Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Private letters between friends are no concern of yours,” Hood said.

  “Perhaps if you had confined the subject of your letters to purely personal matters, you would be correct. But it has been made known to me that these letters of yours contained repeated criticisms of my command of this army. These comments included several verifiable falsehoods, such as assertions that you had counseled me to take the offensive on occasions when you and I both know you actually counseled retreat.”

  Hood did not reply, but his gaze fell away from Johnston’s eyes and to the floor.

  Johnston went on. “You must be aware, General Hood, that communicating with the civilian government without your commander’s knowledge or permission is an act of insubordination meriting a court martial.”

  For nearly thirty seconds, Hood simply shook his head, pursed his lips, and breathed heavily. When he looked up, the surprise and sadness had vanished, replaced once again by fury and rage.

  “General Johnston, you shall pay dearly for your treatment of me.”

  One corner of Johnston’s lips went up in a sneer. “Return to your command, General.”

  Without another word and without pausing to salute, Hood turned and walked directly toward the door.

  “General Hood?”

  He looked back. “What?”

  “There will be no more of these secret letters. If you wish to make your views known to the government, you shall do so through the proper channels and only with my permission. Is that clear?”

  Hood looked at him silently for a second, but did not respond. He turned and walked out the door without another word. A few minutes later, having been strapped into the saddle by helpful staff officers, he rode off.

  Mackall walked up beside Johnston. “Shall I prepare papers for a court martial?”

  “No. Not yet, at least. Perhaps it will blow over, now that my command of this army is secure. Keep an eye on him, though. In the meantime, let’s turn our attention to Sherman.”

  *****

  July 21, Afternoon

  The 7th Texas had covered itself with glory during the Battle of Peachtree Creek. They had spearheaded the drive of Granbury’s Brigade that had broken through the Union lines at the critical moment of the battle, captured a four-gun enemy battery and two battle flags, and ended the engagement by taking the commander of the opposing army prisoner. Few regiments on any battlefield in history could have matched such an achievement.

  The price they had paid for their glory was high. The 7th Texas had been shattered. Going into the Battle of Peachtree Creek with slightly more than a hundred men, it had come out of it with just seventy. Although Collett had emerged unscathed, one of the regiment’s lieutenants had been killed and the other seriously wounded. The Lone Star Rifles, in particular, had suffered heavily, with only eleven men still standing when the battle had ended.

  McFadden wiped sweat away from his forehead as he pushed the shovel into the earth yet again. While details had been sent out to collect as many of the bodies of their fallen comrades as could be found, the rest of the regiment was busying itself digging a burial trench.

  “Take a break, James,” Captain Collett said. “You’ve earned it, if anyone has.”

  McFadden shook his head. “Thanks, sir, but no. We owe it to our boys to get this done as quickly as possible.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He went back to digging. Slowly, the bodies of their comrades were brought in and laid respectfully next to the trench as quietly as possible. The work went on for some time. After a few hours, the details were back with seventeen bodies. The remainder would likely be buried in those trenches reserved for unidentified men.

  They carefully lifted the bodies into the trench. When this was completed, the 7th Texas mustered in a line facing them.

  Stokely Chaddick, the chaplain of Granbury’s Texas Brigade, arrived to officiate. He pulled out his Bible and gazed over the sad faces of the surviving members of the 7th Texas. Aside from a few muffled coughs, there was complete silence. Chaddick read Psalm 23, which did not surprise McFadden. It was the verse almost always used on such occasions. He read the names of each of the soldiers and spoke of their Christian devotion. McFadden knew that was untrue in many cases, but of course it would have been impolite to say so.

  The service ended quickly. Chaddick made his apologies and departed, for he had other funeral services to officiate. McFadden and some of the others began shoveling the refuse dirt back into the trench, covering the bodies of their friends. When it was over, McFadden set his shovel down, sat down with his back to a tree, and promptly fell asleep.

  He didn’t know how long he slept, but some time later he was awoken by a gentle shaking of his shoulder.

  “Jim? Wake up, Jim.” It was Collett’s voice.

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

  “General Cleburne is here to see you.”

  Those words woke McFadden up as though someone had thrown a bucket of water in his face. His eyes opened. Cleburne was standing before him, patiently waiting. He scrambled to his feet, quickly brushed himself off, and saluted.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That’s all right, McFadden. I just came by to give your regimental commander this.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Captain Collett.

  “What is it?” McFadden asked.

  “Orders. Captain Collett has been promoted to major and you have been promoted to lieutenant. You’ll receive official confirmation from the War Department just as soon as they take care of the paperwork.”

  His eyes widened. “Lieutenant?”

  “Don’t be surprised, McFadden. You personally captured the highest ranking Union officer yet taken prisoner by the Confederacy. And your record up to this point has been stellar. Honestly, I do not know why you were not made an officer some time ago.”

  “I have offered to send in McFadden’s name for promotion to lieutenant on previous occasions, sir,” Collett said. “He has always declined the honor.”

  “Has he?” Cleburne said. “Why is that?”

