Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

Hood returned to his corps headquarters, was pulled down from his horse, and then hobbled into his tent without a word to any of his staff officers. Aside from the routine saluting, they made no effort to communicate with him. The look of fury on his face made it abundantly clear that he had no wish to speak with anyone.

  He fell heavily into his chair and immediately took up his pen. But he then paused, not sure what to write, or even to whom he was intending to write. With a howl of rage, he tore the paper on the desk in front of him to pieces, then threw the quill and inkpot off the desk and onto the ground.

  Hood angrily realized that he had been made to look a fool. He had been sending letter after letter to President Davis for months, all of them asserting that Johnston was weak, that he would not fight for Atlanta, that he had no plan to defeat Sherman. During Bragg’s inspection tour, he had told Bragg the same thing. But now Johnston had announced that, contrary to all his assertions, a bold and determined battle would be fought in defense of the city after all.

  From this moment on, Hood was sure, President Davis and General Bragg would consider him entirely unreliable. The information he had provided them had been completely wrong. His influence with the President, on which he had staked so much, would vanish as though it had never existed.

  Pouring salt into the wound was the fact that Hood would have no part to play in the upcoming engagement, which could well be one of the great battles of the war. With his corps off to the east, assigned an entirely passive role and deprived of one of his three divisions, he felt very like an actor who had been playing the lead role in the production but who had now been relegated to a bit part just when the biggest performance of the season was about to begin.

  He couldn’t understand why there had been no word from Davis or Bragg. After all the letters, his private meeting with Bragg, and everything that Wheeler had told him, Hood had expected a telegram to come from Richmond at any moment saying that Johnston was being removed from command and that he himself was being appointed in his place. Indeed, when he had received orders to report to Johnston’s headquarters, he thought it was to receive news of his appointment.

  He had sacrificed his honor as a Southern officer to achieve the goal of army command. Now, it seemed he had nothing to show for it.

  A darker thought crept into Hood’s mind. In previous attempts to attack Sherman, Johnston had always entrusted the most important role to Hood. Now, in the greatest gamble of the campaign thus far, Hood was to play no role at all. Could it be that Johnston had somehow learned of his insubordinate activities and was marginalizing him as an act of retribution?

  Hurriedly, he poured himself a whiskey and downed it in a single toss. If Johnston had learned of what he had been doing, he would be within his rights as army commander to call him before a court martial. That, in turn, would certainly bring into the public gaze details of the events at Cassville and New Hope Church which Hood certainly did not want to be made known. If such a thing happened, the reputation he had earned on a dozen battlefields in Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania would be ruined, perhaps forever. His mangled body would have been mangled for nothing. It would be even worse if Johnston actually won the upcoming battle, for such a victory would make Johnston a hero across the Confederacy.

  With a sudden horror, he found himself wondering what Sally Preston would think when she learned the news. The thought stunned him with nearly as much force as the Yankee shell fragments that had shattered his arm. The size of the scandal would be so great that her parents, already opposed to the match, would make sure that their daughter never laid eyes on John Bell Hood ever again. Indeed, she probably would be not even be allowed to open his letters. And how the Richmond gossip-mongers would sneer!

  Suddenly, the constant aching pain in his arm and what was left of his leg seemed to increase unnaturally. He had to bite his lip to keep from letting out a cry of pain. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his laudanum. He felt certain he would need more of it very soon.

  *****

  July 18, Evening

  Around noon, the forward units of the Army of the Cumberland had arrived with little warning in the tiny hamlet of Old Cross Keys, a dozen or so miles north of Atlanta. While most of the Yankee soldiers had continued marching due south toward the city, some remained behind, setting up rear-area supply depots.

  The family of the nicest house in the village had been told to vacate immediately so that a proper headquarters for the Army of the Cumberland could be established. A few men had proceeded to remove some of the furniture and load it onto carts, while others stuffed the silverware into their pockets. Thomas had considered issuing an order to stop such looting, but decided against it as he knew any it would only have been ignored.

  Sherman, McPherson, and Schofield had ridden over from the east to hold a conference. All four men hovered over the dinner table, which was covered with the ever-present maps. The light cast by the oil lanterns projected their enormous shadows onto the walls, making the men appear far larger than they actually were.

  “Everything is working in our favor, gentlemen,” Sherman said. “Yes, by God, everything! I believe we will be entering the city within the next two days or so. I don’t think Uncle Joe down there is going to even defend the place. Not anymore, I don’t. Your thoughts?”

  “I am of the same opinion,” McPherson declared. “My scouts have been reporting all day that they can see and hear trains heading out of Atlanta to the south, on the Macon and Western Railroad track. It seems that Johnston is moving supplies and perhaps his heavy artillery out of the city.”

  Thomas nodded. “Two rebels surrendered to my pickets earlier today, one from the 37th Tennessee and the other from the 7th Arkansas. Both men report that their units had been ordered to march to the Atlanta train station. According to our latest intelligence, these two rebel regiments belong to two separate divisions, which would indicate that a large-scale troop movement out of Atlanta is under way.”

