Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Look at it. All the railroads that connect the eastern and western halves of our remaining territory on this side of the Mississippi pass through Atlanta. The city has become the linchpin of our republic. I believe losing it would be a more severe blow to us than the loss of Vicksburg.”

  Both men nodded. They recalled, as did everyone in the Confederacy who read the newspapers, how the loss of Vicksburg had brought the entire Mississippi River under Union control, cutting the Confederacy off from the states of Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana and therefore from critical sources of manpower, food, and other necessities of war.

  “It is not just Atlanta’s role as a transportation hub, Mr. President,” Seddon said dryly. “Aside from Richmond itself, it is the most important industrial center that remains under our control. If we lose Atlanta, we lose the city’s factories, grist mills, iron foundries, armories and other critical facilities. We would be deprived of much of our remaining ability to produce rifles, cannon, rail iron, armor for our ironclads, and everything else needed to keep our war effort going.”

  Davis practically shook his fist at the map. “Lee has stopped the Yankees in Virginia. Forrest is keeping them out of Mississippi and Alabama. The Union Navy can’t break down our coastal fortresses. We continue to hold our ground in the Trans-Mississippi. We can win this war, gentlemen. We need only hold out until November, after all. But if Johnston fails to hold Atlanta, the entire country could collapse.”

  Bragg’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “November?”

  “November 8, to be exact.”

  “Oh, of course,” Seddon said. “You speak of the presidential election in the North.”

  “Indeed. Everything now hinges on the election in the North. Lincoln’s popularity among his own people has never been high and it is now lower than it has ever been since the beginning of the war. His management of the war is regarded by many as incompetent, with the Yankee armies suffering heavy losses without any meaningful military gains. Outside of New England, with all its abolitionist agitators, there is little support for the Emancipation Proclamation. And opposition to the draft is increasing every day.”

  “That’s what the Yankee papers say,” Bragg said. Enemy newspapers were frequently acquired from the front lines around Petersburg due to illicit trading between the pickets of the rival armies.

  Davis nodded. “If we can continue to hold out until the fall, especially if we continue to inflict heavy losses on our enemies, then we can expect Lincoln and the Republicans to be defeated in the election. A Democratic administration will be inaugurated that will certainly be more open to negotiations with us. But if we suffer a serious military reverse, such as the loss of Atlanta, Lincoln can go to the Northern people and present it as evidence that they are, in fact, winning the war.”

  Seddon cocked his head skeptically. “I must confess, Mr. President, that I find it unlikely that the Democrats would be willing to simply let us go, especially after the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Northern soldiers.”

  “There are powerful factions within the Democratic Party who openly declare their desire for a cease-fire,” Davis said emphatically. “If these elements succeed in winning power in the November elections, anything is possible.” The President turned back toward the map again. “Assuming, of course, that we can hold Atlanta. With General Johnston at the head of the Army of Tennessee, I’m not sure that we can.”

  *****

  Major Thomas Eckert, chief of the United States War Department Telegraph Office, was having a relatively quiet day. During and after a major military event, the cramped room on the second floor of the War Department would be swamped by incoming messages, many of them requiring careful decryption. To make matters worse, various government officials would usually hang around the office at such times, demanding that the time-consuming process be sped up and ignoring protests that this was simply not possible.

  But aside from Sherman’s repulse at Kennesaw Mountain the day before, which had been a fairly straightforward piece of news, not much of any military importance had happened that day. Consequently, he had made use of his free time by borrowing some volumes on military history from the War Department library, even if he technically didn’t have permission to do so. A few telegraph operators, all of them surprisingly young, lounged about lazily, patiently waiting for the next time their machines started clicking.

  Eckert was deeply engrossed in an account of Napoleon’s victory at the Battle of Austerlitz when a familiar visitor to his office, an exceptionally tall man, poked his head in the door.

  “Am I bothering you, Major Eckert?” President Abraham Lincoln asked.

  Eckert dropped the book onto his desk and stood up instantly. “No, Mr. President. Of course not.”

  “How is this day treating you?”

  “Very well, sir. A quiet day, thus far.”

  “I see. You don’t mind if I take a peek at the latest telegrams, do you?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Lincoln smiled and nodded, in that electric way which Eckert had seen so many times and yet which he found difficult to explain. The President exchanged a few quick greetings with the machine operators, who were used to seeing him there. As Eckert pretended to go back to reading his book, Lincoln opened a drawer in the main office desk, where the telegrams were filed in the order in which they had been received. Lincoln plucked a handful of sheets, strolled over to a couch, and sat down to read.

  He went on for some time, as Eckert knew he would. Since Eckert had arrived in the Telegraph Office more than two years before, Lincoln’s visits had been an almost daily occurrence. They had evolved into a familiar routine, and Eckert had come to believe that, strange as it sounded, the President came to read the telegrams at the Telegraph Office partially as a means to relax.

  After about twenty minutes, interspersed with sighs, grumbles, and an occasional chuckle, Lincoln said the words that Eckert knew he would say.

  “Well, Major Eckert, I’m down to the raisins.” He rose from the couch, put the telegrams back in the drawer, and with a smile and nod, turned to leave.