  Collett looked at McFadden, silently telling him to answer their division commander. McFadden, still not fully awake and stunned by what Cleburne was telling him, could not find any words to say. He didn’t really know the answer anyway.

  Cleburne waited a few moments before going on. “Well, not this time, son. As the commander of your division, I am not offering you a promotion. I am ordering you to take it. Is that clear, Lieutenant McFadden?” Cleburne’s voice stressed the new title.

  “Completely, sir.”

  “Very well.” He extended his hand. “Congratulations.”

  McFadden shook his hand and was surprised by the strength of the Irishman’s grip. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Three cheers for Major Collett and Lieutenant McFadden!” someone shouted.

  The men of the 7th Texas cheered heartily and applauded as Cleburne handed McFadden an officer’s sword and lieutenant stripes to be sewn into his uniform. McFadden had a bemused look on his face, which the men found quite funny.

  Cleburne departed, and the rest of the regiment went back to its business. Private Montgomery walked up to McFadden.

  “Congratulations, Jim.”

  “Thank you, Ben. Not really sure if I want it, though.”

  “You’ll make a fine officer. You led the Lone Star Rifles well enough.”

  “A company is one thing. Now I’m going to be in charge of half the regiment.”

  “Couldn’t ask for a better man.”

  McFadden shook his head. “I hoped that I had turned down Collett’s offers to send in my name often enough that people would stop thinking about making me an officer.”

  “Well, you were the one who captured General Thomas. The whole army’s talking about you. Your name is in the papers. Hell, I bet Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee have heard of you by now.”

  “Dear God.” The thought o
f fame, even if it was temporary, frightened McFadden more than any number of Yankee rifles.

  Montgomery smiled mischievously. “Another person who has certainly heard about what happened is that lady friend of yours down in Atlanta. Annie, is it? Her father, too, I would guess.”

  His head jerked up. It had not occurred to McFadden that his capture of Thomas and his sudden distinction would have any impact on his developing relationship with the Turnbow family. Before he could stop himself, he wondered if Annie would be impressed by what he had done. He also wondered whether her parents might consider him more worthy to court their daughter now that he was an officer with a great martial deed to his credit.

  These thoughts vanished instantly when he suddenly realized that the Turnbows were no doubt wondering whether he had even survived the Battle of Peachtree Creek. He had not thought to contact them to let them know he was alive. He had lived for years effectively cut off from society outside of the 7th Texas itself. It was strange to think that people outside his unit knew of his existence, much less actually cared about his well-being.

  The first thing McFadden did upon becoming a Confederate officer was sit down to write a letter to Annie Turnbow.

  *****

  The corps commanders arrived at the Niles House one by one. First Hardee, then Stewart, then Wheeler, and finally Hood. Johnston had decided to act as though his previous conversation with Hood had not taken place, and his face positively beamed as he greeted his subordinates with firm handshakes and warm pats on the back. The atmosphere at the headquarters of the Army of Tennessee remained festive, with laughter and smiles all around.

  Johnston happily showed the four generals some of the Union regimental battle flags that had been captured the day before, as well as the pile of swords taken from Union officers who were now Confederate prisoners.

  “All in a good day’s work, eh, General Johnston?” Hardee said.

  “Indeed, William. I think these trophies prove that we won the greatest victory yet in our war against the Yankees yesterday.”

  “Amen,” said Stewart with a smile.

  “Come in, gentlemen. We have much to discuss.”

  The five men strolled through the Niles House foyer toward the dining room, which had been made the de facto conference room of the headquarters. Johnston glanced carefully at Hood, whose face held a stony expression. He did not meet the gaze of any of his comrades. Johnston wished that he had the ability to read Hood’s mind.

  Mackall was already in the dining room, trying to scrawl the latest known movements of the enemy onto the ever-present map of the Atlanta area laid out on the table. Johnston waved them all closer to the map table, and the men crowded around it. Mackall started giving a general update.

  “The Army of the Cumberland, or what is left of it, has fallen back to the north in confusion. Our scouts report that it is still in considerable disarray, with units largely intermingled.”

  “My boys are hassling them,” Wheeler said, his voice eager and happy. “I would bet on us bringing in another couple hundred prisoners before this day is over.”

  “Excellent, General Wheeler,” Johnston said. “Go on, General Mackall.”

  “The two armies of Schofield and McPherson have been moving north and west since last night and are now in the process of interposing themselves between us and the remnants of the Army of the Cumberland.”

  “That makes sense,” Hardee said. “It’s only natural for Sherman to use his remaining effective troops to protect those that we routed yesterday.”

  “Where are they now, General Mackall?” Johnston said.

  The chief-of-staff thumped the map. “According to the information General Wheeler has provided me from his scouts, it appears that Schofield’s troops have reached the Chattahoochee River here, just north of where it intersects with Peachtree Creek. McPherson’s force is on his left flank. Their line is extending from the river almost due east. They marched all night to get into this position and since early this morning have been cutting down trees to create fortifications.”

  “So, even if we could reorganize our men quickly enough, move them north of Peachtree Creek and attack the Yankees before the end of the day, any assault would likely be repulsed,” Hardee said.

