Not that they needed much lifting, for most of the Texans were drunk and getting drunker. Cleburne had allowed the regimental officers to issue an additional ration of whiskey in recognition of their victory. The men had needed little encouragement to take full advantage of it.
But as we march, with heads all lowly bending,
Let us implore a blessing from on high.
Our cause is just, the right we’re defending
And the god of battles will listen to our cry!
Sergeant McFadden had consumed as much whiskey as any of his comrades, if not more. He had become only slightly inebriated, for three years of heavy alcohol consumption had allowed him to build up an exceptional level of tolerance. Despite occasional entreaties from his comrades, he did not join in the dancing. He would not have enjoyed it and he didn’t want to dampen the fun the others were having. He was content to watch the singing and dancing in silence.
He considered the men of his regiment. For the most part, they were good men. He certainly knew they were brave fighters, fiercely protective of one another and dedicated to the Confederate cause. Though often suspicious of the high command, they admired and respected their own regimental and brigade officers and were intensely loyal to General Cleburne. Since Union control of the Mississippi River had cut them off from Texas, the men of the regiment relied on one another perhaps more deeply than did the men of other units. In a very real sense, the hundred men of the 7th Texas were a family.
There were some men McFadden liked and some he disliked, but he couldn’t honestly call any of them a friend. Though he had been with the 7th Texas for more than a year, he remained something of an outsider. He had not known any of the other men before the war, whereas many of them had grown up with each other in the same counties and towns.
The 7th Texas Infantry Regiment had originally assembled in the fall of 1861 in the town of Marshall in northeast Texas. It had journeyed from there to Hopkinsville, Kentucky, where it had endured a nightmarish winter during which scores of men had died of disease. The following February, the regiment had fought courageously at Fort Donelson, only to pass into captivity with the disgraceful surrender of the garrison by its incompetent commanders. For more than six months, the men languished in a vile Yankee prison known as Camp Douglas, where many had perished from illness, lack of food, and exposure to the elements.
In the fall of 1862, the men of the 7th Texas were released after being exchanged for an equal number of Union prisoners. They were sent to reinforce the Confederate defenders of Vicksburg and Port Hudson in the lower Mississippi Valley. The regiment was still there when McFadden had joined it in early 1863.
Since then, McFadden had marched and fought in the ranks of the 7th Texas through battle after battle. Raymond, Chickamauga, Missionary Ridge, Ringgold Gap, Dug Gap, Pickett’s Mill, not to mention countless smaller skirmishes. But he had not grown up with these men, nor had he gone through the nightmare winter in Hopkinsville or the miseries of Camp Douglas with them. His natural aloofness kept them at bay. Although the others greatly respected McFadden for his bravery and his soldierly qualities, they had never quite warmed to him.
Captain Collett appeared inside the glow cast by the campfire. There was a momentary quiet, but Collett smiled and waved for Montgomery to continue playing. He then sat down near McFadden.
“Evening, Captain,” McFadden said simply.
“How are you, Jim?”
“Well as can be expected. How’s Featherston?”
“He lost that leg of his. Poor boy. We’ll see whether fever takes him or not.”
“Hope not.”
“Me, too. He’s got a wife and son back in Texas.”
McFadden grunted. The captain paused. Without a word, McFadden passed his flask and Collett took a quick swig before giving it back.
“We’re going to have to promote one of the sergeants to lieutenant, you know. I was just talking to General Granbury about it.”
“Thought you’d ask. The answer is no.”
“Just like that, eh? I asked you after Chickamauga, then again after Ringgold Gap. You always say no.”
“It’s my answer.”
“But why, Jim? I know you. Hell, I recruited you myself last year. I don’t mind telling you that you’re the most intelligent man in this regiment. You can read, write, and do figures better than some of the officers who have college educations. What with so many of the officers getting killed, you could easily have been a captain by now, if you had wanted it.”
“That’s just it, Captain. I don’t want it. I don’t want any responsibility. I don’t even like heading up a company. All I want to do is fight.”
Collett shook his head. “Pity. You’d make a fine officer, Jim, if only you’d be willing to start moving up the ranks. But you’ve been like this ever since I met you. Whatever the hell happened to you out in New Mexico turned you into one damned stubborn ass.”
McFadden tensed, as though he sensed danger. He said nothing to Collett in response, but his mind was flooded with terrifying memories. He remembered the confusing and horrifying battles at Val Verde and Glorieta Pass, the long and hard retreat without food or water, the freezing nights spent without blankets, and the bitter realization that all his suffering had been for nothing.
But those experiences, brutal though they were, had been no different from those of any other Confederate soldier who had gone into New Mexico with General Sibley. His mind was haunted by a memory from the campaign of an altogether more sinister nature. He tried to force it out of his consciousness. But against his will, the ominous name he had heard on that nightmarish day forced its way into his mind, as if a little devil was whispering into his ear.
Cheeky Joe.
He clenched his teeth, then took a long swig of whiskey. Collett didn’t see his discomfort, having had his attention drawn elsewhere as Private Montgomery began yet another song. It was The Bonnie Blue Flag this time and all the men of the 7th Texas began clapping as a renewed round of dancing around the campfire began. McFadden took another swig of whiskey from his flask, even less inclined to join in the dancing than he had before.
