Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “And what happened to me, you ask? In the middle of the night, armed men broke down my door and hauled me away, even as my wife and children wept and begged them to leave me alone! I was tried before a military court, denied a writ of habeas corpus, found guilty of sedition, and exiled from the country! Was this legal?”

  “NO!” the crowd roared.

  “Was this Constitutional?”

  “NO!”

  “Was this right?”

  “NO!”

  He paused a moment, waiting for the tumult in the audience to die down. “But I have returned to the United States, my beloved country, and I dare King Lincoln to do anything about it. I am not afraid and I know you are not afraid, either. But we must be on our guard, friends. For even as your husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons die by the thousands in Virginia and Georgia in useless battles under incompetent generals, and even as agents of conscription scour the streets for more fresh bodies to send to the slaughter, the seeds of tyranny have been planted in these United States. Newspapers have been shut down, good men have been arrested, and the President is setting himself up to be a dictator!”

  He went on, listing the names of bloody and indecisive battles and describing the number of men killed in each.

  “What would these men have done with their lives had they not been sent like sheep to the slaughter? What does King Lincoln have to say to their wives and children?”

  Vallandigham had found his rhythm, and his speech went on for more than an hour. At every denouncement of Lincoln, the crowd cheered and waved their signs. At every mention of General Grant or General Sherman, the crowd hissed.

  He knew he would be giving speech after speech until Election Day. His campaign to bring the Lincoln administration crashing to the ground was off to an excellent start. If all went well, Vallandigham was confident that the Democrats would be victorious in the upcoming elections. If the Democrats won, so would Clement Vallandigham.

  *****

  July 11, Afternoon

  Johnston and Mackall stood on the large and elegant porch, complete with columns in the Greek revival style, of the very fine house owned by a man named Dexter Niles. They had appropriated it as the headquarters of the Army of Tennessee. Like so many other civilians, Mr. Niles had fled before the advancing Yankees. Johnston hoped the man did not mind having his house commandeered for military use. He had given strict orders that none of the furniture or ornamentation be disturbed and that care be taken not to damage anything unnecessarily. Had he known that Mr. Niles was a Yankee from Boston who had moved south only to pursue a career as a slave-trader, Johnston might not have bothered being so considerate. He considered slave-traders to be at the lowest rung of society.

  The house was a few miles north of Atlanta, roughly midway between the city and the Chattahoochee River. From somewhere off to the north, several miles away, an immense pillar of dark smoke was rising into the sky.

  “What’s that?” Mackall asked.

  “Roswell,” Johnston answered without emotion. Roswell was a small town on the riverbank near where Sherman’s men had first crossed the Chattahoochee.

  “The Yankees are burning it?”

  “So it would seem. There were a couple of textile mills there, making uniforms for the army. It seems that makes the town fair game as far as the Yankees are concerned.”

  “Bastards,” Mackall growled. “They are destroying the livelihoods of innocent civilians. Honorable men do not make war on helpless women and children.”

  “Truth, indeed,” Johnston replied. “But we shall have our revenge soon enough.”

  “Oh?” Mackall said, intrigued.

  Johnston merely nodded and turned back into the house, leaving Mackall with a perplexed look on his face. There was a sizable central hall with a large dining room off to the left and a parlor room off to the right. In both rooms, staff officers puzzled over tables strewn with maps and reports. Upstairs were three bedrooms. One had been designated for the officers, one had been set aside as Johnston’s private office and the third as his own living quarters. He strode up the steps and soon was sitting down at his desk.

  He looked down at the pile of reports. The last few days had been relatively uneventful. Sherman was steadily crossing his army to the south side of the Chattahoochee, while fortifying the opposite bank at any point where the Confederates might be tempted to cross back to the north side. Wheeler’s cavalry reports indicated that the Yankee infantry was not yet on the move. Johnston felt certain that Sherman wouldn’t begin his maneuvers against Atlanta until his whole force was across the river.

  Enemy cavalry were on the prowl, though. Wheeler reported large units of Union horsemen probing eastwards toward the railroad linking Atlanta to Augusta. Now that the two armies were beyond the geographical barrier of the Chattahoochee, the Union cavalry could range far and wide. Although Sherman’s mounted arm had been relatively ineffective during the campaign thus far, they posed a threat that Johnston couldn’t afford to ignore.

  The thought occurred to Johnston that a Yankee cavalry raid might be mounted toward the gigantic prison camp at Andersonville, a hundred miles south of Atlanta. If a few regiments of Yankee horsemen set off for Andersonville, they could reach it in a few days, perhaps arriving before Wheeler’s men would have a chance to catch up with them. Tens of thousands of Yankee captives were imprisoned there. If liberated, they might conceivably try to head north and link up with Sherman or head south to the Union base at Fort Pickens on the Florida coast. While doing so, they would likely ravage the country in a desperate bid to avoid starvation. Such a situation would bring chaos and devastation across southwestern Georgia, which had thus far avoided the ravages of war.

