Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Respectfully, sir, I do. I believe standing our ground on the north side of the river risks disaster. We should immediately retreat to the south bank.”

  Johnston looked around at his assembled commanders, who waited for him to speak. Unknown to any of them, his mind was racing. For reasons he was not yet prepared to tell them, Johnston actually wanted to withdraw to the south bank of the Chattahoochee. He wanted Sherman to get onto the same side of the river as Atlanta, so long as he crossed to the north, rather than the south, of the present Confederate position.

  Johnston also knew what game Hood was playing. If the Army of Tennessee was withdrawn to the south bank, Hood would falsely tell President Davis that he had opposed a retreat on which the army commander had insisted, even though the exact opposite was true. Such a communication might be enough for Davis to remove Johnston from command.

  Johnston did not know what to do.

  Hardee and Stewart glanced at one another, obviously confused as to why Johnston had been silent for so long. The Virginian finally looked up.

  “The conference is over, gentlemen. Return to your commands and await my orders.”

  *****

  July 9, Morning

  Davis and Bragg listened quietly as Senator Hill recounted his conversation with General Johnston and the other senior officers of the Army of Tennessee. It had taken him a week-and-a-half to reach Richmond along the Confederacy’s dilapidated rail system.

  “I concluded the conversation by asking him directly to say what he needed to win the campaign,” Hill was saying.

  “If Johnston’s reports to me are any indication, his answer involved sending General Forrest’s cavalry to attack Sherman’s supply lines,” Bragg said.

  Hill nodded. “As a matter of fact, that is precisely what he said. So, Mr. President, on behalf of the citizens of the state of Georgia, I request that this order be put into effect without further delay. Forrest should be sent to attack Sherman’s supply lines forthwith.”

  Davis removed his glasses and rubbed his temples, nursing a pounding headache. He was quiet for some time before responding to Hill. When he did, he gestured to the map on the wall.

  “As you can see, Senator Hill, Mississippi is threatened by the Yankees as well. They have twenty thousand troops in Memphis, whereas we have a mere nine thousand men in northern Mississippi to oppose them. If we send Forrest to attack Sherman’s supply lines, the Yankees might easily overrun the state, losing us valuable territory that includes, I might point out, the very farmland that keeps Johnston’s troops fed. Furthermore, many of our Mississippi troops serving with both Lee in Virginia and Johnston in Georgia might desert the colors and return to their homes if they feel their families are in danger.”

  Hill nodded. “I see. Johnston did not seem overly concerned with Mississippi, I must admit.”

  “I would think not. He cares only about his own department.”

  “Are there any other cavalry units which might serve as a substitute? Morgan’s men in southwestern Virginia, perhaps?”

  Davis shook his head. “Morgan recently launched a raid into Kentucky which turned out to be a disastrous failure. They are currently in no condition to undertake another major operation. The simple fact is that if Johnston is to defeat Sherman, he must do it with his present force.”

  “I must state to you, in all frankness, that he did not seem confident in his ability to defeat Sherman with his present force.”

  “But why not, I ask you? If his reports of inflicting heavy casualties on Sherman since May are true, then the Union army must be significantly weaker in strength that it was at the commencement of the campaign. We have already sent him over ten thousand infantry as reinforcements, stripping essential theaters of war to do so. If he is being truthful when he claims that his army has avoided high losses, his own army should be stronger now than it was at the beginning of May.”

  Hill thought for a moment and nodded. “I can’t argue with that, Mr. President. Mathematical logic, you might say.”

  Bragg spoke up. “And there is no reason to think that Johnston cannot use his own cavalry for an attack on Sherman’s supply lines. Indeed, we have received word from General Wheeler himself that he has repeatedly asked Johnston for permission to raid the enemy supply lines, only to be denied.”

  Hill’s eyes widened. “That certainly was not something I was told when I met with Johnston. Wheeler was present, but told me no such thing.”