Chapter Two
June 28, Morning
Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America, stepped out of the front door of the Executive Mansion. In Richmond, it was popularly known as the White House of the Confederacy despite the fact that it was gray. Taking in a deep breath of summer air, he began his regular walk to work down 12th Street. He stood straight as a ramrod, making his height of five feet and ten inches seem rather taller than it was. His face, worn by the stress of the previous three years and a life that had known more than its fair share of grief, seemed chiseled out of granite. His lips seemed frozen in a line of perpetual humorlessness.
As he walked down the street, Davis was occasionally greeted by respectful strangers, with whom he exchanged polite tips of the hat. Some citizens, however, made a point of crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him coming so as to avoid such courtesies. His popularity was not what it had been when he had reluctantly assumed office back in 1861.
After a few minutes, Davis passed by Capitol Square. He circumvented the neoclassical building which presently housed both the Confederate Congress and the Virginia state legislature. He had always admired it, especially as it had been designed by Thomas Jefferson. The author of the Declaration of Independence was said to have based the Virginia State Capitol on an ancient Roman temple he had seen in the south of France. Davis sighed with regret at the fact that he had never been able to visit Europe.
Dismissing that thought, Davis crossed the street and reached the handsome if not quite elegant building that housed the executive offices of the Confederate government. Before the war, it had been the U.S. Customs House. He entered and was greeted with familiarity by the secretaries on the first floor, which housed the Treasury Department. He walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor, most of which was taken up by t
he State Department, but which also housed the executive office of the President. Outside his door, the President politely greeted Burton Harrison, his young personal secretary, and was handed a packet of correspondence.
A moment later, with considerable relief, Davis stepped into his office, shut the door, and dropped the letters on his desk. Settling into his chair with a tired exhalation, he immediately looked over at the military map that was mounted on the wall. Colored pins showed the current locations of major Union and Confederate military forces. A dark string, tautly drawn across the map, indicated the area of the country that remained under Confederate control. Every morning before he arrived, staff officers would update the map based on the latest reports. Davis was happy to see that there were no noticeable changes from the previous day.
It required a certain concentration to realize that those colored pins actually represented hundreds of thousands of men fighting to the death across a considerable chunk of North America, but Davis did it better than most. Everywhere he looked on the map, his armies were under enormous pressure. In Virginia, General Robert E. Lee and his redoubtable Army of Northern Virginia were battling valiantly against the Army of the Potomac under Ulysses S. Grant. Although they had inflicted terrible casualties on their foes since the opening of the campaign in May, the Southern troops had been steadily pushed back toward the capital at Richmond and the critical rail junction of Petersburg. Both sides had now dug in for a siege and the booming of the artillery was clearly audible in Richmond.
Despite the regrettable loss of territory, Davis felt little fear regarding the Virginia theater. According to the reports he was daily receiving from Lee, the massive losses the Yankees had sustained during their drive south had so demoralized Grant’s army as to render it virtually unfit for offensive operations. Indeed, Lee had even been able to dispatch an entire corps, one-third of his army, on a raid northward against Washington City itself. Though he doubted the actual capture of Washington City was at all likely, the thought of Confederate troops operating on the outskirts of the enemy capital brought a smile to Davis’s face.
On most other fronts, Confederate troops also appeared to be holding their own. The coastal forts protecting the great port cities of Charleston, Wilmington and Mobile continued to stoutly resist Union attacks. A recent Yankee attempt to invade Florida had been bloodily repulsed. Southeast of Memphis, the ruthless and brilliant cavalry leader, Nathan Bedford Forrest, had defeated every Yankee effort to penetrate into Mississippi or Alabama. And in the distant, near-forgotten theater of the Trans-Mississippi, scattered units of Texas cavalry continued to duel sporadically with Union detachments, with neither side able to gain much of an advantage.
No, he wasn’t worried about Virginia. Nor was he worried about Mississippi, or the Carolina coast, or the Trans-Mississippi. What was keeping Davis up at night was Georgia. He stared intensely at the colored pins representing the respective armies of Johnston and Sherman, facing one another just north of Atlanta.
A frown formed across his face. Jefferson Davis and Joseph Johnston had known one another for years. Four decades before, they had been cadets together at West Point. While there, they had come to blows over the affections of a local damsel. When they had served together during the Mexican War, their relationship had been marked by professional rivalry and personal distaste. In 1861, when Davis had been struggling to organize the officer corps of the Confederate Army, he had found Johnston’s attitude about his rank to be vain and petulant.
But the distrust Davis held for Johnston was not rooted, at least as far as he was concerned, in their admittedly poor personal relationship. In mid-1862, when Richmond seemed certain to fall to the Army of the Potomac, Johnston had been the commander of the army charged with the capital’s defense. But instead of fighting the Yankees, Johnston had continually refused to give battle. Repeatedly stressing his numerical inferiority, he had insisted on a strictly defensive policy.
