Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “I was unaware that the purview of the Secretary of War includes acting as mother to the President,” Lincoln said with a boyish grin.

  “This is no laughing matter, Mr. President. To wander around a fort that is under attack, merely to satisfy your own curiosity, is irresponsible in the extreme. Think of the consequences to the country if anything had happened to you!”

  Lincoln simply smiled and shook his head, reading the latest telegram. Jubal Early’s Confederate raiders, apparently lacking the strength to mount a serious attack, had contented themselves with firing a few artillery shells into the city and skirmishing with the defenders of Fort Stevens. Now they were withdrawing back to Virginia. Lincoln had given orders that the raiding force be ruthlessly pursued and destroyed.

  “Well,” Stanton said. “It is no matter now that the rebels are gone. But if another such raid occurs, Mr. President, you will remain in the White House, even if I have to post guards to keep you there!”

  “Is it true that you ordered a ship on the Potomac kept at readiness to evacuate me in the event that Early had been able to enter the city?”

  “I felt it was a worthwhile precaution, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln waved his hands dismissively. “I never felt the capital was in much danger, Edwin. Early’s ragged and hungry band of men could not have penetrated the defenses of Washington once the reinforcements sent by Grant arrived.”

  “Those reinforcements arrived only in the nick of time, Mr. President. Besides which, those ragged and hungry men you describe once marched with Stonewall Jackson. Underestimating such men, rebels and slaveholders though they may be, is ill-advised.”

  Lincoln nodded, somewhat sobered. Glancing down at his desk, his eyes narrowed when he saw a letter there he had not previously noticed. He picked it up and quickly scanned it. As he did so, his face furrowed and he let out a deep sigh.

  “What is it?” Stanton asked.

  “A letter from Raymond,” Lincoln replied. Henry Raymond, a prominent New York politician who had founded the New York Times, was the Chairman of the Republican National Committee. As such, he was effectively the man in charge of the overall Republican electoral campaign.

  “Judging by the look on your face, the news he sends is not good.”

  “No,” Lincoln said simply. “Vallandigham is raising hell in New York City. He spoke to a very large crowd just a few days ago and apparently caused quite a ruckus.”

  “I’m sorry to say that it is likely to get worse before it gets better, Mr. President.”

  “Probably,” Lincoln agreed. “And I believe the rebel raid on Washington City, though it may have only been a diversion from a military point of view, will lead to more political trouble. To have a sizable Confederate force arrive on the outskirts of Washington is embarrassing, to say the least.”

  “I’ll say,” Stanton replied. “Vallandigham will make a lot of hay out of it in his upcoming speeches. Editors like Manton Marble and others will fill their editorial columns to the brink with exaggerations and outright lies about what happened.”

  “I fear that any advantage our reelection campaign has garnered by the successful crossing of the Chattahoochee River will be more than offset by the embarrassment caused by Early and his raiders.”

  “Respectfully, Mr. President, I do not believe that any event less momentous than the capture of Richmond or Atlanta will have much impact on the present political situation. The tide is quite frankly running strongly against us.”

  Lincoln nodded soberly. “I agree. Every day I receive letters from Republican leaders in every Northern state and they are becoming increasingly pessimistic. Our friends in New York seem to have almost given up hope of keeping their state out of the Democratic column in November. Pennsylvania, sadly, seems to be moving in the same direction and even my own state of Illinois is becoming wobbly.”

  Stanton shook his head. “I cannot imagine that buffoon McClellan occupying the White House. I can still picture him when he commanded the Army of the Potomac, strutting around as if he were Napoleon. If he becomes President, I see nothing but national disaster in our future.”

  “You’re not likely to be wrong there,” Lincoln said. “McClellan may claim that if he were elected President he would carry on the war until victory is won. But anyone who believes him ignores, willfully or otherwise, some basic political facts.”

  “Such as?” Stanton asked.

  “Well, McClellan will not have been able to win without the support of Vallandigham and his coterie of Copperheads, the very ones inflaming the people against me in the newspapers. Having earned their chips during the campaign, they will insist on cashing them in once McClellan enters the White House. The price of their support will be a cease-fire and an opening of negotiations with the rebels. There they will humbly ask that the rebels rejoin the Union, dangling a carrot in front of them by promising never to interfere with slavery.”

  “The rebels would immediately reject such terms,” Stanton said with conviction. “Jefferson Davis would happily be drowned in a pool of his own blood before agreeing to return to the Union, slavery or no slavery.”

  “You know that and I know that, but far too many Democrats have deluded themselves into thinking otherwise. Imagine it for a moment. A cease-fire goes into effect, negotiations are opened, and Davis rejects McClellan’s terms. What then? Do you think that the political will would exist for hostilities to be resumed? Having once again tasted peace, do you think the people would accept a return to bloody war?”

  “Certainly not, especially because Republicans and abolitionists would be unwilling to fight under McClellan’s banner in any event. If the destruction of slavery is no longer to be a condition of peace with the South, the abolitionists would no longer see the war as worth fighting. New England would, for all practical purposes, drop out of the war altogether.”