  “Yes,” Johnston replied. “And with great loss. We will not squander our hard-earned victory with any reckless actions. For the moment, the threat to Atlanta is at an end. We must remain wary, however, for the Yankees are far from finished.”

  “What shall be our strategy, then?” Wheeler asked.

  Johnston tapped the map in the location of the new Union line. “We shall close up on the enemy position, catching any stragglers we can in the process. Stewart on the left, Hardee on the right, with Hood in reserve. Our left flank will be on the Chattahoochee River. General Wheeler, your cavalry will cover our right.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “In the event of any surprises, the Georgia Militia will remain in the defenses around Atlanta, which shall continue to be improved. Two thousand of the militiamen have been detailed to guard the Yankee prisoners, freeing up our regular troops. General Wheeler, you will assign two of your brigades to closely monitor the Chattahoochee River between the new Federal line south to the ford at Campbellton, immediately reporting to me any Federal movements which might be detected on the other side.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have no intention of throwing our men uselessly against their entrenchments, gentlemen. And I am well aware that the armies of Schofield and McPherson represent forty thousand fresh Union troops who remain unscathed by yesterday’s victory. Caution is called for. But neither do I intend to give the Yankees any rest. We obviously have the advantage for the moment. So we will probe their defenses and harass them with artillery fire. Thanks to the Yankee quartermasters, we now have a large surplus of ammunition.”

  The men around the table laughed with some surprise at the joke. Johnston was not particularly known for his sense of humor.

  “In the meantime, I have just sent a telegram to President Davis, requesting that he unleash Forrest’s cavalry against Sherman’s supply lines in Tennessee.”

  “Correct me if I am mistaken, General Johnston,” Hardee said. “But have we not already requested this course of action from the President, only to be repeatedly denied?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Johnston answered. “But the President has always maintained that the reason Forrest could not be ordered into Tennessee was because Federal troops stationed in Memphis posed too great a risk to Mississippi and Alabama to allow Forrest to leave the area.”

  “I can see the logic behind his reasoning,” Stewart said. “Do you believe our victory of yesterday has changed the equation?”

  “I do,” Johnston said. “Sherman will be stripping troops from all areas in order to make good his losses of yesterday. I would suppose that at least some of these troops will have to be drawn from West Tennessee, meaning that the pressure on Mississippi and Alabama will be correspondingly reduced. Hopefully, it shall be reduced to the extent that Forrest will be able to launch an operation against Sherman’s supply lines in the manner I have outlined to the President.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Hardee said.

  Johnston went on. “If Sherman elects to remain on the south bank of the Chattahoochee, we shall look for a favorable opportunity to engage him in battle, most likely by seeking to turn his left flank. If he withdraws to the north bank, we shall endeavor to ensure that he cannot again cross to the south bank. In either case, assuming that Forrest can get onto Sherman’s railroads and cut him off from his supplies, we can continue to hold Atlanta indefinitely. Victory will be ours.”

  The meeting broke up shortly afterwards and the generals dispersed to their commanders. Throughout the entire meeting, Hood had neither said a word nor made eye contact with anyone else. Johnston watched him go with considerable unease.

  *****

  July 22, Evening

&nbs
p; Marble sat quietly at a reserved table at Delmonico’s, reading through that day’s edition of New York World while he waited. The headlines he had chosen for his paper the previous evening had been anything but subtle.

  CATASTROPHE IN GEORGIA!

  SHERMAN’S ARMY UTTERLY ROUTED!

  UNION CASUALTIES ENORMOUS,

  REBEL LOSSES LIGHT

  He smiled. His copy editor had first wanted to use the term `disaster’ to describe the defeat at Peachtree Creek, but as they had been using that term rather too often to describe General Grant’s operations in Virginia and Marble feared his readership was growing tired of it. Besides, `catastrophe’ somehow sounded bigger and more significant than `disaster.’

  The paper boys had been busy hawking the edition on every street corner in New York City throughout the day. Sales had been brisk, better than on any day since the Battle of Gettysburg. Within the paper was perhaps the most venomous editorial Marble had yet printed against the Lincoln administration, damning the President for the conduct of the war and laying all blame for the defeat in Georgia squarely at his feet.

  Marble took a sip from his glass of wine, just as he noticed George McClellan finally arriving at the door. He raised his newspaper until the former general noticed him. An instant later, McClellan slid into the chair across the table.

  “Momentous news from Georgia,” McClellan began.

  “It changes everything. Did you read my paper this morning?”

  “Of course. The accounts of the fighting sent back by your reporters do not make for pleasant reading. So much incompetence! So many casualties! Your editorial denouncing the Lincoln administration, however, was quite enjoyable. And right on the money, if I may say so.”

  “You may,” Marble said with a grin. The waiter approached. Marble ordered the famous Delmonico steak without much thought. He had had it many times during his visits to Delmonico’s and always enjoyed it. McClellan perused the menu for several minutes, torn between a lobster dish and an Alsatian glazed ham, before finally deciding upon the latter. Marble ordered a bottle of Burgundy to accompany the dinner.