal merely to touch base with your constituents, Senator,” Johnston said with a grin. “And how are things in Richmond? How is your lovely family?”

  “All very well, thank you. My wife and our two daughters miss you and Mrs. Johnston very much, of course. If you’ll forgive me a moment of sentimentality, I must say that the days in which our two families lived under the same roof were some of the most pleasant of my life.”

  “Mine as well. I happily forgive your sentimentality.”

  Johnston poured two glasses of wine, deciding that Wigfall’s visit fully justified the expense. The Yankee blockade had made wine expensive but not unobtainable. As they sipped on the wine, the two men recollected happy memories for a few brief minutes. After Johnston had been severely wounded at the Battle of Seven Pines in 1862, Wigfall had been kind enough to offer his home to Johnston for his recuperation. Despite their vastly different personalities, Johnston and Wigfall had become fast friends, drawn together particularly by their shared loathing of Jefferson Davis.

  “I hope the closeness of the war to Richmond does not unduly trouble your wife and daughters,” Johnston said.

  Wigfall let out an exasperated sigh. “The sound of Yankee artillery is always present. Lee will continue to hold the Yankees off f
or some time yet, but having the enemy so close to the capital is not pleasant, to say the least.”

  “I would imagine so. And how are things in Congress?”

  “Deadlocked, of course. Jefferson Davis and his cronies continue their efforts to consolidate the power of the central government at the expense of the states, asserting that such measures are necessary to win the war. I am sad to say that many members of Congress have been seduced by such arguments. They seem to forget that it was exactly such illegal and unconstitutional usurpations of power which caused us to secede from the Union in the first place.”

  Johnston nodded. “It seems we have rejected a king in Washington, only to be faced with a king in Richmond.”

  “Exactly. And a rather incompetent king, if you ask me.”

  “I am well aware of that, I can assure you! The President’s incompetence may yet be the ruin of my campaign to defend Atlanta. All my recommendations for officer promotions or transfers are ignored. All my letters requesting improvements in the logistical system are ignored. And I am denied the authority to communicate with other theater commanders in order to properly coordinate operations against the Yankees. I feel like I am fighting with my hands tied behind my back.”

  Wigfall slowly shook his head. “It is even worse than you realize, my friend,” he said soberly.

  Johnston’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  The senator leaned forward. “Rumors are swirling around Richmond these days. I know you are well aware that Davis did not want to appoint you to command the Army of Tennessee last December. Had he been able to avoid it, he would have.”

  “I am aware of that,” Johnston said.

  “But from what I am hearing now, he is actually planning to remove you from command of this army. In order to justify it to the public and the press, he is withholding reinforcements and other forms of support from you in the hopes that you will suffer some sort of setback at the hands of Sherman.”

  Johnston’s eyes widened. “From whom did you obtain this information?”

  “Trusted friends who are in a position to know. Beyond that, I should say nothing. They spoke to me in confidence.”

  Johnston nodded, even as his mind raced. He thought he had known the depths of the hatred Davis felt for him, but this was devilishness of the worst form. To think that the President of the Confederacy would jeopardize the outcome of the most critical military campaign of the year- jeopardize the survival of the Confederacy itself! - Merely to settle a personal score was utterly beyond the pale.

  “I must admit, my dear friend, that I find this rather difficult to believe. Could even Jefferson Davis be so duplicitous?”

  “Answer the following question. Am I right in assuming you have requested that the President order Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry to move out of northern Mississippi and attack Sherman’s supply lines in Tennessee?”

  “I have asked him to do so many times, yes.”

  “Why has the order not been given, then? Forrest virtually destroyed the Yankee forces stationed in western Tennessee weeks ago at the Battle of Brice’s Cross Roads. Davis could unleash him against the Yankee railroads with the stroke of a pen, yet there he sits in northern Mississippi, twiddling his thumbs. Meanwhile, supplies and reinforcements flow freely to Sherman.”

  Johnston’s faced scowled into a mask of anger and resentment.

  Wigfall went on. “I see you are upset, Joseph. Another glass of wine, perhaps? I have more to tell you.”

  Johnston poured each of them a new glass, no longer even thinking about the expense. “What else can there be to say? What you have already said has left me thoroughly distressed.”

  “It is about General Hood.”

  “General Hood? What of him?”

  “It has been made known to me from these same trusted friends that General Hood is secretly communicating with President Davis, writing him regular letters that are highly critical of your conduct in the present campaign.”

  Johnston instinctively rose to his feet, nearly spilling his wine glass all over the map. “What?!” he said, his voice quivering with anger. “That is a violation of military protocol! Hood is my subordinate. He can only be permitted to communicate with the higher levels of command through me!”