  “Precisely, Edwin.” The President shook his head. “The more I think about it, the worse it gets. If we do not capture Atlanta by the fall, I don’t see how we can win the election. And if we don’t win the election, I do not see how the Union can be saved.”

  *****

  “All out for Atlanta!”

  Bragg stepped off the train into the enormous red-brick train depot known simply as the Car Shed, where three different railroads met in the center of Atlanta. Although under the shade of the immense roof, the heat was almost unbearable. He glanced around for a moment, wanting to cup his hands over his ears to shut out all the shouting and confusion. Everywhere there were crowds of people, most clutching carpetbags or other small pieces of luggage. All were frantically trying to board any train which might take them out of the city. Most of them had fearful expressions on their faces, terrified by the approach of Sherman and his Yankee hordes.

  After seeing to his baggage, he walked to the telegraph office of the Car Shed, still clutching the carpetbag containing the reports and letters from Johnston, Hood, and Wheeler. As he walked through the door, the telegraph operator rose to attention at the sight of a man in a lieutenant general’s uniform. Bragg sensed the immense surprise and discomfort when the man recognized his face.

  “General Bragg, sir! Welcome to Atlanta.”

  “Thank you,” Bragg said without warmth. “I require you to send a telegraph to the War Department in Richmond. It must be done immediately.”

  “Certainly, sir. You can write it, or dictate it to me, as you please.”

  He took the offered piece of paper and jotted out his message.

  President Davis,

  I have arrived in Atlanta. Indications seem to favor the entire evacuation of the city. I shall proceed at once to General Johnston’s headquarters and make myself fully acquainted with the situation.

  General Bragg

  A few minutes later, Bragg climbed into a buggy which Johnston had sent for him and was on his way northwards toward Johnston’s headquarters. Judging from what he had seen at the Car Shed, he was not surprised to find that the stree
ts were nearly deserted. Every civilian with an ounce of sense had gotten out while the getting had been good. No doubt they were adding to the flood of refugees from cities like Nashville, Memphis, and New Orleans who now crowded into Richmond, Mobile, and other cities that still remained in Confederate hands.

  The smell of the Georgia air suddenly and powerfully reminded him of the time he had spent in command of the Army of Tennessee, from the early summer of 1862 to the fall of 1863. During that time, he had led it in bitter fighting in Kentucky, Tennessee and northern Georgia. He immediately pushed the memories from his mind. Whatever else he was, Braxton Bragg was not a sentimental man.

  After an hour’s ride, during which he said not a word to the driver, the buggy pulled in front of the Niles House. Having notified Johnston by telegraph that he would be coming, he knew his arrival would not be a surprise. Nevertheless, he didn’t expect his welcome to be cordial.

  Mackall was waiting for him at the door.

  “General Bragg, sir,” he said as the former commander of the army approached.

  “General Mackall.” The two exchanged professional and polite salutes, then shook hands briefly. Neither smiled.

  For six months, Mackall had served as Bragg’s chief-of-staff during the last phase of Bragg’s command of the Army of Tennessee. He considered Mackall competent enough, though the two men had never warmed to one another personally. Mackall had requested a transfer following the Battle of Chickamauga, disillusioned by Bragg’s failure to pursue the defeated Union army. But the man had resumed his duties as chief-of-staff of the Army of Tennessee when Johnston had taken command. As far as Bragg was concerned, this reflected a belief that Johnston was a better commander than Bragg. Such a personal insult could not be tolerated.

  Bragg decided in that moment that, as soon as he had taken down Johnston, he would move against Mackall. If Bragg had anything to say about it, Mackall would finish his service as the commandant of the smallest prisoner-of-war camp that could be found in some godforsaken backwater of the war.

  “General Johnston has been expecting you, sir. If you will follow me, please.”

  They entered the Niles House. The rooms on each side of the central hall were filled with the humming that a large collection of military staff officers always made as they pursued their various, arcane administrative duties. Bragg remembered the sound well, though he couldn’t help but notice that the staff officers seemed happier and more eager in their duties than they had during his tenure as commander. Bragg and Mackall walked up the stairs. A few moments later, Mackall knocked softly on the door to Johnston’s private office and opened it.

  “General Bragg has arrived, sir.”

  “Good,” Johnston’s voice said from within the room. “Please send him in. And please make sure that we are not disturbed except in a case of necessity.”

  Bragg nodded politely to Mackall and stepped inside. Johnston stood from behind his table, and the routine exchange of salutes and handshakes took place.

  “It is good to see you, General Bragg. Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. While he struggled to keep an impassive expression, Bragg seethed inside as he looked across the table at Johnston. Bragg had met Johnston countless times before, but somehow it seemed as if he were now seeing him for the first time. This was the man who had replaced him? This was the man who everyone said was the better general? This was the man who had rebuilt the army that Bragg had allegedly wrecked? He seemed like nothing so much as an vain and overblown peacock.

  On nearly half a dozen occasions during Bragg’s tenure as commander of the Army of Tennessee, a cartel of corps and division commanders had petitioned President Davis to replace him with Johnston. On each of those occasions, Johnston had defended him. Bragg did not feel the least bit grateful. Quite the opposite, in fact. Braxton Bragg was not the sort of man who needed others to do favors for him.

