Hill nodded again, and Johnston now spoke what he knew were the most important words of the meeting.
“I believe the key to winning the campaign is to launch a large-scale cavalry raid on the railroads and destroy them, in order to deprive Sherman of his supplies. In effect, this will cut Sherman off at the knees. If we can cut the railroad, Sherman will have no choice but to retreat. Atlanta will thereby be saved.”
Johnston was silent for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. The collected officers sat quietly, but looked intently at Hill’s face to see his reaction to Johnston’s words. After a moment, the Senator spoke up, pointing to the cavalry commander.
“So, you intend to send some of Wheeler’s horsemen to attack the railroad?”
The commanding general shook his head. “Not possible,” he said emphatically. “What cavalry we have with this army is needed to screen our flanks and monitor the movements of the enemy. Sending even a small force from the Army of Tennessee would greatly hinder our ability to defend Atlanta. If an attack is to be made on Sherman’s supply lines, it must be done by another cavalry force.”
“Who?”
Johnston motioned to a staff officer, who removed the map of Georgia from the stand, revealing a new map that covered the entire Confederacy east of the Mississippi River. Johnston tapped northeastern Mississippi.
“General Nathan Bedford Forrest commands a force of several thousand cavalrymen, currently positioned here. As you know, he recently won a decisive victory at Brice’s Cross Roads, leaving Yankee forces in the region in total disarray. I see no reason why he cannot be unleashed into Tennessee or northern Georgia, to wreck havoc on Sherman’s supply lines.”
The mention of Forrest’s name caused a ripple of disquiet through the gathered generals. The man might be an effective soldier, perhaps the most brilliant the South had produced. However, he was a ruffian, as prone to violence off the battlefield as he was on it. Wheeler noticeably shifted in his chair, his discomfort apparent; the two men had a long-running feud, during which Forrest had threatened to kill him. Coming from Forrest, such a threat was very serious, indeed.
“Nathan Bedford Forrest,” Hill repeated. “For such an important mission, I can think of no one better. But can you be sure that an expedition against Sherman’s supply lines would be successful?”
“With Forrest at its head, absolutely,” Johnston said. “Recall that two years ago, during Grant’s first campaign against Vicksburg, the Yankee effort was thwarted by means of a cavalry raid on his supply depots, not by defeating him in outright battle. Confronted as we always are by superior numbers, such indirect methods of obtaining victory are the most effective.”
Hill nodded, thinking carefully. He was silent for nearly a full minute before he spoke again. “So, let me make sure I understand you, General Johnston. Because of your inferior numbers, you have little hope of defeating Sherman outright, as he will always be able to outflank your defensive positions. All that can be achieved is to delay him for a time. The only hope for victory in the present campaign is a large-scale cavalry raid against Sherman’s supply lines, preferably undertaken by General Forrest. Is this correct?”
“That is an excellent summary of the situation, yes.”
“Very well. That is the message I shall take to President Davis when I return to Richmond.” He rose from his chair and stepped forward to shake Johnston’s hand. “I thank you for giving me this briefing, which has been very illuminating.”
“I thank you for coming and wish you a pleasant journey back to Richmond.”
Senator Hill shook the hands of the other officers, briefly exchanging courteous words with them. Within a few minutes, the generals had left to return to their commands.
Johnston walked with Hill toward the buggy that would take him back to Atlanta. From there, he was planning to catch the evening train that would eventually carry him back to Richmond.
As he opened the door to the buggy, Johnston grasped Hill’s arm. “Senator, I cannot stress enough the vital importance of the cavalry raid.”
Hill nodded emphatically. “I fully understand, General. Rest assured that I shall do my utmost to persuade the President of the necessity of the expedition.”
“You have my sincere thanks.”
With a final smile and nod, Hill climbed into the buggy and, moments later, was on his way to Atlanta. As Johnston watched him go, Mackall came up beside him.
“Well, how do you think it went?” Johnston asked.
“About as good as can be expected, I suppose.”
“I hope it was good enough. We need Hill’s support with Davis. Unless Forrest is unleashed against the enemy supply lines, the fall of Atlanta may be merely a matter of time.”
*****
July 1, Evening
The steam engine of the ferryboat carrying passengers from the Canadian town of Windsor across to Detroit chugged along steadily. Most of the passengers stood quietly against the railings, impatiently waiting for the brief trip to end. Though the geographic distance was short, the journey was carrying the travelers from the British Empire into the United States.
Among the passengers leaning against the railings was former Congressman Clement Vallandigham, though he looked nothing like his widely-known public persona. During the months he had spent in exile in Windsor, he had been made aware that he was under surveillance by United States agents. Consequently, he had decided to take no chances now that he was finally returning to his country.
He had tied a pillow around his waist to increase his girth. He had applied a fake beard to conceal his face. When he had looked in the mirror before leaving his hotel, he had seen a completely different man looking back at him. Indeed, his appearance had made him think of Falstaff. With a little luck, it would be enough to fool the customs agents on the Detroit docks, who had no doubt been given orders to keep an eye out for him.
