Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  In addition to General Thomas, a great many division and brigade commanders had also been killed, wounded, or captured. The staff officers he had sent to investigate had come back with stories of captains being the highest-ranking officers in many regiments, and of entire units so demoralized that the mere appearance of Confederate infantry might cause them to break and run. Several regiments had simply vanished from the face of the earth.

  It would obviously be some time before the Army of the Cumberland would be in any condition to engage the enemy in battle again. Until that could happen, Sherman was left with the two armies commanded by McPherson and Schofield. Their combined strength was only about forty thousand men. Sherman was suddenly struck by the fact that, in terms of effective troops, it was entirely possible that Johnston now outnumbered him.

  He turned around in the saddle and called for McPherson and Schofield to come up to him. A moment later they were by his side.

  “We’ve had the devil’s own day, haven’t we?” Sherman began quietly.

  “That’s one way to put it,” McPherson said glumly.

  “We shall withdraw our forces to the north side of the Chattahoochee,” Sherman said.

  The two army commanders exchanged glances. “Are you sure that is wise, sir?” McPherson asked.

  “We have no choice. The Army of the Cumberland is a wreck. Your two armies are all we have left. We know the rebels will receive heavy reinforcements from Virginia in the near future, if they haven’t already received them. We must put the river between us and the rebels. The sooner the better. If we don’t, we risk total destruction.”

  “I am not sure that this would be the best course of action,” McPherson said with conviction. “A retreat would be an acknowledgement of complete defeat, which would have very bad effects on the morale of the troops who were not involved in today’s disaster.”

  “We must also consider the negative political impact such a retreat would have on public opinion in the North,” Schofield pointed out.

  “Indeed,” McPherson said emphatically. “Perhaps the Army of the Cumberland can be withdrawn to the north side to rest and refit, while Schofield and I remain on the south side. We can hold a lodgment near our initial crossing points, and when the Army of the Cumberland is ready for battle again, it can cross to the south side and we can resume the offensive.”

  Sherman sat mutely, staring off into the distance. He didn’t respond to his subordinates for nearly a minute, causing McPherson and Schofield to exchange concerned glances with one another.

  “General Sherman? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Sherman replied, even as he continued to stare steadily southward. “My orders stand. We will withdraw to the north bank of the river. I expect that we shall soon he outnumbered. We must avoid being trapped with the river at our backs.”

  “The rebels could not have gotten off lightly today,” Schofield said. “And we have no certain intelligence that they are going to be receiving reinforcements. In all likelihood, we still outnumber them. Retreating to the north bank of the Chattahoochee will make it much more difficult for us to resume the offensive against Atlanta after we have recovered our strength. We shall have to cross the river all over again.”

  “Forget about Atlanta!” Sherman snapped loudly. “We must look to the safety of our own armies, not Atlanta!” His body physically jerked as if struck by an electrical jolt, causing his horse to rustle with uncertainty.

  McPherson and Schofield were stunned and said nothing. Neither of them had ever seen their commander lose control in such a manner. It was as if they were looking at a different man then they had known that morning.

  Sherman shook his head. “No, we must retreat back across the river. It’s our only choice. If we stay on the same side of the river with the rebels, we will only risk another defeat, perhaps even greater than the one we have already suffered.”

  For the first time, Sherman turned and actually looked at his two principal subordinates. “I will issue you specific orders in a few hours. For now, return to your commands and take up positions to protect the remnants of the Army of the Cumberland in the event that the rebels resume their attack at daylight.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men responded simultaneously. They clicked their horses into a walk and ventured out into the night, trailed by their respective staff officers. Sherman was left alone under the starry night, with no defense from the demons.

  *****

  President Davis turned in his bed restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. Sleep had never come easily at any point in his life. But the stresses and worries which daily bore down on him now made it even more difficult, and he counted himself lucky if he got more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep on any given night.

  Retiring to bed was never pleasant to begin with. While in his office, he was always distracted by the business of running the war and attending to the administrative duties of being the chief executive of a fledging nation. In his bedroom, though, those distractions were gone.

  Instead, he often found himself unable to shake from his mind the image of the face of his little son Joseph, the purest and most beautiful boy he had ever beheld and the pride of his life. Only three months before, five-year-old Joseph had been taken away by God.

  He remembered the day perfectly, as hard as he tried to forget every detail. He had been working at home, preparing to deliver his third annual message to Congress, while his wife Varina had been preparing his lunch. They had just been about to sit down at the table when one of their slaves had run into the room, screaming that Joe had fallen from the second-story balcony on which he had been playing.

  He was outside by his son’s side moments later, but it was too late. The son still breathed as Davis had knelt over him and prayed, but the breathing ceased within a few minutes. Varina was unable to stop screaming in anguish for the rest of the day. Davis himself ignored the urgent messages about imminent Union offensives in both Georgia and Virginia, instead locking himself in his room and shedding bitter tears.