  Johnston nodded toward Bragg, inviting him to begin.

  Bragg obliged. “General Johnston, as you know, the President has asked me to come to Atlanta to gain a firsthand account of the situation here. I do hope I am not taking up any of your time unnecessarily.”

  “Not at all. It is obviously important for the President to be as well-informed as possible.”

  Bragg nodded. “Of course. Now, can you summarize the general military situation at the moment?”

  Johnston gestured to the map on the desk. “You’ll have had my telegrams describing the crossing of the Union forces onto the south bank of the river?” Bragg nodded and Johnston continued. “Not much has happened today, or for the past few days, for that matter. Our army is all on the south side of the Chattahoochee. Sherman has been spending the past several days crossing his entire force over the river, miles north of our present position, and building up his supplies.”

  “I wouldn’t expect him to remain idle for long. Is there any indication on when he will begin to move on the city?”

  “Nothing specific, but it must happen within the next few days.”

  “And you plan to oppose his movement, yes?”

  “Of course I plan to oppose him.” Johnston’s tone suggested that this should have gone without saying.

  Another awkward silence followed. “And what is the condition of the army?” Bragg asked.

  “Good, very good. Morale among the troops remains quite high. There has been very little straggling. We continue to field about fifty-five thousand men, and every unit is in generally good condition. Considering the arduous campaign in which we have been engaged since the beginning of May, the strength of our force is much higher, in numbers, morale, and general well-being, than we had any reasonable right to expect.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Bragg offered. “And what do you anticipate will be Sherman’s next move?”

  “I believe he will send the Army of the Cumberland, perhaps sixty thousand men, directly south toward the city. At the same time, he will send the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohio, totaling perhaps forty thousand men, southeast to attempt to cut our rail connections with Augusta.”

  Bragg’s eyebrows went up. “If they cut your rail links to the east, it could jeopardize our lines of transportation and communication between Georgia and the eastern portion of the Confederacy.”

  “Perhaps. But, of course, we shall have a bloody battle before such a thing is likely to happen.”

  Bragg’s face betrayed nothing. But inwardly he scowled at the words. He didn’t want to hear Johnston say such things, for it did not suit his purposes. The commander of the Army of Tennessee sat with an expectant look on his face, awaiting Bragg’s next question.

  Bragg removed his glasses and rubbed his sinuses. “General Johnston,” he said slowly. “I apologize, but I find myself very much exhausted from my long journey from Richmond. Would it be possible for us to resume this conversation tomorrow morning, after I have had a chance to rest?”

  Johnston’s eyes narrowed slightly in surprise, but he nodded. “Yes, that would be fine. There is much I wish to tell you, but I suppose it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “And perhaps we might be able to assemble your corps commanders as well?”

  “I see no reason why not, assuming that there is no sudden emergency.”

  Bragg smiled and stood. “Very well. I shall return at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The two men rose and exchanged salutes. Without another word, Bragg turned and left the room. Johnston watched him go, a worried look on his face.

  *****’

  July 13, Afternoon

  “So, you’d give your vote to Private Williams?” Collett asked.

  McFadden nodded. “Best shot in my company. I’ve seen him take down Yankee skirmishers from four or five hundred yards. Can�
��t speak to his being the best shot in the whole regiment, though. You’d have to talk to the other sergeants.”

  “I will, I will,” Collett said tiredly.

  “I’d hate to lose Williams, though. Not only is he the best shot in the Lone Star Rifles, but he’s often a calming influence on the other men. There is a dynamic at work with such a group, you know. I’d worry about my men getting rowdier.”

  “I know. But orders are orders. One man from the regiment is joining the sharpshooter company. We have to choose the best man.”

  McFadden nodded. It wasn’t an abstract question in his mind. He went back to the innumerable times the 7th Texas had been subjected to ferocious Union artillery fire, with Southern guns nowhere to be seen. At such times, Cleburne’s sharpshooters would come jogging up with their deadly Whitworth rifles and, within minutes, silence the offending battery by picking off the gun crews at an astonishing distance. It really was remarkable what the men could do with those weapons and it had probably saved all of their lives on more than one occasion.

  Collett stood up from his tiny desk, threw the tent flap back and strode out into the sunlight. McFadden followed. Around him, the companies of the 7th Texas were cooking their rations. They had actually received some meat that morning, rather than the usual issue of simple cornmeal, and the smell of cooking pork delighted McFadden’s senses. He made a mental note to hurry back to the encampment of the Lone Star Rifles as soon as his business with the captain was completed. Otherwise, Private Pearson was likely to sneak off with a chunk of McFadden’s lunch.

  A traffic jam was unfolding along the crude road that had been hacked through the woods near the camps of Granbury’s Texas Brigade. A wagon train had halted on account of protesting mules, who refused to move despite all the pulling and cursing of the teamsters. Behind them, an impatient limbered-up artillery battery was trying to get by, the angry shouts of the gunners adding to the cacophony. The nearby Texas infantry found the proceedings hilarious and were shouting whatever jokes they could think of at the men and animals.