Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “We shall discuss it later,” Teresa replied firmly.

  Annie’s eyes flashed and she suddenly began speaking quickly and angrily to her mother. It took McFadden a moment to realize that she was not speaking English. For a moment, he thought it was German, which was the native language of many farmers he had known from the Texas Hill Country. But it sounded rather more flowing and sharp. He immediately concluded that it had to be Polish.

  He couldn’t understand a word the mother and daughter exchanged with one another, but obviously they were quite heated. He remained awkwardly silent while the dispute went on for a minute or two, when Annie and her mother finally fell silent once again.

  Teresa turned to McFadden. “I am very sorry, Sergeant.”

  “That’s quite all right, ma’am.”

  There was a momentary pause, and McFadden suddenly felt that it was time for him to depart. He did not particularly want to leave, for despite the abrasiveness of Mrs. Turnbow he realized that he had, against his own expectations, enjoyed himself a great deal. Robert Turnbow’s warmth and obvious respect for him had been refreshing, while simply being in Annie’s presence and exchanging a few pleasant words with her had been more than worth the trip.

  He rose from the table. “I must get back to my regiment,” he said.

  “I shall walk you out,” Mr. Turnbow said, clambering up from his chair.

  McFadden turned to face Annie and her mother. “I thank you fine ladies for a lovely evening.”

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” Teresa said without enthusiasm.

  Annie gave him a beaming smile. “I do hope I see you again soon.”

  “And I, you, Miss Turnbow.”

  Mr. Turnbow and McFadden walked toward the front door. He made sure that McFadden remembered to take the biography of Thaddeus Kościuszko with him, then guided him outside.

  “Thank you for a fine evening, sir,” McFadden said.

  “And thank you once again for saving my life. If there is anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”

  McFadden hesitated for just a moment. “There is one thing, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “May I have your permission to write to Annie?”

  Mr. Turnbow drew himself up, looking suddenly surprised and uncertain. The words of Mrs. Turnbow, dismissing McFadden as a mere sergeant and not a proper officer, came back abruptly. McFadden wondered if he had just made an unforgivable error.

  “Write to my daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For what purpose?”

  McFadden paused uncertainly for a moment. “Well, I suppose because I have no one else to whom to write.”

  Turnbow nodded, seeing this as an acceptable answer. “I see no reason why you may not write her, McFadden. After all, you will need to discuss the provisions.” The words were spoken without a noticeable tone, but they lifted McFadden’s heart.

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  *****

  July 16, Morning

  Hood poured Wheeler another glass of whiskey as the cavalry commander continued to happily recount the story of his raid on Harpeth Shoals in early 1863. He had begun the story about ten minutes earlier, right after Hood had finished regaling Wheeler with an account of his own actions during the Battle of Sharpsburg in September of 1862.

  With a hearty laugh, Wheeler finished his story by telling Hood how many hundreds of enemy prisoners he had taken on the raid. He then cheerfully took the proffered glass of whiskey and drank a third of it in a single gulp.

  “Well,” Hood said. “I think it likely that you will soon have more stories of martial heroics to tell our friends.”

  “Yes,” Wheeler replied. “My scouts are telling me that the Yankees are finally moving again.”

  “Major fighting will resume within the next few days, I reckon. Your boys should have more than their fair share of fights with Sherman’s troopers in the coming weeks.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Wheeler said with frustration. “I’m sick and tired of doing nothing but screening Johnston’s flanks and sending back reports on where the Yankee divisions are. My boys want action and they want it now. We’re sick of being scouts.”

  “Scouting doesn’t get your name in the paper, does it?”

  “No.”

  “My boys want action just as much as yours do. They’re damn tired of sitting in trenches.”

  “Do you think Johnston has any plan to deal with Sherman?”

  Hood shook his head. “If he does, he hasn’t told me. No, I’ll tell you what will happen. He’ll fall back into the Atlanta defenses, Sherman will come up and invest the city, a few Yankee corps will move around toward our railroads, and Johnston will retreat. Simple as that. We’ve seen it all before.”

  “I agree. I only hope that whatever Bragg has told the President will jar him into doing something about the situation out here. With Johnston at the head of the army, we can’t expect anything good.”

  “You really think Davis will remove him? It’s a serious business to replace a commanding general right before a major battle.”

  “We had Bragg’s ear during his entire inspection tour. He barely said a word to Hardee, Stewart, or anybody else. Whatever he told the President in his report, it was based solely on what you and I told him.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “About as certain as I can be about anything. Now that the Yankees are moving, I expect to hear word from Richmond that old Uncle Joe is out of a job.” Wheeler smiled at what was, for him, a very pleasant thought.

  Hood tried to keep his tone neutral. “And you think Hardee will be appointed in his place?”

  Wheeler shook his head. “Not if Bragg has anything to say about it. You weren’t here when Hardee served under Bragg’s command. You can’t know the depths of the loathing between those two men. I expected them to fight a duel more than once.”

  “I have only heard about it secondhand. But I could sure see it in their eyes two days ago.”