  Johnston considered this very unlikely, but it was not a matter that could be ignored entirely. He wrote a quick telegram to the President, suggesting that the prisoners be moved elsewhere. Handing it to an aide to transit to Richmond, Johnston gave the matter no further thought.

  He spent the next half hour dealing with various administrative issues, wrote a note to the governor of Georgia to urge speed in calling up the militia, and after much effort finally looked down at a desk clear of annoying paperwork.

  It was time.

  “Send for General Mackall!” he shouted to the guard posted outside the door. A few minutes later, the door opened and the chief-of-staff appeared.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Come in, if you please.” He gestured to the chair and Mackall sat down, closing the door behind him. “Can anyone on the other side of the door hear what is being discussed in this room?”

  Mackall’s eyes narrowed. “Not if we keep our voices down.”

  “Good, because I am about to tell you something which must be kept in strict confidence.”

  “General Johnston, I do hope I have not done anything which would cause you to doubt my circumspection.”

  “No, not at all. I know I am always able to count on you. But what I am about to tell you is much more sensitive than anything I have ever told you and I must emphasize the need for secrecy. Absolutely no one but you and myself can know about it for at least the next few days.”

  “Of course, sir.” His voice betrayed a boyish excitement.

  Johnston pointed to a line on the map. Mackall looked down.

  “Peachtree Creek.” Johnston said simply.

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “That is where we shall fight, and win, the decisive battle for Atlanta.”

  Mackall leaned back. “Well, this promises to be an interesting conversation,” Mackall said. “Go on.”

  The army commander did so, running his fingers across the map as he traced out what he was saying. “Sherman will wait until his whole army is across the Chattahoochee River before he moves on Atlanta. I have gotten a good measure of the man during the course of this campaign. I know what he is going to do. When he begins to move, he will send about a third of his force, probably the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohi
o, southeast, to cut off our rail link with Augusta and then move against the city from the east.”

  “That seems plausible enough,” Mackall said. “Cutting us off from Augusta would present a serious problem, as it would sever the most direct line of communication and transportation between us and the Carolinas, not to mention Virginia.”

  “Perhaps, but we must ignore this threat for the time being.”

  Mackall’s eyes widened. “Ignore it?”

  “Bear with me while I explain. While the two smaller Yankee armies are moving east of Atlanta, the Army of the Cumberland will march directly south toward Atlanta. Sherman has always relied on Thomas to do his dirty work while giving his beloved boy McPherson the cushy assignments. He will be using his largest army in an effort to distract us from the threat to the east. They won’t realize until it is too late that we are deliberately ignoring their actions east of the city, focusing instead on the Army of the Cumberland.”

  “I don’t understand. If the advance of the Army of the Cumberland is only a diversion, what will we gain by repulsing it?”

  “I don’t propose to repulse the Army of the Cumberland, General Mackall. I propose to destroy it.”

  Mackall’s eyes widened and his face drew back in confusion. The idea of destroying the Army of the Cumberland seemed absurd. At no point during the war had any commander, North or South, ever succeeded in completely obliterating an opposing army. And the Army of the Cumberland was one of the most formidable military forces on the planet.

  “Destroy it?” Mackall asked, stunned.

  “Destroy it. Or at least inflict such casualties on it and reduce it to such a state of disorder as to render it unfit for further action. This will be the ruin of Sherman’s campaign against Atlanta.”

  “General, forgive me for being skeptical. How can such a decisive victory be possible?”

  “Look here,” Johnston said, pointing at the map. “In order for Thomas to present a credible threat to Atlanta, sufficient in Sherman’s mind to distract us from the activities of McPherson and Schofield to the east, he has to cross Peachtree Creek.”

  “Naturally. It’s not particularly large, though. Compared to the Chattahoochee, it is a mere rivulet.”

  “Indeed, but its banks are quite steep. I rode along it for some time just the other day. It reminded me of nothing so much as the moat of a medieval castle.”

  “Go on,” Mackall said, more intrigued with every passing minute.

  “When Thomas crosses Peachtree Creek, he will be separated from the other Union armies by several miles and by a substantial geographic barrier. The moment a significantly large portion of the Army of the Cumberland is across, we shall attack. If we time the attack correctly, we will strike the Yankees before they have had time to entrench and while many divisions of the army still remain north of the creek, unable to intervene. Thomas will be caught by surprise, with his back to Peachtree Creek. It will be very difficult for him to retreat and it will be impossible for him to bring his full force to bear. If we succeed, we can utterly wreck the Army of the Cumberland.”

  “Yes,” Mackall said, slowly beginning to nod. “Yes, I begin to see what you are saying. Perhaps it is possible. We will need to execute the attack perfectly, especially in the matter of timing, and have quite a bit of luck. But yes, it could work.”

  “There’s more, William. If our plan is successful, Sherman will find his largest army destroyed or in disarray, with us closer to the crossings of the Chattahoochee than his intact units east of Atlanta. If we can beat Thomas and then advance just a few miles northward, we can cut Sherman off from his supplies and trap him on the south side of the river.”