  Sherman nodded. “One or two of these pieces of information I might ignore. But all of it put together? No, it is fitting into a clear pattern. Uncle Joe has had it. He’s leaving Atlanta in one big hurry.”

  The Union generals shared a smile around the table, as a staffer quietly refilled their glasses with whiskey. Sherman continued to speak.

  “Still, it would not do to be reckless. As we advance on the city, I foresee our greatest danger will be to the east, where the left flank of the Army of the Tennessee will be exposed and open to attack. I therefore have ordered our cavalry to screen this flank carefully and watch for any sign of the enemy.”

  “A wise precaution,” Thomas said.

  “If the rebels attack anywhere within the next few days, it will be on the east side of the city.”

  “I have no fears on my front, “ Thomas said. “The Army of the Cumberland by itself outnumbers the entire rebel army. To tell you the truth, if you feel it necessary to reinforce the units advancing from the east, I can certainly spare a few divisions.”

  Sherman thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But I see no need to take such a course of action as yet. If the rebels do intend to defend the city, the Army of the Cumberland would possibly be doing a greater service by threatening the city from the north, forcing Johnston to keep larger numbers of his troops on your front.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Sherman traced lines on the map with his fingers, vocalizing his thoughts as he had them. “The Army of the Cumberland will advance across Peachtree Creek on the morning of the day after tomorrow, thirty-six hours from now. The Army of the Tennessee will move with all speed to this town here, Decatur, and cut the railroad between Atlanta and Augusta, after which it shall advance directly toward Atlanta from the east. The Army of the Ohio will position itself on the right flank of the Army of the Tennessee. Our plan will be for all our forces to be in position on the morning of the 21st, and to enter Atlanta on the afternoon of that day. Any questions, gentlemen?”

 
; Sherman’s three subordinates shook their heads.

  “Good. We may not all be together again until after we are in the city, so I will simply conclude by wishing you all good luck in the coming days. If fortune smiles on us, we shall capture the city with little loss. If we do, perhaps Uncle Abe will give us each twenty days leave, to see the young folk.”

  *****

  July 19, Morning

  Cleburne rode alongside Hardee as they wound their horses through the trees about half a mile south of Peachtree Creek. The terrain was slightly rolling, with low hills and ridges scattered about everywhere, and occasional streams that meandered away from the creek in a southerly direction. Aside from a few small open fields, the entire area was covered with trees. It was difficult to see more than a hundred yards in any direction.

  “This is a good place for an ambush, William,” Cleburne said.

  “Yes, it is,” Hardee replied. “The trees will conceal the presence of our troops from the Yankees, assuming our picket line keeps their infantry at a distance long enough.”

  “The forested and slightly uneven nature of their terrain will also make it difficult for the enemy to employ their artillery, negating one of their principal battlefield advantages.”

  Earlier in the day, they had sent out their staff officers to comb the entire area. If the attack was to succeed, it was critical that they understand the ground as accurately as possible. Since the Yankees would be advancing into unknown terrain, knowing the ground would give the Confederates a decided advantage. During the afternoon and evening, the staff would be updating their maps and correcting whatever mistakes they had previously made.

  “Will we have guides assigned to us?” Cleburne asked.

  Hardee nodded. “Many of the men from Stovall’s Brigade were recruited from around here. They know the area better than anyone. Three or four of these men will be assigned to each brigade.”

  “Sounds good. Too many battles in the past have been lost by foolish mistakes that could have been avoided by having local men assigned to units as guides.”

  “If this is going to work, we can’t afford to make the same mistakes we have made in the past.” Both men could easily remember the disappointments and lost opportunities of so many past battles.

  Cleburne decided to sound an optimistic tone. “I think Johnston’s plan is a good one, at least so far as you have described it to me. I only hope the attack isn’t canceled at the last minute, as it was at Cassville.”

  “That was Hood’s fault,” Hardee said sharply. “If you ask me, I think Johnston has finally realized Hood is not the effective, aggressive general his admirers have claimed him to be. That’s why he’s been assigned the task of guarding the east flank. Better to have him out of the way, giving you and me a chance to actually achieve something meaningful.”

  Cleburne nodded, but felt it wise not to say anything.

  “Let’s ride forward to the creek itself,” Hardee said.

  With a quick kick, they sent their horses into a trot. After fifteen silent minutes of riding, their mounts stood on the banks of the creek. They slowed to a walk and moved a few hundred yards downstream, surveying the rivulet. It flowed unhurriedly westward toward the Chattahoochee and was obviously not very deep. In many places, stones protruded from the surface of the water. Cleburne thought it likely that a man could walk across it with no trouble at most points.

  On the other hand, the banks of the river were very steep, eight or nine feet in some places. Cleburne found himself thinking that if he accidentally fell in, it wouldn’t be easy to get out without someone’s help. From a military point of view, that made a formidable natural barrier.

  Cleburne glanced around. “I don’t see any peach trees.”

  “What of it?”

  “Why is it called Peachtree Creek?”

  “I have not the foggiest idea,” Hardee responded.

  Cleburne shrugged, dismissing the question. “If we can break the Yankee line tomorrow, they won’t be able to run away,” he said. “They’ll be trapped with their backs to this creek.”