  “Mr. President?” Eckert asked, finally getting up the nerve.

  “Yes, Major Eckert?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. For a year or so now, you have always announced that you have finished reading the telegrams by saying that you are `down to the raisins.’ I confess, sir, that I have no idea what you are talking about. Can you please explain it for me?”

  Lincoln’s head rolled back and he let out a hearty laugh. Eckert smiled, happy with himself for finally asking the question he had wondered about for so long.

  “Well, Major Eckert, I had a friend once back in Springfield, who threw a big party for his little girl on her birthday. Fifth birthday, I think. She gorged herself on a massive dinner, and polished off a whole mess of raisins for dessert. That night she got real sick and my worried friend sent for the doctor. When the doctor showed up, the dinner the little girl had eaten was in the process of, shall I say, liberating itself from her stomach. The doctor examined the refuse of the said liberation. He finally came across some small dark objects and told the girl’s parents that she was now out of danger. When asked how he knew this, the doctor merely smiled and said that she was now down to the raisins.”

  Eckert laughed lightly, somehow feeling that the joke contained some hidden piece of wisdom which an unenlightened fellow like himself could never fully understand. Abraham Lincoln seemed to glow from the inside.

  “Come to bother my telegraph operators again, Mr. President?”

  Eckert and Lincoln turned to see Secretary of War Edwin Stanton walk into the room, staring at them sternly from behind his spectacles. A newspaper was stuffed under his arm. The portly man’s beard spilled across his chest like an enormous child’s bib. Eckert found the appearance of the Secretary of War mildly ridiculous, but stood to respectful attention. Not only could Stanton be wrathful toward subordinates who failed to meet his high expectations
, but Eckert also knew that a powerful mind lurked within the man’s head.

  Lincoln laughed and responded. “You should know by now, Mr. Stanton, that I always make it a point to acquaint myself with the latest war news. Don’t rightly think there’s a better way to do that than to read the telegrams that come into this office.”

  “You can acquaint yourself with the military situation quite well enough by reading the reports I send you,” Stanton replied. “Besides, you will have seen that there has been little military news of note since your visit yesterday, aside from the knocking Sherman received at Kennesaw Mountain.”

  “It says a great deal for how hardened we have become that we now refer to a battle in which hundreds of men were killed as a `knocking.’”

  Stanton’s expression showed that he had not thought about it. “My apologies, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln waved his hand. “No matter. You are right that the war situation does not appear to have changed much in recent days. Kennesaw Mountain is just the most recent event telling us that we are well and truly stymied. In Virginia, in Georgia, and everywhere else. If we are unable to pick the locks of the rebels before November, the voters shall not be pleased with me, to say the least.”

  “I wish I could argue with you, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln nodded toward the newspaper under Stanton’s arm. “What have you got there?”

  “This? Oh, yesterday’s copy of the New York World.”

  “Ah,” Lincoln said. The periodical was staunchly pro-Democratic and hostile to the President. “And what are our Democratic friends saying today?”

  Stanton put his reading glasses on, unfolded the newspaper, and began reading.

  The reelection of the brute to whom we are compelled to give the title of President of the United States would be the most measureless disaster this country has ever seen! A worse tyrant and butcher has not been seen since the days of Caligula and Nero! Do you want endless and mismanaged war? Do you want your sons rounded up by draft officers and sent to be impaled on Southern bayonets? Do you want no markets for your produce? Do you want Negroes marrying your daughters? If so, cast your vote for Lincoln, and be counted with the traitors and fools. Debt, defeat, taxation and tyranny shall be your trophies.

  “Sounds like Vallandigham,” Lincoln commented, sounding amused and not in the least offended.

  “It is, indeed. He goes on at length. Shall I read the rest?”

  “No, thank you. I have become quite well-acquainted with Congressman Vallandigham’s literary style and feel no need to brush up on it further. The man inflicts such pain upon adjectives that I am surprised they have not yet murdered him in his sleep.”

  “I have two men watching him at the hotel he is staying at in Canada. I believe it very likely that he may soon attempt to return to Ohio.”

  Lincoln waved his hand dismissively. “Leave him be. After he was arrested for sedition last year, my greatest concern was to avoid making him a martyr. That’s why I had him kicked out of the country rather than keep him in jail. Taking a firm line with him may just make him stronger. If we don’t take him seriously, maybe the people won’t, either.”

  “Vallandigham is but the most public and visible member of these so-called Copperheads, Mr. President. There are uncounted thousands who share his views. Public support for the war is steadily eroding, with the lack of military success at the front being compounded by the agitation spread by these infidels.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “The Peace Democrats agitate so much that it makes it harder for the country to fight, then they blame us when we don’t give them an immediate victory”

  “If the Democrats win the election in November, and go ahead with their stated intention of opening negotiations with the rebels…” Stanton didn’t need to go on.

  Lincoln strolled over to the war map on the wall. Large red pins were in place at Richmond and Atlanta.

  “It seems to me, Mr. Stanton, that we are trying to unravel the equivalent of the Gordian Knot. And until we remove one of these pins, I fear the knot will remain too tight for us to untangle.”