  “He would not have been willing to speak out of turn in front of his commanding officer,” Bragg replied. “Military protocol, you see.”

  “Tell me,” Davis said. “How long did Johnston say he could hold out on the north bank of the Chattahoochee?”

  “A month. Perhaps longer.”

  Without a word, Davis slid a piece of paper across the desk to Senator Hill. It was the latest telegram from Johnston’s headquarters. Hill put on his reading glasses and quickly scanned through the document.

  President Davis,

  Last night the enemy crossed the Chattahoochee River several miles north of our position. They immediately entrenched, making an attack inadvisable. In consequence, the Army of Tennessee are withdrawing to the south bank of the river in order to avoid being outflanked.

  General J. E. Johnston

  “Johnston is withdrawing to the south bank already?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Davis said tiredly.

  “So,” Hill said. “Rather than hold the north bank for more than a month, Johnston managed to do so for little over a week.”

  “That is correct.”

  Hill pursed his lips tightly. “I can’t speak intelligently on military operations, Mr. President. I’m a politician and not a soldier. But I must admit to feeling deceived.”

  “Tell me, in all frankness, what you think of Johnston’s will to fight.”

  Hill exhaled deeply, thinking before answering. “My impression was that he is a general more concerned with not losing than he is with winning. In certain situations, this might be admirable. But in the present context, I believe that we must value boldness over caution. Times like these call for a Scipio rather than a Fabius.”

  Davis nodded. “I agree. My greatest concern is that Sherman will now move to cut Atlanta’s rail links with the rest of the Confederacy and that, rather than fight, Johnston will simply abandon the city.”

  “It is not inconceivable, Mr. President,” Hill answered. “And losing Atlanta would be a catastrophic blow to our cause, perhaps equaling the evil consequences stemming from the loss of Vicksburg. Or even New Orleans.”

  Davis stood up and stepped toward the map. “It would be worse than either of those losses, severe though they were. If Atlanta falls, Lincoln will be able to claim that the Yankee war effort is making progress, thus contributing greatly to his chances of reelection in November. We can win the war only by outlasting the Yankees and inflicting such losses upon their armies that Lincoln is turned out by the voters.”

  “And do you think this is possible?” Hill asked.

  “It’s not only possible, but likely. The North is war-weary, and on all other fronts we are successfully resisting their armies of conscripts. Lee is continuing to hold the lines around Richmond and Petersburg. By God, he has even been able to detach an entire corps to cross into Maryland and threaten the enemy capital itself!”

  “I was entirely unaware of that,” Hill said with admiration. “General Lee never ceases to astonish me. If Johnston had but a fraction of Lee’s boldness, I would have no fears for the future of Atlanta.”

  “Nor would I,” Davis said, sitting back down. “If things continue to go as they have gone for the past few months, Lincoln will lose in November and an administration more inclined to peace shall be set up in Washington. If that happens, I believe the independence of our Confederacy is assured. But if Johnston abandons Atlanta, all will be lost.”

  “Mr. President,” Hill said, speaking carefully. “Have you considered
replacing Johnston?”

  Davis nodded, sitting back down. “You are not the first person to suggest this to me. And with the recent news that he has withdrawn to the south side of the Chattahoochee, my inclination in that direction are increasing.”

  *****

  July 9, Afternoon

  It felt good to be alone for a change. Having given the necessary orders to his corps commanders for an orderly withdrawal to the south bank of the river, Johnston had felt comfortable leaving the headquarters in the capable hands of Mackall and venturing off on his own for a few hours.

  He had decided against an immediate counter attack. Instead, Johnston had decided to pull the entire Army of Tennessee to the south bank of the river and deploy it in a line running west to east a few miles north of Atlanta. It would take several days for the Yankees to get all of their men across the river, so the chances of any serious fighting for the next week or so were remote.