  “I agree. We can wreck the Army of the Cumberland.”

  Cleburne nodded. For a long time, they walked their horses along the banks of the stream, staring down into it, lost in thought. Then, just as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, they turned their horses to the south and headed back to their command posts, to prepare for the struggle that the next day would bring.

  *****

  July 19, Afternoon

  “Today’s correspondence, Mr. President.”

  Unceremoniously, Lincoln’s secretary John Hay dropped a pile of paper nearly an inch thick on the President’s desk, creating a sound not unlike that of a gunshot. Lincoln, who had been reading a report from Grant, took off his glasses, rubbed his sinuses, and looked at the pile of paper.

  “Oh, dear Lord.”

  “I apologize, Mr. President,” Hay said sympathetically.

  “It looks thick enough to stop a cannonball. You are sure Mr. Stoddart has gone through these letters and removed everything extraneous?”

  “Quite sure, Mr. President.”

  “I do wish you gentlemen would try to be more thorough,” Lincoln said. “Yesterday I found myself reading a proposal from a very silly man who requested government assistance for the construction of some sort of balloon airship which he was convinced would provide regular mail service between New York and London. Such nonsense should immediately be thrown in the trash.”

  Hay nodded. “I’ll tell Mr. Stoddart to be more thorough, Mr. President.“

  Lincoln picked the first letter up from the pile and glanced through the first few lines. “Oh dear,” he said, almost absent-mindedly. “It seems that tomorrow I am to entertain a delegation of Shawnee chiefs who are upset about white settlers encroaching on their lands.” He set it down and picked up the next piece of correspondence. “And here is Secretary Seward advising me to take a harder line on French actions in Mexico. I must say, Mr. Hay, that I never cease to be surprised at how my office requires me to attend to issues which have little or nothing to do with the war. How can I attend to these matters when I daily face the pressure of ordering thousands of men to their deaths?”

  Hay allowed himself the familiarity of a shrug. “You are the President of the United States, sir. The people choose you in 1860. If you were not to do the job, who would?”

  Lincoln sighed, then looked longingly out the windows of his office, across the Potomac and into Virginia. “Someone younger than me, perhaps? Better able to stand the strain? I tell you, Mr. Hay, this war is eating me up inside. Whenever I visit one of our military hospitals, I feel an internal scream that I cannot silence.”

  Hay was slightly taken aback. “Don’t speak so, Mr. President. Every day brings us closer to victory.”

  Lincoln’s face suddenly brightened. “You may not be far wrong there, Mr. Hay. The latest dispatches from Georgia are very promising. Sherman seems confident that we shall capture Atlanta in the next few days.”

  “Is that so?” Hay asked expectantly. “What of Johnston and the Army of Tennessee?”

  “Sherman seems to think that the rebel forces are preparing to abandon Atlanta. This Johnston fellow is apparently the cautious type. He doesn’t want to risk losing his army in a doomed attempt to withstand a siege.”

  “So the fighting will go on, even after the fall of Atlanta?”

  “Perhaps so. But as you say, every day brings us closer to victory. And after the election, the eventual triumph of our cause will be but a mere matter of time.”

  “I dearly hope so, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln looked up and smiled. “If Grant can keep Lee pinned down in Petersburg and Richmond, we can tear the guts out of this so-called `Confederacy’ and end the rebellion, placing America back on track toward its rightful destiny.”

  Hay was intrigued. “Oh?” he said.

  Lincoln smiled. “Hay, since I took office, I have signed the
Homestead Act, opening vast tracts of the West to settlement. I have laid the groundwork with the Union Pacific Railroad Company for a trans-continental line to link the Atlantic with the Pacific. I created the National Academy of Sciences. I have been told that our manufacturing output will soon be greater than that of the British Empire. Every day, boatloads of hardworking immigrants arrive in New York, ready to put their talent and industry to work here in the United States. We have it in our power, Mr. Hay, to make America into the greatest nation the world has ever seen.”

  Hay nodded. He knew Lincoln was a visionary. He and John Nicolay, Lincoln’s other personal secretary, had often sat up into the wee hours of the morning with the President, listening to him expound on what he would do once he had brought the war to a successful conclusion. “Where does the defeated South fit into this, Mr. President?”

  “As a regular part of the United States, Mr. Hay. I know the Radicals like Thaddeus Stevens and Charles Sumner want the government to place its foot on the throat of the South for a generation or more, but what would that achieve? It would only breed more bitterness and hatred between the North and South. There’s been far too much of that, by God. No, far better to welcome them back into the Union as brothers. If they recognize the authority of the federal government and agree to abolish slavery, it shall be as if the war had never happened.”

  “I hope to be a part of all this, Mr. President.”

  “You will, John. You will. After the war you will go on to greater things than being the humble private secretary of a highly-flawed President, believe you me. And I can personally assure you that I shall use whatever influence I have left to assist you in finding a position worthy of your talents. Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Stoddart, too. I expect all of you to play critical roles in shaping America into the nation that, God willing, it shall become.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Without another word, Hay turned and left the office. Lincoln turned and again gazed out across the Potomac, not knowing that his dreams for the future of America would soon lie in ruins.