  “Besides, I don’t think very highly of Hardee. He can fight a good battle now and then, but mostly he’s a stuffed shirt. Been riding his reputation from before the war for too long, if you ask me.”

  “I see,” Hood said. “So, if Johnston is removed from command and Hardee is not going to succeed him, who is?”

  Wheeler turned and smiled at him. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that as well as I do.”

  Hood chuckled. Wheeler was right. If Johnston was going to be removed and Hardee was not going to be put in his place, then Hood was the only person Richmond could possibly appoint as the commander of the Army of Tennessee. No other general of comparable seniority was available and his own friendship with President Davis would surely have shifted the scales in Hood’s favor even if there had been.

  Hood felt like a Crusading knight who was about to be given a magnificent suit of armor and weaponry with which to go forth and battle the heathen. He had achieved glorious victories at the head of his brigade and division in the Eastern Theater, so what might be possible for him to achieve at the head of an entire army? Could the name of Hood one day be ranked among the great military captains of history?

  He remembered the euphoria he had experienced the night of June 27, 1862, when he and his brigade had launched the decisive attack at the Battle of Gaine’s Mill. Throughout the day, Confederate brigades had hurled themselves against the Union defenses, only to be bloodily repulsed with horrendous casualties. In some desperation, Lee had turned to Hood and his gallant Texas Brigade, making it clear that they represented his last throw of the dice.

  When the order had come, Hood’s Texas Brigade had charged into the fires of hell. At every step, men had been cut down by withering artillery and musket fire. But his brigade had kept going, following the figure of Hood as he dashed forward, waving his sword over his head, yelling like a demon, miraculously remaining unharmed. As they had approached the Union line, the blue-coated soldiers had wavered, awestruck b
y the fury of the attacking Southerners. When his men had finally swarmed over the defenses, the Yankees had turned and fled.

  Hood’s attack at Gaine’s Hill had shattered the Union line, winning the Confederacy a victory as unlikely as it was decisive. He had saved Lee’s army, saved Richmond, and probably saved the Confederacy. Accolades had poured in from President Davis, from General Lee, and from every newspaper in the South. The name of John Bell Hood and his gallant Texas Brigade was enshrined in history.

  Hood nodded sharply. That kind of spirit was what the Army of Tennessee needed now. Not sitting in trenches. Not hoping for the enemy to make a mistake. What the Army of Tennessee needed to do now was simply to find the enemy and attack him in full force, trusting to Southern courage and cold steel to drive the hated Yankees back. The Confederacy didn’t need Joe Johnston; it needed John Bell Hood.

  Wheeler was still talking, prattling on about why he stayed loyal to Bragg when so many other generals had turned against him. Hood tried to focus his attention on what Wheeler was saying, but found it difficult to distract himself from the visions of glory which kept welling up inside his mind.

  The conversation was interrupted by a courier who galloped up. “Message from General Johnston, sir.” He handed the paper over to Hood, saluted, and galloped off. Hood unfolded the message and read it.

  “What is it?” Wheeler asked.

  “Nothing. Just routine marching orders. He wants my corps on the right flank, Hardee in the center, and Stewart on the left. We’re to take battle positions in readiness to oppose Sherman’s move south.”

  “Or to cover a retreat.”

  Hood crumpled the message and put it in his pocket. “We’ll see, won’t we? But I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the last order I ever receive from that pretentious bastard.”

  *****

  July 16, Noon

  Davis looked down at the message he had written, which he was about to send to General Johnston through the War Department telegraph.

  As you have failed to arrest the advance of the enemy to the vicinity of Atlanta, far in the interior of Georgia, and express no confidence that you can defeat or repel him, you are hereby removed from the command of the Army of Tennessee, which you will immediately turn over to General Hood.

  He read through it once again, then a third time. Finally, he nodded. It was brief and to the point, and expressed his thoughts and instructions in as polite a manner as the circumstances required. Had it been a message to any general other than Johnston, he might have tried to craft the language in such a way as to assuage the recipient.

  He glanced down at his desk. There were the telegrams sent from Atlanta by General Bragg, as well as several of the letters sent by General Hood. Letters that Wheeler had written to Bragg were also there, having been provided to him by Bragg for his perusal. Next to them were reports from the War Department on the progress of the fighting in Georgia, including several telegrams sent by Johnston himself. There were also newspaper articles clipped by his staff detailing the events which were taking place in the Western Theater.

  All of this led Davis to the same conclusion. Johnston was afraid to fight and would be unwilling to risk battle to defend Atlanta. If he remained in command any longer, the city would be abandoned to the Yankees.

  Johnston had to go. Hood would replace him.

  Davis nodded, steeling himself. Removing Johnston would be a controversial move, but he had dealt with controversy since he had accepted the position of President of the Confederate States of America. He folded the copy of the order and began to slide it into an envelope for delivery to the War Department.

  A flickering in the corner of the office suddenly caught Davis’s eye. Looking closely at it, the Confederate President was surprised to see a tiny butterfly flapping its wings. He tilted his head in confusion, wondering how such an out-of-place creature had found its way into his windowless office. He glanced over to remind himself that the door was closed, but when he looked back the butterfly was gone.