  “Military protocol is observed by gentlemen. Whatever else he is, Hood is no gentleman.”

  “How could he do such a thing?”

  Wigfall sighed. “He’s a different man than he was before he suffered his wounds. Early in the war, he and I were friends. Hell, my daughter Louise herself made the battle flag for the 4th Texas Infantry when Hood was in command of the regiment. But he’s changed. Something left him when he lost those limbs. What’s left of him is rotten to the core.”

  Johnston calmed himself, as he certainly did not want anyone outside the tent to hear any of the conversation. He sat back down, but his blood was boiling with rage. He shook his head. “He was one of the finest brigade and division commanders of the Confederacy when he served under Lee. I was so hopeful when he was assigned to command one of my corps.”

  “It is a shame.”

  “And, pray tell, what exactly is Hood telling the President in these letters of his?”

  “I have not seen the said letters myself, but from what I have been told, Hood is telling President Davis that he has constantly urged you to take the offensive against Sherman and that you have always refused to do so. He also says that the numerous withdrawals the army has been compelled to make were done against his advice.”

  Johnston took a deep breath and his lips curled into a bitter smile. “The true facts are precisely the opposite. Hood has not urged the offensive at any point in this campaign. Indeed, on those occasions when I have attempted to strike a blow at Sherman- at Resaca, at Cassville, at New Hope Church, and at Pine Mountain- I entrusted the critical role in the attack plan to Hood’s corps, because of his reputation for aggressiveness. However, on each of those occasions, the attacks either sputtered out quickly or failed to materialize at all.”

  “I have heard about the incident at Cassville. What happened, exactly?”

  Johnston leaned back in his chair, remembering. “We had been able, through rapid marching, to take up positions where we would could concentrate our full force against only a portion of Sherman’s army. It was a situation few generals in history can ever hope for and I felt we were about to inflict upon Sherman a defeat so devastating that it would bring his entire campaign to a halt. Hood’s corps was positioned on the right flank, ordered to sweep down on the unsuspecting enemy forces, who were walking right into our trap. When the time came for the advance to begin, I was waiting impatiently to hear the sounds of cannon and musketry, but no sounds of battle came.”

  “Why not?”

  Johnston took a sip of wine before continuing. “I sent General Mackall to investigate. When he arrived at Hood’s headquarters, he was stunned to find Hood’s entire corps in retreat. Hood claimed that he was being attacked in the rear by a force of enemy cavalry, though Mackall had seen no such force. In any event, by the time we might have been able to sort the mess out and move forward, the enemy had discovered our intentions and prepared for defense. With the element of surprise lost, we had no choice but to call off the attack.”

  Wigfall sighed. “It appears that General Hood is blaming you for debacles which are his own fault. And in secret letters to the President, no less.”

  Johnston chuckled bitterly. “If I recall correctly, Hood finished dead last in his ethics class at West Point. Now I can see why.” He paused for a moment. “I could call him to answer charges of insubordination before a court martial,” Johnston said menacingly.

  “You could,” Wigfall replied. “But unfortunately we cannot provide proof of these facts without revealing the identities of the men who gave me this information. This I cannot do, as they did so in confidence.”

  “I cannot abide this,” Johnston said emphatically.

  “My advice is
to be patient. Keep a close watch on General Hood. Eventually, he will become careless and his insubordination will come out into the open in such a way that he cannot deny it. At that point, we can both remove Hood and strike a blow against President Davis.”

  Johnston nodded, frowning. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Only time will tell, my friend.”

  Johnston slowly shook his head. “I have always thought of Sherman as being my chief enemy. Now I find myself wondering if Davis and Hood might in truth be more dangerous foes.”

  *****

  As a demonstration of gratitude for their successful repulse of the Yankees, General Hiram Granbury, the commander of the brigade of which the 7th Texas was a part, had pulled the regiment back from the front line and replaced them with another regiment. Now the sound of drunken singing emanated from their encampment as they celebrated far into the night.

  “Cheer, boys, cheer We’ll march away to battle!

  “Cheer, boys, cheer! For our sweethearts and our wives!

  “Cheer, boys, cheer! We’ll nobly do our duty!

  “And give to the South, our hearts, our arms, our lives!”

  Private Ben Montgomery, universally considered the best fiddle-player in the 7th Texas, plucked away on his instrument, filling the air with his delightful sounds. Amid raucous laughter, the men were excitedly recounting stories of how many Yankees they had killed that day. Many of them danced like wild Indians around campfires that had been stoked so much that they now resembled miniature bonfires. There was no need for heat, for the Georgia summer was such that even the dead of night was rather warm. But the light provided by the fires lifted the spirits of the men.