Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “My men are enjoying their meat, Captain. Any chance we could get some more tomorrow?”

  “Probably not,” Collett said. “Getting closer to Atlanta has eased the supply situation a bit. So I’m told, anyway. But the commissary people are sitting tight on the meat. Rumor is that Uncle Joe is preparing to withstand a siege of Atlanta and wants to conserve the food as much as he can.”

  “So it’s back to cornmeal tomorrow?” McFadden did not find this a pleasant prospect at all.

  “Cornmeal it is, I’m sorry to say. But that’s better than the blue beef, don’t you think?”

  McFadden’s stomach nearly revolted at the memory of the spoiled gunk he and the men had been forced to eat during December and early January, when the supply system of the Army of Tennessee had nearly broken down completely. It had been so rancid that many men had been willing to go hungry rather than eat it. When Johnston had assumed command of the army, one of his earliest priorities had been to improve the supply of food for the men. The blue beef had soon vanished, replaced by decent rations, and for that the men of the army had been deeply grateful to Johnston.

  “Who’s on the picket line today, Captain?” McFadden asked. Their regiment had done picket duty the day before, so hopefully they might have some time behind the line.

  “The 10th,” Collett replied. “The 6th/15th will be out there tomorrow, though. Still, the Yankees could come at any time. Make sure your men are ready.”

  “They will be.”

  Collett sighed and looked away to the north, though nothing could be seen through the dense forest. “Sherman’s been quiet lately. I’m betting he’ll move soon. We could see action at any time.”

  McFadden nodded. The brief interlude since crossing the Chattahoochee had been welcome, and had allowed the men some time to rest and refit, but it was obviously going to come to an end soon. Old soldiers like McFadden and Collett could sense it, just as a farmer could sense a gathering storm.

  Cleburne’s division, along with all the units of Hardee’s corps, was deployed in a line running from west to east a few miles north of Atlanta. As far as McFadden and his comrades knew, Stewart’s corps was off to the west and Cheatham’s corps was off to the east, leaving Hardee’s men in the center. When Sherman and his Yankees finally made their big push on the city, they had no doubt that they would be in the thick of the fight.

  “Bragg’s in town,” Collett said. “Or so rumor has it.”

  “That’s too bad, sir,” McFadden replied. There was no love lost between Braxton Bragg and the rank-and-file of the 7th Texas Infantry. “What is he doing here?”

  “Nobody knows. Nothing good, I reckon.”

  McFadden sneered. “Bragg’s as cold a bastard as they come. Remember the day he was removed from command? The men celebrated deep into the night.”

  “I remember,” Collett replied. “If you treat the men under your command like scum, why should you expect them to fight for you? I lay the blame for the fiasco at Missionary Ridge right at Bragg’s door, sure as hell.”

  McFadden grunted agreement. As far as the men of the 7th Texas were concerned, to say nothing of the rest of the army, Braxton Bragg had driven them like a teamster drove cattle rather than led them like a commander leading soldiers. Joseph Johnston was an infinitely better man.

  A rider approached, whom McFadden took to be a messenger. He reined in before them and saluted.

  “Captain Collett?” he asked.

  “I am,” Collett said, returning the salute.

  “Message for you, sir.” The man handed Collett a folded piece of paper and, without another word, kicked his horse back into a trot and disappeared down the road.

  Collett unfolded the letter and began reading. For some reason, he glanced up at McFadden with a mischievous smile on his face.

  “From General Granbury,” he said. “Well, this is certainly interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about you, actually.”

  “Me?” McFadden had no clue why his brigade commander would be sending his regimental commander a message about him. He was just a sergeant, after all. He suddenly worried that he was somehow in trouble and tried to think of anything he might have done which could have earned the displeasure of the brigade commander. Nothing came to mind.

  “Remember that fellow you saved from the river the other day? Him and his daughter?”

  “Of course.” McFadden could not have forgotten Annie Turnbow even if he had tried. Part of him had wanted to forget, for useless thoughts about beautiful women had no place in the midst of a war. Still, another part of him had held on to the memory of the final smile she had cast at him as she had left.

  “Well, apparently this Turnbow fellow wishes to thank you for rescuing him and his daughter by inviting you to dinner at his home in Atlanta. He did not know exactly how to reach you, so he contacted General Granbury.”

  “I’m sorry?” McFadden said, stunned. What on earth could Robert Turnbow want with him? After two months in the trenches, fighting and marching across practically all of northern Georgia, the idea of sitting down to a dinner in a civilian home in Atlanta seemed ludicrous.

  “I say, this fellow’s name is Robert Turnbow?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” McFadden said. He was trying to process the import of the message.

  “You’re aware that he’s one of the wealthiest men in Georgia, aren’t you? Hell, half the cannons in the Army of Tennessee were probably made in his foundry.” Collett smiled and smacked McFadden’s shoulder. “Looks like you made friends with the right fellow!”

  “I’m not sure what to say about this, sir. Obviously, there is no way I can go.”

  Collett looked at him quietly for a long moment, studying him carefully. McFadden found this somewhat unsettling. He knew how distant he kept himself from other people, but Collett surely knew him better than anyone else. What was going through the man’s mind?

