Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “You are aware, sir, that I do not own slaves. I have never have done so and never will. I consider the institution distasteful.”

  Thomas laughed. “You command an army that is defending the institution of slavery, whether you admit it or not. Your victory today is slavery’s victory. But the pro-slavery fire-eaters, in bringing on the war to begin with, will prove to be their own worst enemies. For I believe the Union will yet emerge triumphant and slavery will be destroyed.”

  “The South did not secede because of slavery,” Johnston said, as much to himself as to Thomas.

  The Union general laughed. “I suggest you reread the manifesto that the South Carolina legislature published when they passed the ordinance of secession back in 1860.”

  Johnston shifted uncomfortably. He had read the manifesto, which justified the secession of South Carolina almost exclusively on the grounds of protecting slavery. Many other Confederate states had issued similar public statements when they had seceded, though his own state of Virginia had not.

  “I did not join the Confederacy to defend slavery,” Johnston offered. “I did so because I believed that the federal government was increasingly encroaching on the rights of the sovereign states.” He unbuckled the sword from his belt and held it up for Thomas to see. “My father carried this sword throughout the Revolution. I joined the Confederacy for the same reason he joined the patriots who fought against the British.”

  Thomas frowned and shook his head, as if he were a teacher speaking to a disobedient student. “You cannot compare your misguided struggle to that of our Revolutionary forefathers. The patriots of old had no recourse but revolution, because they were not represented in Parliament and had no influence over the government that controlled their destinies. The Southern states had representation in Congress up until the moment they seceded from the Union. Revolution is only acceptable in the face of tyranny. You faced no tyrant.”

  “What good does that representation do when we are sure to be outvoted on every issue, due to the increasing population of the North and the smaller population of the South? And, in any event, what right does a lawyer from Boston have to dictate to a Southern planter how he will behave? Or a President in Washington City, for that matter?”

  Thomas sat back in his chair and sipped on his wine. “I suppose, General Johnston, that we can engage in a discussion about political philosophy and constitutional history until doomsday, but you and I both know that neither of us will ever change the mind of the other. I have never been a political man in any event. For me, the only thing that matters is that I took an oath at West Point to uphold the Constitution. I kept my oath, though doing so tore my heart in two. You broke your oath and now wage war on the very government you once swore to protect. And for that, sir, I shall pray to God for the salvation of your soul.”

  Johnston took a long sip from his wine glass, the last statement from Thomas having firmly ended the conversation. The Union general went back to his roast, not caring about whether he was being polite. He thought about what Thomas has said to him, but he had had a sufficient number of such conversations when secession had taken place in 1861. Right or wrong, Joseph Johnston was with the Confederacy.

  He stood up. “I will have proper quarters prepared for you, General Thomas. I shall also send a message to General Sherman under a flag of truce to inform him that you are alive, so that he may in turn inform your wife. When my government communicates to me its intentions regarding your confinement, I shall inform you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you wish me to send a message to your family in Virginia?”

  Thomas thought for a moment. “No, thank you.”

  Johnston nodded in understanding. “This war is hard on everyone.”

  “I have read in the newspapers that many prominent Southern politicians and officers have said that I should be hanged if captured. Should I have my will updated?” His voice betrayed not the slightest hint of fear, but only bitter humor.

  “I am not aware of any such comments, though you and I both know that many of our fellow Southerners have a tendency to be rather melodramatic. Rest assured, if any such orders arrived, I would refuse to follow them.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. Unlike General Forrest, you are an honorable man. I apologize for being rude, for you are being most gracious.”

  “There is no need to apologize, General Thomas. In your position, I would feel much the same way.”

  There was a soft knocking on the door, and a moment later Mackall appeared. He handed Johnston a message.

  “Telegram from the President, sir.”

  Johnston smiled, relishing the moment. He took the paper and read it quickly. It was short and to the point.

  General Johnston,

  I offer you the thanks of a grateful nation for the great victory you have achieved over the enemy. Please express my deepest appreciation to the men and officers of your army. I look forward to receiving your full report.

  President Davis

  Johnston laughed softly. He knew the President would be happy with the news, but he also knew that there was a part of the chief executive that hated having to thank him for it. Receiving such a telegram was a delightful combination of business and pleasure.

  *****

  July 21, Morning

  Lincoln sat at his desk in his White House office, scribbling comments in the margin of the latest letter from Henry Raymond. Messages from the Republican National Committee chairman were now arriving on a near daily basis. Outside the door, Lincoln could hear one of his private secretaries, John Nicolay, arguing with someone who clearly thought they should be allowed in to speak to the President, but whom Nicolay did not consider important enough to be admitted. It was a familiar sound.

  The letter from Raymond bothered Lincoln considerably. According to what it said, Republican leaders across the North were sending worried reports to him, telling of large Democratic rallies being held not only in all major cities but increasingly in the smaller towns and rural areas, too. Clement Vallandigham and other Copperheads were crisscrossing the country, speaking to bigger crowds every day.