Davis recalled those dark days very well. Johnston had not launched a counter attack until the Yankees had literally been within sight of Richmond. Even then, he had so botched the attack that the result had been a tactical victory for the Yankees. Johnston had avoided complete disgrace only because of a severe wound he had received during the fighting. Unable to continue commanding the army, Johnston had been replaced by Robert E. Lee, who had promptly launched the great counter offensive that had driven the Yankee host away.
The more he thought about it, the more Davis became convinced that Johnston would have abandoned Richmond in 1862 had fate not intervened. He couldn’t help wondering if history was about to repeat itself down in Georgia.
A soft knocking on the door stirred Davis from his musings. A moment later, Harrison appeared.
“Mr. President? Secretary Seddon and General Bragg are here to see you.”
Harrison stepped aside and the two men entered. James Seddon, the Confederate Secretary of War, looked like he had just risen from a hospital bed, but that came as no surprise to Davis. The man was forever being afflicted with some ailment or other. Despite his unimpressive appearance, Davis considered Seddon an intelligent and conscientious man. Most importantly, he considered Seddon a man who did what he was told without thinking too much about it.
Braxton Bragg could not have looked more different from Seddon. He wore the gray uniform of a Confederate general. It was likely the most impeccably cleaned and tailored uniform of any general in the entire Confederacy, but Bragg was a general who no longer commanded any troops. Bragg had been Johnston’s immediate predecessor as head of the Army of Tennessee, but his tenure as a field commander had come to an inglorious end with the disastrous defeat at Missionary Ridge. President Davis, unwilling to completely abandon a personal friend, had defied public opinion by summoning Bragg to Richmond to be his chief military advisor.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Davis said as they took their seats across from him. “What news this morning?”
“A telegram from General Johnston arrived late last night,” Seddon said. He passed a telegram across the desk to Davis, who pulled out his glasses to read.
Secretary Seddon,
At eight o’clock this morning, the enemy launched heavy assaults all along the line. They were handily repulsed at all points. The loss of the enemy known to be great. Our loss known to be small. Our troops fought with great gallantry.
General Johnston
“Interesting,” Davis said matter-of-factly, reading through the telegram once more. “It would seem that General Johnston has finally achieved something significant in the fight against Sherman.”
“Only a defensive victory, Mr. President,” Bragg said quickly. “Nothing more. Unless Johnston follows up this success with a major counter attack, the strategic situation in Georgia remains unchanged.”
“Remains very bad, you mean.”
“Precisely, Mr. President. While I will withhold judgment until we get a more detailed report from General Johnston, my initial impression is that this was nothing more than a minor tactical victory. Sherman, having been repulsed in a frontal attack, will no doubt return to his previous tactics, forcing Johnston to retreat by using his superior numbers to outflank him.”
“Tactics which Johnston has been decidedly unable to counter,” Davis spat.
“Indeed not, Mr. President.”
Davis grunted for a moment, then glanced at the Secretary of War.
“Mr. Seddon? What do you think of this news from Johnston?”
Seddon shrugged. “I do not entirely know, Mr. President. Any victory is cause for celebration, I suppose. But I fear General Bragg may be correct. Unless this success is accompanied by a dramatic change in policy, I fear it will come to nothing.”
“I admit that I am somewhat surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Seddon,” Bragg interjected. “As I recall, you supported appointing Johnston to command of the Army of Tennessee last year.”
“I did at the time, yes,” Seddon said, with ever so slight
a hint of defensiveness. “I did not consider him ideal, but only better than the other possible choices. Aside from you yourself, Johnston was one of only four men who held the rank of full general. Lee obviously was needed in Virginia. Kirby Smith was needed in the Trans-Mississippi. To appoint that pompous blowhard Beauregard was clearly unthinkable. Johnston was the best available choice at the time.”
“I am afraid that it might have been the wrong choice,” Davis said. “In view of what has happened since the opening of the campaign in Georgia, I might have preferred having Beauregard in command, pompous blowhard or not.”
Seddon and Bragg laughed, though a more perceptive man than Davis could have sensed that neither found the comment particularly funny.
The President went on. “Why is it that every time Grant attempts to outflank Lee in Virginia, Lee intercepts him and fights him to a stalemate, while every time Sherman outflanks Johnston in Georgia, Johnston simply retreats?”
Bragg shrugged. “I wish I could answer the question, Mr. President. Lee is made of sterner stuff than Johnston, by God.”
“According to the letters I have been receiving from General Hood, Johnston has passed up several opportunities to launch a counter attack against Sherman. I am beginning to suspect that the man will refuse to attack no matter how favorable the circumstances might be.”
“Unwillingness to be aggressive is a sure way to ensure defeat, Mr. President,” Bragg said.
“Precisely.” Davis pursed his lips and shook his head. He turned to the map on the wall. “Mr. Seddon, how far is the front line in Georgia from the city of Atlanta?”
“Less than twenty-five miles, if I recall correctly.”
“I will confess, gentlemen, that if we lose Atlanta, the game may well be up.”
The eyebrows of both Bragg and Seddon shot up at these words. It was highly uncharacteristic of Davis to express doubt about the ultimate success of the Confederate cause. Davis gestured at the map.
Shattered Nation Page 5