  There was a brief knock on the door, which opened instantly thereafter.

  “Mr. President? A telegram from General Lee has just arrived.”

  Davis nodded, immediately forgetting about the mysterious butterfly. “Give it here, if you please.” Unlike Johnston, Lee was so communicative that multiple telegrams on a single day were nothing unusual.

  President Davis,

  I have been contemplating the matter on which you earlier requested my opinion. I now wish to take the opportunity to strongly urge you not to remove General Johnston from command of the Army of Tennessee. On the eve of what may be the decisive battle of the war in the West, replacing the army’s commander would necessarily entail confusion within the army’s command structure and dishearten the men.

  General Johnston is not a perfect commander. However, judging from a distance, I cannot see how any other commander could have done better in the present campaign than he has done. I have no doubt that he understands the importance of holding Atlanta and that he will make every effort to do so.

  I must frankly admit that General Hood, while undoubtedly a gallant soldier, is not the proper sort of officer to be entrusted with the command of an army. His successes under my command were achieved through boldness, but an army commander requires a large measure of prudence as well. I regret that I do not believe Hood possesses prudence in the necessary quantity.

  The greatest hope for the salvation of Atlanta now is to retain General Johnston as commander of the Army of Tennessee.

  General Robert E. Lee

  Davis was stunned. As he had just done with the order he had been about to transmit to the War Department, Davis read through Lee’s telegram three or four times, making sure he understood every word perfectly. He focused in particular on the final sentence.

  His head spun. He felt as though he were in a carriage whose wheels had just flown off while riding at high speed. Davis took advice from only a very few people and even then only with the greatest reluctance. But among those very few, Robert E. Lee was certainly at the top of the list. Disheartened, he lowered the telegram onto the table, then sat back in his chair, his hand on his chin, lost in thought for several minutes.

  Lee and Johnston were old friends and fellow Virginians. They had served together in Mexico. Perhaps Lee was simply fulfilling his honorable duty as a Southern gentleman by expressing his support for a fellow officer. Davis shook his head, dismissing that thought out of hand. Lee’s tone in the telegram was too rigid to be anything other than a strongly held professional opinion. Besides, Lee was the last person in the world whom Davis would expect to allow personal feelings to come before the good of the nation.

  But there was more to it than that. Lee had never communicated to him in such a blunt manner on any other subject before. Although he knew how much Davis valued his advice, Lee had always made a point to be artful and diplomatic with the President, rarely disagreeing with him directly. For Lee to say so forthrightly that Davis was wrong could only mean that Lee believed it so fervently that he was willing to risk unsettling their otherwise harmonious relationship.

  Another thought then crossed Davis’s mind, which he hadn’t considered before. What if he replaced Johnston with Hood and Hood subsequently lost Atlanta to Sherman? If that happened, Davis knew that he would be blamed for the loss of Atlanta, for his enemies would assert that it had been the replacement of Johnston that caused the fall of the city. Even worse, they would further assert that Davis had removed Johnston purely out of personal spite.

  He would be the one on whom the blame would fall, not just for a lost battle, but a lost war.

  He picked up Lee’s telegram and read it through once again. He was struck by Lee’s insistence that the best chance for retaining control of Atlanta was to maintain Johnston as commander of the Army of Tennessee. In military matters, Lee was as keen a judge of character as walked the Earth. The question was whether Johnston would fight for Atlanta. Davis had come to
believe that he would not. But Lee evidently thought differently and Lee was to be trusted in such things.

  Another point Lee made was undeniable, in that replacing the commander of an army would necessarily cause considerable confusion within its command structure. If Hood replaced Johnston, then a division commander would have to be appointed to succeed Hood in command of his corps, and a brigade commander to succeed the new division commander, and so forth. If the decisive battle for Atlanta were only days away, it would obviously be best if the men commanding the units of the Army of Tennessee were not in new and unfamiliar positions.

  Despite himself, he realized that he was trying to find ways to agree with what Lee had said in his telegram. Somewhere in his mind, his respect for Lee was vying with his distaste for Johnston.

  Lee’s point that removing Johnston would dishearten the men was also worthy of consideration. As flawed a general and man as Davis considered Johnston to be, he had to grudgingly admit that the rank-and-file of the Army of Tennessee liked and respected him. Indeed, if certain newspaper stories were to be believed, they adored him to the point of worship. Davis had been a soldier before he became a politician and he was also an astute student of military history. He knew that men going into battle had to have confidence in the man who was leading them.

  Davis imagined for a moment that Lee was in the room with him, watching him as he made his decision. He looked up at the military situation map on the wall, carefully studying the locations of the red and blue pins. He thought of the upcoming elections in the North and what their result would mean for the Confederacy.

  He looked down at the two pieces of paper on his desk. One was the order removing Johnston from command. The other was the telegram just received from Lee. Very carefully, he picked one of them up and systematically began tearing it into tiny pieces.