  Even worse was the growing potential for violence. If Raymond’s letter was to be believed, and he had always been a trustworthy correspondent, mobs of anti-war Democrats were routinely harassing draft officers and trashing the offices of pro-Republican newspapers. It seemed to Lincoln that these disturbances were just the early rustles of the wind. As the election approached, they could well build into a hurricane.

  Lincoln pulled out some paper to begin drafting a reply to Raymond, when he heard another muffled voice outside the door. It sounded like Stanton, but he couldn’t make out the words. There was a hurried conversation in anxious voices between Stanton and Nicolay and then a soft knocking on the door.

  “Mr. President? Secretary Stanton is here to see you.” A few moments later, the Secretary of War slid into a chair across from the President, and Nicolay had firmly shut the door.

  “Mr. President, I am afraid I have some very bad news to report.”

  “Not another setback in front of Petersburg, I hope,” Lincoln said.

  “No, sir, not at Petersburg, but in Georgia. And I’m afraid the word `setback’ does not do justice to the magnitude of what happened yesterday.”

  Lincoln took a deep breath, set down his pen, and steeled himself. His Secretary of War was not one to mince words. For nearly half a minute, Stanton said nothing, clearly searching for the right words to convey the news.

  The President eventually got tired of waiting for Stanton to speak. Lincoln said, “Edwin, I have endured Bull Run, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Chickamauga, and a host of other terrible defeats. If we have suffered yet another such blow, I shall endure it again. So, out with it.”

  “Very well, Mr. President. We received a cable from General Sherman this morning. Yesterday, while the Army of the Cumberland was in the process of crossing a difficult creek and was separated from th
e rest of our forces by a gap of several miles, it was attacked by the bulk of the rebel army and was disastrously defeated. Ten thousand of our men were taken prisoner, including General Thomas himself, and more than ten thousand killed or wounded. We also lost vast amounts of critical supplies and artillery. The Army of the Cumberland has been shattered. It is our worst defeat since the commencement of the war, Mr. President.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air. Lincoln’s face had betrayed not a sign of reaction as Stanton spoke, but his heart had begun pounding within his chest. He had striven so hard and suffered so much over the past three years to preserve the Union and destroy slavery. When the great spring offensive had been launched in May, he had felt that he could almost grasp the victory that would make right all that had gone wrong in his country and make his own sufferings and those of his fellow countrymen meaningful.

  Stanton continued, relaying the details of the defeat at the Battle of Peachtree Creek as far as he knew them. Lincoln felt like a man being pushed ever closer to the edge of a cliff. The victory for which he had striven so hard and so long felt like it was slipping away.

  Stanton finished talking, and waited for a response. Lincoln silently shook his head for nearly thirty seconds before he said a word.

  “Edwin, I wonder if I would have willingly given up my own life to spare the country the news you have just told me.”

  “There is no need to be melodramatic, Mr. President.”

  “That is easy for you to say. If I understand what you’re telling me, we may have just lost the war.”

  “No, sir,” Stanton replied quickly, seeing the need to reassure the President. “Despite this catastrophe, our army outside of Atlanta still outnumbers the rebels. We have recovered from defeats in the past. We can recover from this one as well.”

  “Can we?” Lincoln said, rising to his feet. He turned and looked out the window. He had to fight off the instinct to tear out his hair in rage and despair. “The people are wild for peace. The treasury is nearly empty. The election is less than four months away. The Democrats are telling every crowd that will listen to them that our war effort is a failure and that victory is impossible. It seems like rebel bullets may have just proven the Democrats right.”

  “Mr. President, it is a terrible defeat. I shall not sugarcoat it. But rest assured, we can recover. We can reinforce Sherman, he can still capture Atlanta, and all will be set right.”

  Lincoln didn’t respond, but put his hands behind his back and stared out the window into the city of Washington. He could already envision what the newspaper headlines and the editorials were going to be saying in the coming days. He could imagine the glee that Vallandigham and his ilk would feel when they got the news, if they hadn’t already.

  “In late 1862, Edwin, when our party did so badly in the congressional elections, the word `Fredericksburg’ was on everyone’s lips. Now, surely, `Peachtree Creek’ will be their watchword.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. President. But remember that the Union is as strong today as it was yesterday. We can still win the war.”

  Lincoln nodded slowly, continuing to look out the window. “Get your bags packed, Edwin. You and I are taking a trip.”

  Stanton’s eyes narrowed. “Where to, Mr. President?”

  “We’re going down to see General Grant in Virginia. After such a calamity, I feel the need to speak to my commander-in-chief.”

  *****

  July 21, Noon

  General Johnston was hunched over his desk, reading reports from the cavalry patrols that had been sent out at dawn. According to the horsemen, the remnants of the Army of the Cumberland were continuing to fall back to the north. They were still in some disarray, but had managed to reorganize somewhat during the night. This didn’t surprise Johnston, who thought it was inevitable. The Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohio had apparently marched all night and taken up a strong position running from east to west north of Peachtree Creek, covering the retreat of the Army of the Cumberland.