  “No, you can go.”

  McFadden’s face betrayed his confusion. “But you just said that the Yankees could move forward at any time. My place is with my company.”

  “We’re close enough to Atlanta that it should be all right. For all we know, Sherman won’t make his move for another week or so. You can be in Atlanta inside of two hours. You can borrow one of the horses. Leave in the morning, have dinner, and then come back. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Suddenly, the full implication of the message began to weigh on McFadden. The idea of sitting down to an elegant dinner in the home of a wealthy man filled him with an anxiety greater than he had ever felt when faced with a line of Yankee muskets. He was a rough man from the Texas frontier. He was a mere sergeant, not an officer. Anyone else sitting at the table would dismiss him as a country bumpkin, especially the lovely Annie.

  “My uniform is a disgrace.”

  “You can borrow my dress uniform. You and I have about the same build, after all.”

  “I can’t go, sir.”

  “You can and you will. After all, McFadden, if you decline the invitation, you will be ignoring the wishes of the brigade commander.”

  “Please, sir, I don’t wish to go.”

  “Sorry, James. You’re going.” The strong words were belied by the smile on Collett’s face.

  *****

  July 13, Evening

  Hood frowned as he pondered the matter before him. As near as he could tell, the message had something to do with which road a wagon train was to take in order to deliver rations to his men. Hood knew little and cared less about such administrative matters. He set the paper aside, confident that some staff officer would deal with it in good time. Meanwhile, he had more important things on his mind.

  He returned his attention back to the letter he was writing to Sally Preston. On the whole, his words seemed wholly inadequate. He certainly did not fancy himself a Shakespeare or a Byron, but surely he could do better than the drivel he had thus far accumulated on the page. He took up the paper, crumble
d it into a fist-size mass, and contemptuously threw it away. It was the third time he had done so over the past hour.

  He thought back to the day he had first set eyes on Sally Preston, back in March of 1863. He had been a full-formed man then, strong and powerful, commanding the division widely considered to be the best in General Lee’s army. Hood and his men had been moving through Richmond on their way to rejoin the Army of Northern Virginia after having been on detached duty. The march through the city from one train depot to another had become an impromptu parade, with thousands of Richmond residents lining the streets to cheer the brave men of Hood’s division.

  Riding at the head of the column, Hood had recognized the familiar face of Mary Chesnut among the crowd and had naturally trotted over to say hello. When he had seen the young, beautiful Southern belle standing next to Mrs. Chesnut, he had become immediately transfixed. Some women manifested female sensuality by their very being; Sally Preston was certainly one of these. Hood had instantly decided that he had to have her and since that day his obsession with her had only increased.

  The courtship had not been smooth, to say the least. Sally at first declined Hood’s calls at her home. Even after the two of them began to spend time together, Sally insisted on keeping Hood at arm’s length, though she never actually rejected him. Sally’s parents considered Hood no better than a bumpkin and had made it clear that they had no intention of allowing her to marry an unsophisticated provincial from Texas. At every awkward proposal of marriage, Sally had managed to evade giving a plain answer, employing her infinite reserves of coyness.

  Following the Battle of Gettysburg, when his division was hurriedly moving by rail to join the Army of Tennessee prior to the Battle of Chickamauga, Hood had seen Sally again. Upon receiving yet another evasive reply to a proposal of marriage, Hood had decided to be as bold off the field as he was on it. He simply declared to Richmond society that he and Sally were engaged. Horrified, she had insisted that they were not. The gossip mongers of the Richmond evening party circuit had had a field day.

  It had not been until the next winter in the capital, while Hood was recovering from the loss of his leg and was being lionized by Richmond society as a wounded knight, that a clear engagement between the two had finally been established. Some wagging tongues said that Sally had only surrendered out of pity for the shattered warrior.

  Now, six months later, the marriage still had yet to take place and Hood continued to feel he was on shaky ground. Sally’s parents continued to firmly oppose the match and rumors had reached Hood of Sally’s continued flirtations with other men.

  As these thoughts floated through his mind, Hood’s face tightened. He was consumed by a determination to achieve something which would finally silence Sally’s parents and convince Sally to give herself completely and utterly to him. Before he could do that, he had to climb above the rank of a mere corps commander. Joseph Johnston was an obstacle that had to be removed.

  A courier arrived. It was a man Hood did not recognize, and he was wearing civilian clothes. These unusual circumstances alone were sufficient to make Hood pay special attention to the message he was handed.

  General Hood,

  I have arrived in Atlanta and wish earnestly to meet with you as soon as possible. It goes without saying that absolute discretion must be observed. Please inform me of the best time and place at which you and I may meet.

  General Bragg

  Hood’s heart suddenly raced. He had to resist the temptation to reach for his laudanum. Below the message was scrawled the name of the hotel in Atlanta where Bragg was staying. Immediately, Hood sent one of his aides with a message to Bragg, telling him that he would be welcome at his corps headquarters at any time.