  Johnston was riding slowly through the woods north of the defenses of the city, with only his horse for company. Lee had Traveler, Stonewall Jackson had had Little Sorrel, but Johnston had never taken to any one particular mount. Instead, he simply got into the saddle of whichever horse his staff happened to provide for him on any given day. He did not even know the name of the horse he was riding, but it seemed friendly enough.

  He rode north for a considerable distance. The area was densely forested and it became difficult to see more than a few hundred yards in any direction. Insects buzzed about and filled the forest with their eerie sounds. He spotted an occasional deer or wild turkey and wondered how they had escaped the ravenous hunger of his fifty thousand men.

  The heat was oppressive, but he enjoyed the fresh air and the feeling of being liberated from the prison of his headquarters. Without having reports shoved across his desk every five minutes, he could reflect on the situation more clearly.

  Johnston had known for a long time, perhaps even before the campaign had begun, that he could not hold the Yankees on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River indefinitely. Sooner or later, Sherman had been certain to get a large force onto the southern bank. Johnston might have attempted to maintain a foothold on the north side, but if the plan he had devised was to have any chance of success, he would need to have the entire Army of Tennessee concentrated into a single, solid force on the south bank of the river.

  He said a silent prayer of thanks to God once again that the eventuality he had most dreaded had not come to pass. Sherman had crossed the river upstream from Atlanta, rather than downstream; he had gone around the Confederate right flank, rather than its left. That seemingly innocuous fact, combined with the realities of the local geography, could well determine the outcome of the war.

  Johnston continued north, feeling more serene than he had since the beginning of the campaign. He knew that he would soon he going into battle against a strong and dangerous foe, led by a crafty commander whose forces considerably outnumbered his own. He knew that President Davis distrusted and despised him and was almost certainly planning on removing him from command. He knew at least some of his own subordinates were actively subverting the operations of his army. Yet despite all this, Johnston felt strangely untroubled.

  God was in control. Of that Johnston had no doubt. Though he had always been an Episcopalian, he had admitted to himself a few months before that his faith had not been as strong as it should have been. He had not felt the presence of God in his life in some time. But when the campaign had begun in early May, Johnston had been seized by a strange feeling that his actions were being directed by a higher power.

  He had mentioned this to his wife Lydia, who had responded by writing a letter to General Leonidas Polk, one of his corps commanders. Polk had been an Episcopalian bishop before the war and had continued to perform sacramental duties. The night before the attack on Cassville was supposed to have been mounted, he had approached Johnston and shown him the letter from Lydia in which she asked Polk to baptize her husband. He readily agreed.

  With Hardee and Hood standing as witnesses, the headquarters illuminated only by the flickering light of a few candles, Polk had momentarily discarded the uniform of a Confederate general and donned the robes of a bishop. Johnston had knelt and received the sacrament, feeling cleansed of his sins. It had been one of the most deeply solemn and moving moments of Johnston’s life.

  It had also made it all the harder to bear the death of Polk, killed two weeks before the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain by Union artillery fire. Johnston had not been especially impressed with Polk’s military abilities, but he had been a good man and a good friend. He had helped bring Johnston closer to God.

  Johnston recalled cradling Polk’s body, which had nearly been torn in two by the enemy cannonball. Later, he had discovered a blood-splattered piece of paper in one of Polk’s coat pockets, on which the bishop-turned-general had jotted down a poem before he had been killed.

  There is an unseen battlefield,

  In every human breast,

  Where two opposing forces meet,

  And where they seldom rest.

  Yes, whatever happened was God’s will. That thought gave Johnston comfort. He would, of course, do his best, for he was deeply committed to the Southern cause and hoped to live to see an independent Confederacy. If he failed, if would be through no fault of his own. He would have the satisfaction of knowing he had done his best. But he did not expect to fail.