  Davis had buried his son the next day, and the day after that, he delivered his annual message to Congress. The war wouldn’t pause in order to give him time to grieve. God demanded that it go on, and Jefferson Davis obeyed.

  The tossing and turning continued, as the President tried to escape the imploring gaze of his dead son and find the peace of sleep. He was just about to slip into blessed unconsciousness when he was awoken by a loud pounding on the front door. Davis shot bolt upright in his bed, then angrily tossed the sheet aside and stood up. The last tolling of the clock bells outside had indicated eleven thirty, and if a message for him had arrived so late, it was bound to be important.

  “What is it?” Varina asked, still half asleep.

  “Someone’s at the door.” He tenderly touched her beautiful dark hair. “Go back to sleep. I shall return in a moment.”

  Wandering downstairs in his nightgown, guided by the flickering light of a candle, he soon reached the front door. It was open, and Davis saw his house slave, Mary Bowser, talking with a young-looking man in a lieutenant’s uniform. They exchanged words quietly, no doubt concerned about accidentally waking the household.

  Mary saw him coming. “I was just about to wake you, master. This gentlemen from the War Department says he has an important message for you.”

  “Thank you, Mary. You may return to your quarters.” With a slight bow of the head, the female slave departed.

  “I am very sorry to have to disturb you after you must have retired, Mr. President,” the lieutenant said. “But we have received a telegram from General Johnston in Atlanta. Secretary Seddon was quite adamant that the news needed to be communicated to you at once.” He held forth the telegram.

  Davis took a deep breath. He had gone back-and-forth innumerable times over the last few days about whether he had made the right decision when he had listened to Lee and kept Johnston in his place as commander of the Army of Tennessee. He
supposed he was about to find out.

  President Davis,

  This afternoon, when the enemy was crossing Peachtree Creek, I attacked him with the corps of Stewart and Hardee. By the grace of God and the valor of our soldiers, I can report that we have won a complete victory. We have captured upwards of ten thousand prisoners and killed or wounded perhaps a good deal more. The Army of the Cumberland has been effectively destroyed as a fighting force.

  We have also taken from the enemy sixty-two pieces of artillery, over forty-five battle flags, a large quantity of small arms and many other supplies. I can also report that Major General George Thomas is among those captured.

  Our own loss was not light. Eight thousand of our men were killed or wounded, though very few captured.

  The enemy is now withdrawing northwards, his condition unknown. I shall report in greater detail shortly.

  General Johnston

  Davis caught his breath. “Lieutenant!” he shouted. “Hold this candle more closely to the paper!” He practically shoved the candle toward the surprised officer, who did as he was told.

  Davis read the telegram a second time, and then a third. He half-expected the words to change in the midst of his reading, but they remained the same. He wasn’t dreaming. For nearly three minutes, Davis said nothing, then he looked up at the messenger, whom he didn’t recognize.

  “Son, do you know what this message says?”

  The man smiled. “I do, sir. We received it in the telegraph office less than an hour ago. I was sent out to deliver this message to you the moment Seddon read it.”

  Davis found the report difficult to believe. An entire Federal army routed? Ten thousand prisoners, among them the arch-traitor George Thomas himself? Sherman retreating to the north, away from Atlanta? It all seemed too good to be true and Davis had long since learned not to trust such news. Too many times he had been deceived by initial positive reports, like that sent by Beauregard after the first night of the Battle of Shiloh or by Bragg after the first night of the Battle of Murfreesboro. He wasn’t going to be deceived again.

  But there was a firm tone, a sense of finality, to the telegram Johnston had just sent him. Johnston would not have sent such a detailed and concise message without having a firm foundation on which to base it. The specific numbers of reported prisoners, not to mention captured artillery pieces and battle flags, also spoke to the veracity of the report. Considering the bad blood between them, it seemed nonsensical that Johnston would have sent such a message had he known, or even suspected, that the next morning would reveal it all to have been a fantasy.

  Davis suddenly realized that he hadn’t spoken to the lieutenant for at least five minutes, and that the man was patiently waiting for him. He probably didn’t mind, for how many officers of the Confederate Army got an opportunity to see their President react to news of one of the most decisive military victories ever won on the soil of North America?

  “Forgive me, Lieutenant,” Davis said, embarrassed.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. President.”

  “Give me a moment and I will give you a message to send to General Johnston.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He strolled back to the small room he used as his working space when he was at home, sat down at his desk, and prepared to write. But what could he say? He and Johnston despised one another. To congratulate a bitter enemy, no matter what the actual achievement, seemed almost impossible.

  Senator Wigfall would have a field day, Davis realized. Indeed, all his political foes would likely pounce on him, telling every newspaper editor in the land that if Davis had only appointed Johnston to command the Army of Tennessee earlier, the disaster at Missionary Ridge back in November would never have taken place and Confederate independence would have long since been secured.

  He shook his head. Now was no time to think about such matters. The Confederacy had won a victory, perhaps the greatest victory in its short history, perhaps a victory of such magnitude that its independence would finally be won after so much blood and suffering. Whatever faults others might identify in the Confederate president, at this moment he was more than equal to the occasion and would rise above them.