Somewhere behind him, Vallandigham could hear four men quietly conversing with one another, occasionally glancing in his direction. They deliberately stood several yards away, acting as if they did not know him. In fact, the four men were members of the Ohio Democratic Party, sent into Canada to clandestinely escort him home. All were carrying revolvers, a measure that the former congressman considered likely to do more harm than good, but he doubted they would be needed in any event. Besides, he had to admit that he appreciated the added dramatic element.
He looked across the bow and could see the houses and buildings of Detroit in the twilight. It wouldn’t be too long before the ferry reached the dock. Then, assuming he could slip past the customs officials, he would be back on American soil for the first time in more than a year.
Vallandigham was confident that his disguise would work. He had been told that his mother was dying and he wanted to be by her side before the end. But his reasons for returning to America were more than merely personal. He knew he couldn’t continue his effort to thwart the reelection of Abraham Lincoln from Canada. To be politically effective, he had to be present at the scene of the action.
Even if the customs officials saw through his disguise and arrested him, his political purposes might still be served. After all, barring a major military event, his arrest would be the big news story throughout the Union for at least a few days. The Lincoln administration would again face questions about its abuse of power, as Vallandigham was doing nothing illegal. Indeed, had never done anything that could be considered wrong except criticize the war effort. Vicious newspaper editorials from New York to Wisconsin would follow, and Lincoln’s chances for reelection would suffer yet another blow.
One of his four escorts, a man he knew only as Charles, strode up and stood beside him on the railing.
“Lovely evening, is it not?”
“Indeed.” A brief moment passed. “You can dispense with the subterfuge. No other passenger is within earshot.”
Charles nodded. “We have purchased you a train ticket that will take you from Detroit to Lima, so that y
ou can see your mother.”
“Good. I appreciate your kindness.”
“We can also arrange for you to head from there to Dayton, to see your family.”
“Thank you, but no. There is no time to lose, and the state Democratic convention will begin in Hamilton in just a few days. I shall spend one day in Lima, then head directly to Hamilton.”
“Very well, sir.”
“The Democratic National Convention is less than two months away, you know. We have to make sure that the party is united behind a peace platform and, more importantly, that the presidential candidate we put forward will be one who can defeat Lincoln.”
“And who will be the nominee?” Charles asked.
Vallandigham turned to look directly at the man and smiled impishly. “That is the question of the day, my friend.”
The man’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but he choose not to inquire further. “You’ve been in exile a long time, sir,” he said simply.
“Yes,” Vallandigham replied. “Nearly a year, in fact.” He gazed up at the darkening sky for a moment. The obvious approach of his mother’s death had made him rather more attuned to the length of time a person might expect to live. Assuming that he lived an ordinary lifespan, Abraham Lincoln had robbed him of a considerable chunk of his time on Earth. It was for more than Lincoln’s tyrannical and unconstitutional actions that Vallandigham wanted revenge.
Two hours later, having successfully bluffed his way past the customs officials, Vallandigham was on his way back to Ohio.
*****
July 2, Morning
“No question about it, sir,” Mackall said. “The Yankees are trying to get around our left flank again.” He sighed with resignation, as though he was speaking of an annoying yet inevitable infestation of summer flies.
Johnston intently read through the report that had just arrived from Wheeler. The earlier indications that Union forces were moving southward across Hood’s front had been proven correct. And rather than being a probing movement by a single division, it was now clear that several infantry corps were on the move. In all likelihood, it was Sherman’s entire army, excepting only a small force to guard the railroad.
The news didn’t come as any surprise to Johnston, for it was the obvious move for Sherman to make following his repulse at Kennesaw Mountain. “Were I in Sherman’s place, I should do precisely the same thing,” he said under his breath.
He looked over the map, tracing the course of the Chattahoochee River with his finger. If he attempted to hold a defensive position with a river to his back, Johnston knew he would be running a terrible risk. He and his army might find it impossible to retreat over the river fast enough if the Yankees were to pry them out of their fortified lines. Still, his engineers had worked hard preparing an elaborate defensive position on the north bank, and Johnston felt that there was little danger. After all, it was always best not to retreat until one was forced to do so.
“Well, General?” Mackall asked. “Shall we put into effect the plan we previously discussed?”
“Yes,” Johnston said without hesitation. “Issue marching orders that will move the army into the defensive line we have drawn here.” His tapped the map near the point where the Western and Atlantic Railroad crossed the river. “General Shoup tells me that he has brought in nearly a thousand slaves from the plantations south of Atlanta and that they have been working on the fortifications for nearly a week.”
“If that’s so, we can expect our new defensive line to be very strong, indeed. General Shoup knows what he’s about when it comes to engineering.”
“Yes,” Johnston said absent-mindedly, his fingers now tracing the south bank of the river. After a moment’s thought, he spoke up again. “William, I wonder if it might be advisable to bring one of our three corps to the south side of the river. With his superior numbers, Sherman certainly could invest our new defensive line and still have sufficient strength to detach a large striking force. If such an enemy force is able to cross to the south side of the river while our entire army remains on the north side. . .”