  He shook his head. Normally, after such a decisive victory, a rapid pursuit would be called for. The Union bridges across the Chattahoochee were tantalizingly within reach. If Johnston could capture them, Sherman and his entire force would be trapped on the south side of the river.

  However, the armies of McPherson and Schofield had not been involved in the previous day’s fighting. To capture the bridges, his men would have to punch through the forty thousand Yankees of those two armies. Hardee and Stewart had both suffered heavy losses during the battle and their divisions had inevitably become disorganized. The men were exhausted. The two divisions of Hood’s corps that had remained unengaged were nowhere near strong enough. To Johnston’s mind, it was not prudent to continue the attack. If he fought a battle against McPherson and Schofield and lost, all the fruits of victory gained the previous day might be lost as well.

  If the reports being sent back by Wheeler accurate, Union forces were making preparations to withdraw north of the Chattahoochee River. Johnston couldn’t tell if Sherman was really intending to make a major strategic retreat or if he was simply keeping his options open. The best logical course therefore would be to close up to the Union positions and await events. If the Yankees did try to retreat across the river, he might have the opportunity to attack them when their forces were divided.

  Johnston had set down the cavalry reports and was about to pick up a paper from his chief of artillery on the Yankee guns that had been captured the previous day. He looked up when he heard Mackall say something not entirely unexpected.

  “Sir, General Hood is approaching.”

  “He knows that the meeting of senior commanders is not for another two hours, yes?”

  “I told him myself, sir. I do not know why he is arriving early.”

  Johnston grinned. “I do.”

  A minute later, the one-legged warrior hobbled in. The look on his face was one of fury. Immediately a blanket of tension fell over all the staff officers in the headquarters.

  “General Hood,” Johnston said as Hood walked toward the table. “I expected you to arrive at two o’clock. To what do I owe this early arrival?”

  The seething look on Hood’s face could have only one cause. Johnston knew immediately that Hood was incensed about having missed out on the glory of the previous day’s victory. In any army filled with so many prima donnas, such behavior was all too common, though that made it no less childish. No doubt compounding Hood’s anger was the simple fact that Johnston remained in command of the Army of Tennessee. Hood had clearly expected his and Bragg’s machinations to have brought about Johnston’s removal and Hood’s elevation to command.

  Hood stood himself up as straight as was possible on his peg leg. “General Johnston, I demand to know why I was not assigned to lead the attack on the Army of the Cumberland yesterday!”

  “General Hood, please calm yourself. Your corps played a critical role in guarding the army’s right flank against any possible intervention by the forces of Schofield and McPherson. Had it not achieved its objective, our victory could not have been won.”

  “Don’t talk to me like a child, Johnston. You robbed me of one of my divisions and then had me sit out the entire battle with a mere two divisions, who simply stood in their positions all day and did nothing. And when McPherson appeared on my front in greatly superior numbers, you denied me reinforcements!” Hood’s face had curled into a scowl and he was making no attempt to keep his voice down. Throughout the headquarters, the staff officers watched the unfolding scene in rapt fascination.

  Johnston could smell whiskey on Hood’s breath, though that only partially explained the man’s irrational behavior. Hood was an angry man, and while he was no Nathan Bedford Forrest, he could easily lose his temper at sufficient provocation. Johnston felt himself to be in no danger, for he knew that if Hood attempted to draw his pistol, half a dozen staff officers would immediately tackle him to the ground.

  Johnston stood calmly, folding his
hands behind his back. “The positions occupied by the various corps of the army, when the opportunity to attack presented itself, was purely coincidental. Had we had a better chance to attack on the eastern side of the city than on the northern side, your corps would obviously have been in the forefront of the attack.”

  “You could have countermarched my men through the city and to the north, while Stewart or Hardee had moved to replace my divisions on the east side!”

  Johnston shook his head calmly, though such a ridiculous suggestion more properly merited laughter. “There was no time for such movements, which would have necessarily entailed much confusion, and I can see no advantage that would have been gained to compensate for it. Stewart and Hardee were both every bit as qualified as you were to lead the attack.”

  “Damned if they were!”

  “Your forget yourself, General Hood. I shall not tolerate insults to brother officers.”

  “I will say whatever I damn well please!”

  Something snapped in Johnston at that instant. His voice remained calm, but he no longer felt that he was bound by decorum. Uncouth bumpkins from the frontier simply did not speak with such insolence to Virginia gentlemen. Hood was a man who had willingly subverted the operations of the army, placing his men and the fate of the country at risk, merely to serve his own personal ambitions. Such men were simply not entitled to the respect accorded to gentlemen.

  “I know you will say whatever you please,” Johnston replied in ice-cold tone. “You certainly say what you please in your secret letters to President Davis and General Bragg, do you not?”

  Hood’s angry scowl vanished, replaced by an expression of stunned shock. It was as if he had been punched in the stomach. He required an awkward five seconds before he remembered to close his mouth. He let out a deep breath, and stared Johnston deeply in the eye.