  He dipped the pen in the inkpot and begin to write.

  *****

  The headquarters of the Army of Tennessee had already assumed an air of wild celebration, greater than it had ever known before. As Johnston reined in before the Niles House he could see that bonfires had been lit, casting burning embers into the heavens like offerings to the gods. Banjos and brass instruments had been produced and festive tunes like “The Bonnie Blue Flag” and “Dixie” could heard for half-a-mile around. Men were dancing around the bonfires like wild Indians. The smell of whiskey permeated the air.

  As he appeared, a half-drunken cheer erupted from the men in the yard of the Niles House. Some of them were members of his staff and other officers, men Johnston knew well. Others, however, were men he knew only slightly, various dignitaries from Atlanta or members of the Georgia state legislature. He chuckled to himself. A few days before, most of these men probably been loudly clamoring for his removal from command. Now they were cheering him as a hero.

  He ignored them, but shook the hands of many of his staff officers as he dismounted his horse. He could smell the burning bonfires, the whiskey of the toasts being drunk, and he could hear the laughter of happy men. The excited conversations of officers as they recounted their own heroics of the day to one another made it seem as though the war was a sporting competition.

  “Where is General Thomas?” he asked the nearest officer.

  “In your room, sir. We gave him dinner. Posted some guards outside the door.”

  Johnston nodded and walked inside. A few moments later, having climbed the steps to the second floor, he opened the door to his room.

  General George Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga, sat solemnly at the table. An untouched plate of roast beef lay before him.

  At the appearance of Johnston, Thomas looked up sharply and rose to his feet.

  “General Johnston,” he said with dignity, raising his hand in salute.

  “General Thomas,” Johnston said, returning the salute. He didn’t really know what to say next. “I do hope I am not disturbing your dinner?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I’m sure you will understand if my appetite is less than it normally is. Besides, I doubt the other prisoners you have taken today are eating this well.”

  “Your men are being treated properly, General. Of that I can assure you. They are being fed from the rations we captured during the battle. I know you must be hungry. Please eat.”

  Reluctantly and ever so slowly, Thomas picked up a knife and fork and began eating.

  Johnston went on. “I want you to know that I will do everything I can to make sure your captivity is comfortable. It may be some time before you can be released. If I am not mistaken, the United States holds no Confederate officer of equivalent rank to you, which obviously makes a prisoner exchange complicated.”

  “That makes no difference, as General Grant has terminated prisoner exchanges in any event,” Thomas said.

  “Yes. A regrettable order, I must say. And an inhumane one.”

  Thomas drew his head back. “It was the decision of your so-called government in Richmond to treat captured black soldiers as if they were escaped slaves that prompted Grant’s decision. Perhaps if your man Forrest had not seen fit to butcher hundreds of black Union troops when he captured Fort Pillow, after they had surrendered, the order could have been avoided.”

  Fort Pillow was a topic that Johnston certainly did not wish to discuss. “I can say nothing on the subject of Fort Pillow. I myself am not fully acquainted with the details of the engagement.”

  Thomas grunted again. He was upset, but Johnston couldn’t blame him. Had he been in Thomas’s position, he would have been mortified as well. For a moment, he tried to imagine how he might have reacted if he had fallen prisoner to the Yankees. />
  Johnston sat down across from Thomas. A servant brought in a plate of roast beef for him and he began to eat as he talked. “I have sent a telegram to Richmond to inquire as to your future circumstances. As you are the highest-ranking Union officer yet captured in the war, I am sure you will be accorded special consideration.”

  Thomas shook his head firmly. “No special treatment. I refuse to be treated any differently than any of the other officers you’ve captured, no matter their rank.”

  “I will inform you of my government’s position as soon as they make it known to me. And I shall certainly convey your request, which does great credit to your character. They may be predisposed to grant it, as your status as a native Virginian who has fought against his state has given rise to a certain resentment toward you among many in the Confederacy.”

  Thomas waved his hand dismissively and picked away at the roast beef and sweet potatoes. Next to it stood a glass of water. Johnston walked over to a counter and pulled out a bottle of wine.

  “Would you drink a glass of wine with me, General Thomas? It has become more expensive due to the blockade your navy imposes upon us, but it is not yet entirely unobtainable.” Without waiting for a reply, he poured two glasses and sat back down.

  Thomas swallowed his food and looked at the glass for a few seconds before picking it up and sipping. “I might as well. Today I have seen my army destroyed. While a glass of wine will not undo what has happened, I suppose it cannot hurt. And as for those who think I betrayed my state, I will merely reply that they betrayed their country.”

  “My country is Virginia. The same was true of you once, as I recall.”

  Thomas set his wine glass down and looked Johnston hard in the eye. “You took an oath on the field at West Point to protect the United States and the Constitution, yet you broke your oath and instead became a servant of the radical fire-eaters who tore our country apart in the misguided fear that Lincoln would act against slavery.”