  Johnston was in trouble; that much was clear. It had been obvious for weeks. Jefferson Davis had hated Johnston for years. The long retreat from Dalton to the outskirts of Atlanta had surely only stoked the fire of the President’s discontent. Now that the rumors of Bragg’s arrival had been proven true, it could only mean that the President was on the verge of removing Johnston from command of the army.

  Obviously, the man who would replace Johnston could only be Hardee or Hood himself. Stewart, the third corps commander, had only just been promoted and was therefore not likely to be considered. Nor were there any prominent generals from outside the Army of Tennessee who could be called upon for the job. Longstreet was still recovering from the severe wound he received in the Battle of the Wilderness, Kirby Smith was far away in the Trans-Mississippi, and Robert E. Lee was obviously needed with his own army.

  The decisive battle for Atlanta was likely to be fought within a matter of days. Hardee and Hood had to be the only conceivable choices.

  Hood knew that Bragg detested Hardee, who had wasted no effort in maligning him during Bragg’s tenure as army commander. If Bragg was to be the decisive voice in making the decision, as seemed likely because of his presence in the city, Hood figured his chances of gaining the command were excellent.

  A sudden rush of excitement filled him and this time he did reach for the laudanum. After all, since Bragg could be expected to arrive at his corps headquarters at any moment, Hood would need to appear as calm and collected as possible.

  He looked down at the letter he was writing to Sally, and decided to put it away for the time being. It seemed better by far to wait to write her until the next day, when his situation might be much more clear. And much more to Sally’s liking.

  A few hours passed as the curtain of night descended over the Georgia countryside. Hood’s expected visitor finally arrived.

  “General Bragg is here to see you, sir.”

  “Very well. Send him in.” Hood took a deep breath as Bragg pulled back the flap of the tent and stepped inside. The interior was illuminated with the soft yellowish glow of a single lantern. Although the sun had set hours before, the air was still humid and hot.

  Outside, the only sound was the crackling of the campfire. Hood had orders his staff officers to keep people a reasonable distance away from the tent, so as to prevent anyone from overhearing what transpired.

  “General Bragg, it is very good to see you again. How are things in Richmond?” He had considered offering Bragg whiskey, but decided against it as he wanted to present as serious and professional an appearance as possible.

  “Well enough, but I fear I don’t have time for pleasantries. The President has asked me to inspect the Army of Tennessee and report to him on the military situation here in Georgia. The situation is grave and I believe it necessary for you and I to be as open and frank with one another as possible.”

  “You will get no argument from me, General.”

  “Good. Let us begin then. The President is concerned that General Johnston lacks the spirit to take the offensive and that he may, in fact, have no plan at all for defending Atlanta. What is your view? Again, I ask you to speak frankly.”

  Hood thought for just a moment before replying. “General Bragg, I am sad to say that the President is quite right. General Johnston has no spirit for the attack. Over the past few months, we have had many chances to attack the enemy when they have divided their forces or left their flanks open. However, on each occasion, Johnston failed to take advantage of the situation. Had a more aggressive general been at the head of this army, I believe we would have defeated Sherman long ago.”

  “And how have the other officers of the army reacted to this?”

  “Me and General Wheeler have constantly told General Johnston to take the offensive against the Yankees. General Stewart, too. General Hardee, on the other hand, has always gone along with Johnston’s strategy of avoiding a fight.”

  What remained of Hood’s conscience tugged at him. He knew he was telling an out-and-out lie. He also knew that it would not redound to his credit as an honorable Southern gentleman if it ever became known. He thought momentarily of Sally Preston’s voluptuous figure, and knew that achieving his objective was well worth the cost.

&
nbsp; Bragg nodded. “I see. And how would you view the prospects of success if our army were to take the offensive?”

  “The prospects of success? I think they’d be excellent. Sherman is a poor general. He makes many mistakes. Were we to attack, I believe it would be easy to take him by surprise and catch him at a disadvantage. Moreover, returning to the offensive would immediately revive the spirit of the men.”

  “In what way?” Bragg was looking at him in much the same way as a professor looks at a student under examination.

  “If the men fight only when they are protected by strong entrenchments, it saps their natural offensive spirit. Our men are Southerners, and naturally aggressive. They want to come to grips with the invader and beat him fair and square in an open field fight.”

  Bragg nodded and waved for Hood to continue.

  “I feel it worth pointing out that all the tactical successes we have gained in the campaign to date have been entirely defensive in nature. After achieving any success, such as at Kennesaw Mountain, there has been no counter attack. The enemy has been entirely left alone.”

  Bragg nodded again. “Go on.”

  “I contrast this to the men I commanded when I served under General Lee in the Army of Northern Virginia. At Gaine’s Mill, for example, I ordered my brigade to fix their bayonets and charge the enemy directly with unloaded rifles. We broke through and won a decisive victory. And, as you will recall, when I served under your command last fall, I broke the enemy line at Chickamauga using the same tactic.”

  “I remember it well,” Bragg said, smiling thinly for the first time. “And how has General Johnston responded to your advocacy of taking the offensive?”

  “I have so often urged that we attack that I think both Johnston and Hardee have come to regard me as reckless. Whenever Wheeler and I have urged an attack, Johnston and Hardee have decided to retreat. Every time, without a single exception.”