“We could be surrounded,” Mackall said, finishing his commander’s thought. “It makes strategic sense, General. However, I would worry that such a move would be poorly received in certain quarters.”
“In Richmond, you mean.”
“Quite so, sir. President Davis would certainly be aghast to learn that a significant portion of our army has been withdrawn to the south side of the river.”
“Do you really think I give a damn what Jefferson Davis thinks of my operations? If the man weren’t such a small-minded buffoon, I might value his opinion. But since he is, I don’t.”
“You are aware, General, that I fully share your opinion of the President’s mental acuity,” Mackall replied. “His personal animosity toward us all but guarantees that he will always assume the worst concerning our course of action. I fear it is also causing him to deny us the means to defeat Sherman.”
Johnston looked up, reading Mackall’s mind. “You believe he will withhold the order for the cavalry raid against Sherman’s supply lines purely out of spite?”
Mackall thought for just a moment before replying. “I do, sir. To be frank, I often find myself wondering if Jefferson Davis would rather lose Atlanta than have you win a victory which would do you credit.”
“I know. You’re not the first person to suggest it to me, either. It is the same as during the Peninsular Campaign of 1862 or during the campaign around Vicksburg last year.”
“The enemies in front of us are bad enough. I truly wish we didn’t have to deal with enemies behind us as well.”
Johnston snorted with contempt. He could not afford to ignore the President’s actions, since they directly impacted his ability to defend Atlanta. But neither could he call Davis out on them, since it would only result in the President immediately removing him from command. Johnston admitted to himself that he didn’t quite know what to do about Davis. For that matter, he didn’t quite know what to do about Hood. That being the case, it was best to focus on strictly military questions.
“William, after you issue the marching orders to our new defense line, draw up a set of orders for a contingency plan to bring one of our infantry corps to the south side of the river. If we do decide to implement such a plan, I want to be ready to do so immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get to it. We may not have much time.”
As Mackall began dictating the marching orders to a nearby secretary, Johnston continued to stare intently at the map. He knew that he had a knack for concealing his emotions and he was heartily glad of it on this day. For Johnston was consumed by an increasing sense of uncertainty and gloom. He admitted to himself that he had absolutely no idea what to do. No course of action his mind conjured up had a chance of preventing the fall of Atlanta. If Davis refused to order the cavalry raid, as seemed likely, all would be lost.
Briefly, he wondered what his old friend Robert E. Lee would do in his situation. But was that useful? While Johnston didn’t question his fellow Virginian’s military skill, Lee took chances that Johnston was unwilling to take. The great victories at Second Manassas and Chancellorsville should, by all rational calculation, have been catastrophic Southern defeats. As far as Johnston was concerned, Lee won his triumphs more through sheer luck than by skill.
Jealousy tugged at Johnston. Until he had suffered his wound at Seven Pines, the Army of Northern Virginia had been under his command. For just a moment, he wondered whether he might have been able to achieve what Lee had. Lee was now the great hero of the Confederacy. He was being lionized around the world as a military genius on the level of Napoleon or Caesar. Would Johnston have been able to win such glory had he not been wounded that awful day?
He shook his head. Rather than winning immortality on the battlefields of Virginia, Johnston was increasingly certain he would soon be forced out of Atlanta. He knew that he might eventually have no choice but to abandon the secon
d-most important city in the Confederacy in order to save his army. He also knew that the people of the South would never forgive him. When the history of the war was written, Johnston’s name would be remembered with scorn.
He continued to absent-mindedly scrutinize the map, not looking for anything in particular. Purely by chance, he then noticed a small rivulet south of the Chattahoochee River that meandered eastward, drawing a neat line directly north of Atlanta. It was called Peachtree Creek.
Johnston’s eyes narrowed. The wheels in his mind began to turn.
*****
July 2, Afternoon
The men of the 7th Texas lounged about behind their defenses. Not much had happened since their successful repulse of Sherman’s attack five days before, and the men had taken the opportunity to rest and recover a bit. Although food was, as ever, in short supply, there was plenty of fresh water thanks to the close proximity of the Chattahoochee River. Consequently, the men were cleaner than they had been in some time and several of them had indulged in a much-needed shave.
A few men manned the parapet line, ready to give the warning if the Yankees launched a sudden surprise attack. A few, more cautious or more clever than the others, had rigged small shaving mirrors in such a way that they could look over the parapet without exposing their heads, as they had no desire to be picked off by some nameless Yankee sharpshooter.
Sergeant McFadden sat quietly, leaning backwards against the parapet and simply waiting for time to pass. Private Montgomery was playing his fiddle by plucking at the strings as though it were a banjo, filling the air with soft and unobtrusive music. Next to McFadden, Private Harrison was taking the opportunity to write a letter to his wife. Glancing about, McFadden saw some of his other comrades engaged in the same activity. Most of the men, however, simply laid back with their eyes closed, happy to get a chance to catch up on their sleep.
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