  *****

  June 30, Morning

  “What do you think, General?”

  Cleburne carefully examined the weapon he was holding. “A Kerr rifle, you say?”

  “That’s right,” the ordinance officer replied. “Beautiful, isn’t she? And brand new. It wasn’t off the blockade runner in Mobile more than two days before they loaded it up on the train to deliver to us. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if this beauty came out of the factory in England less than three months ago.”

  Cleburne examined the muzzle. “Point four five caliber, yes? Just like the Whitworth?”

  The man nodded. “Yes.”

  “It will be hard for you to provide me with a continual supply of ammunition.” Both the Kerr and the Whitworth required a special cartridge, longer and heavier than that used in normal weapons. So much powder was required for the sharpshooting weapons that, according to the men, they felt like a mule had kicked them in the shoulder after using it.

  “We received a shipment of Kerr cartridges with the weapons. Not as much as I’d like, of course, but enough to keep your men employed for at least a little while.”

  Cleburne held the weapon up to his shoulder in a firing position, sensing its weight, feeling how easily the wooden butt of the weapon fit into his shoulder. He tried to imagine wielding the weapon in a trench that was under artillery fire. Accurate fire at a target several hundred yards away required great stability, which was incredibly difficult in the midst of combat. Steady hands were necessary.

  “Range?”

  “A thousand yards, give or take.”

  “Not quite as good as the Whitworth,” observed Major Benham, who was standing behind Cleburne.

  “No, but good enough,” Cleburne said. He had formed a special unit of sharpshooters within his division, taking the best shots from each of his brigades. These men were able to kill at an astonishing distance, regularly striking targets that were nearly a mile away. Cleburne mostly employed them against enemy artillery batteries, which helped to neutralize the Union superiority in cannon. They also had been instructed to identify and kill enemy officers whenever possible, although Cleburne’s conscience was somewhat troubled by such an unsportsmanlike tactic.

  Cleburne turned to Benham. “How many sharpshooters do we have presently?”

  “Nineteen, sir. All armed with Whitworths.”

  “Well, these newly-arrived Kerr rifles should significantly increase their firepower.”

  “How many have we been allocated?” Benham asked the ordinance officer.

  “We got twenty off the train. Orders say that your division gets five.”

  “I’d prefer more,” Cleburne said.

  The man shrugged. “What can I say, General? Orders are orders. No one else got as many as you did. All the other divisions got three. I’m not mentioning that to them, of course. Don’t want them to get jealous.”

  “Very well,” Cleburne said, satisfied. “You’ll arrange for them to be delivered to the division?”

  “They’ll arrive this afternoon, sir.”

  There was a quick exchange of salutes. A minute later, Cleburne and Benham were back in the saddle and slowly riding north. They had taken advantage of the lull in the fighting to take care of some business with the corps and army administrative officers behind the lines.

  As they rode, Cleburne quizzed Benham on a variety of subjects. Had he checked to make sure the divisional hospital was fully stocked with supplies? In the event that no rations would be forthcoming for the division, how long would their present supplies of food last? How many men had turned out for religious services the previous Sunday?

  Benham answered each question quickly and easily, which gave Cleburne great satisfaction. He was quite confident that his division was not only the best in the Army of Tennessee in terms of its fighting record, but also the best in terms of its organizatio
n and cohesion.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Benham said, turning slightly in the saddle. “The officers of the Yankee brigade that attacked General Govan’s position the other day, the ones who requested a truce because of the fire that threatened to burn their men alive?”

  “Yes? What about them?”

  “They sent over a gift to General Govan under a flag of truce the next day. Two new Colt Revolvers.”

  “Oh, that was thoughtful of them,” Cleburne said without much emotion. The fact that Govan would use the weapons to kill Union soldiers had apparently not troubled those who had given the gift. Still, such gestures of chivalry between enemies were appreciated.

  As they rode north back toward the front line, they passed through an area in which hundreds of slaves were hard at work. Without speaking, Cleburne pulled his horse to a stop, compelling Benham to do the same. For a long while, the two officers observed the work being done.

  Johnston had given orders for a new defensive line to be prepared in the likely event that the Army of Tennessee was eventually forced to withdraw from its current position on Kennesaw Mountain. The slaves, stripped to the waist, were hewing great trenches out of the red clay earth, chopping down trees in front of them to create clear fields of fire and using the logs to strengthen the defenses themselves. Although the fortifications lacked the natural strength of the high ground the Confederates currently enjoyed on Kennesaw Mountain, Cleburne was confident that his men could hold the positions against any enemy. And the work of the slaves was making them more formidable by the hour.

  One of the slaves, stopping to wipe the sweat off his forehead, looked up at Cleburne and momentarily met the general’s eyes. He looked away and went back to work before a single second had passed.

  All around the laboring slaves, whip-wielding overseers walked about slowly, carefully observing the proceedings. Cleburne could see the slaves casting glances toward the overseers as they moved about. He wondered how hard they would have worked had they not been slaves, but instead been paid for the amount of work they accomplished. Cleburne was no abolitionist, but he had never owned a slave and, being a Irishman, had never quite understood the attachment Southern men had toward the institution.