  His horse whinnied ever so slightly, alerting its master that there was an obstacle ahead. Johnston wasn’t surprised. Indeed, he had been expecting it. A few moments later, he was riding along the edge of a large creek with a rocky and uneven bottom. Green, foamy moss coagulated along its muddy banks. The water itself did not appear deep. Indeed, Johnston was relatively sure that the water wouldn’t have reached his waist. But the banks of the creek were quite steep, in some places as much as ten feet.

  Johnston rode along the creek for some time, deep in thought. It ran for miles, flowing from east to west until it reached the Chattahoochee River. Along its entire length, it maintained its disjointed character of uncertain depth and steep, uneven banks.

  He smiled. The creek would suit his needs perfectly.

  Perhaps an hour later, having seen all that he needed to see, he turned his horse south and kicked it into a trot. Before the sun disappeared over the western horizon, Johnston was back at his headquarters.

  The creek was Peachtree Creek.

  *****

  “Who are you?” the staff officer called.

  “7th Texas!” Captain Collett called back. “Granbury’s Brigade! Cleburne’s Division!”

  The man glanced briefly down at the orders in his hands. “Okay. You can go ahead and cross.”

  Collett turned to his men, who were arranged in a marching column on the road leading up to the bridge. “7th Texas! Forward! March!”

  The men shouldered their Enfields and stepped off. Within moments, the crunching sound of their feet on the grassy clay soil was replaced by the thunking sound of marching on the wooden planks of the pontoon bridge. On either side of them, the vast expanse of the Chattahoochee spread out like a romantic painting. Along with the rest of the army, the men of the 7th Texas were abandoning the north bank of the river.

  “What the hell is this about?” Private Pearson said, to no one in particular.

  McFadden hoped that no one would respond, but Private Montgomery did.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Pearson?”

  “Why are we retreating again? No way the Yankees could have ever knocked us out of the line we held. I bet even old Napoleon couldn’t have taken those redoubts.”

  McFadden sighed. He doubted if Pearson knew anything at all about the campaigns of the Emperor of the French.

  The regiment continued marching over the bridge. Pearson was still talking. “I’m getting fed up with this, boys! We’ve retreated damn near every day since we left Dalton back in early May. Every time we fight the Yankee
s, we whip them. We whipped them at Dug Gap, we whipped them at Resaca, we whipped them at Pickett’s Mill and we whipped them at Kennesaw Mountain. But whenever we whip them, the next day, Johnston orders us out of the trenches and marching south again. Why do we keep retreating after we win all the fights? What the hell is Uncle Joe doing?”

  “Shut your mouth, Pearson!” McFadden said harshly. He didn’t much care for Johnston’s strategy of retreating either, but he was not about to allow a mere private in his company to disparage the commanding general in front of other soldiers.

  “What, Sarge?” Pearson said, adding to McFadden’s irritation. “Am I wrong?”

  “It’s not for you to criticize our commanding general, Private,” McFadden said. He emphasized Pearson’s rank as clearly as he could. “You say one more word about it and I’ll shove you right off this bridge.”

  Up at the front of the regiment, Captain Collett heard the exchange and glanced backwards. Seeing that McFadden was dealing with the situation, he looked forward once again and gave the matter no more thought.

  “What’d I do to make the sergeant so upset?” Pearson asked Montgomery, doing his best to sound aggrieved. “I’m just talking, is all.” He said this just loudly enough for McFadden to be able to hear it.

  Montgomery grinned. “The sergeant has got other things on his mind than the war, you know. Like that fine-looking gal he saved from drowning the other day.”

  The men of Company F laughed, but their good-natured tone convinced McFadden that it was not really laughter at his expense. His first thought was to upbraid Montgomery the same way he had just upbraided Pearson. However, he rather liked Montgomery and therefore kept quiet.

  Besides which, what Montgomery had said was far from false. McFadden had scarcely been able to stop thinking about Annie Turnbow since he had rescued her three days earlier. The night before, he thought he had dreamed of her beautiful face, but could not be sure. His dreams had always been rather troubled and he usually tried not to think about them. To dream about Annie was a refreshing change.