  Mackall was silent for several moments, imagining the immense possibilities. “What you are describing to me, General Johnston, is nothing less than a plan that could win the war.”

  “I believe it to be so, William. And with God’s help, we shall succeed.”

  *****

  July 12, Morning

  President Davis could not believe the telegram he was reading.

  President Davis,

  I strongly recommend the distribution of the enemy prisoners, now at Andersonville, immediately.

  General Johnston

  He slammed the paper down onto his desk. The simple and straightforward telegram provided nothing in the way of explanation or details. He glanced up at the map. Andersonville wasn’t marked, but Davis recalled that it was about a hundred miles south of Atlanta. How could it possibly be under threat by Sherman’s army?

  Davis didn’t like to think about Andersonville. In the prison camp, roughly twenty thousand Union prisoners were contained in an enclosure designed to hold less than half that many. Scores of men were dying every day from starvation and disease. He would have liked to improve conditions for them, but with the South barely able to feed its own troops, what could he do?

  His mouth turned down into a scowl when he recalled that Confederate troops in Union prison camps were living in equally miserable conditions and dying in roughly equal numbers, despite the North having an enormous surplus of food and an outstanding transportation system. That fact did not change anything about Andersonville, of course, but it helped ease his mind somewhat.

  He shook his head, trying to focus on the matter at hand. If Johnston thought that the prison camp at Andersonville was under threat, Davis could only conclude that the commander of the Army of Tennessee was planning yet another retreat. If that were true, it could only mean that Davis’s worst fear was about to be realized. Johnston was about to give up Atlanta without a fight.

  Davis stood up, stretching his legs. He stared at the military map for some time, momentarily relishing the site of a red pin marking Jubal Early’s small army of fifteen thousand men outside Washington City, perhaps lobbing artillery shells at the White House itself. He didn’t think that Early could actually capture the Federal capital. Most likely, he would soon have to retreat at the approach of Union reinforcements. But the image of a Confederate force harassing Washington City would certainly help discredit Lincoln and hurt his chances of reelection.

  Even better, by forcing Grant to send reinforcements northward, the pressure on Lee at Petersburg had been considerably reduced. At the same time, Southern forces in the Trans-Mississippi and on the Atlantic seaboard continued to maintain their positions.

  Everywhere but in Georgia, the Confederate armies were either holding their own or bringing the fight to the enemy. Davis saw no reason that they couldn’t continue to do so. If events continued along this path, Lincoln would be kicked out of office in the fall and the incoming Democratic administration would call a cease-fire and open negotiations with the South. If a cease-fire went into effect, the war was as good as won. Political reality dictated that the fighting, once stopped, could not possibly be resumed.

  However, if Atlanta fell to Sherman, all of this would fade away like a dream in the morning. If Johnston abandoned the city, the Confederacy was doomed.

  If he did decide to replace Johnston, Davis would then have to select his successor. It could only be Hardee or Hood. Hardee seemed like the obvious choice, but he had turned down the position before and Davis felt that this indicated a lack of self-confidence. Hood was nothing if not self-confident, but Davis was uncertain as to his other qualifications.

  He needed advice. He took out writing materials from the desk drawer and began frantically scribbling.

  General Lee,

  General Johnston has failed and it seems certain he will abandon Atlanta. He recommends evacuation of the prisoners at Andersonville. It seems necessary to remove him from command at once. Who shall replace him? What think you of Hood for the post?

  President Davis

  “Mr. Harrison!” he yelled. His aide opened the door a moment later.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Davis held up the paper. “Have this sent by telegraph to General Lee at Petersburg immediately. Please be discreet about it.”

  H
arrison took the paper and left. Davis went back to the administrative minutia of the executive branch. He wrote a note to Secretary of the Navy Stephen Mallory complaining that blockade runners were not reserving half of their cargo space for government needs, despite a recent law to that effect. He signed a few new commissions for officers and commuted three death sentences for desertion. Upon reading a request from someone in Texas to lead an expedition against Colorado, he threw it in the trash, deeming such nonsense unworthy of his attention.

  An hour after Harrison had left with the telegram for Lee, he returned.

  “General Lee responded right away, sir.” He handed him a copy of the return telegram.

  President Davis,

  I regret the fact stated. It would be undesirable to remove the commander of the Army of Tennessee in the midst of the campaign. We may lose Atlanta and the army, too. But I know nothing of the necessity, being occupied with events on my own front.

  Hood is a bold fighter. I am doubtful as to whether he possesses the other qualities necessary to lead an army.

  General Robert E. Lee

  Davis read it over a few times. It was not the ringing endorsement for which he had been hoping. Quietly, he folded it up and put it in the drawer under his desk. He would have to think very hard on the matter, but knew he had little time.

  *****

  July 13, Noon

  “Mr. President,” Stanton said in a scolding voice. “I really must take issue with your behavior at Fort Stevens yesterday. You were very lucky to have emerged unscathed.”