“So,” Marble said as the waiter walked off. “What is your take about what has happened in Georgia?”
“I could have predicted it,” McClellan said. “I know Johnston well. He and I were friends before the war. I fought against him during the Peninsular Campaign in 1862 until he was wounded. A dangerous and crafty man, I must say. Sherman got careless and paid the price. I would not have been so imprudent had I been in command.”
Marble nodded. “Needless to say, these events will have a great impact on your presidential campaign.”
“Without doubt. If anything good is to come of this bloody fiasco, it must be that it shall help the people see what a bumbling fool they have as their chief executive and how desperate is the need to replace him with someone more competent.”
“That is what my newspaper is trying its damndest to achieve. My friends at the Chicago Times, the Detroit Free-Press, and dozens of other papers are doing the same. Clement Vallandigham and his friends are moving heaven and earth, crisscrossing the country and speaking to every crowd they can gather. We are steadily eating away at the strength of the Republican Party and the Lincoln administration throughout the country.”
McClellan’s face clouded a bit. “I do not like Vallandigham. He seems to believe we should give the South everything they ask for on a silver platter. I find the idea of being indebted to him to be extremely unpleasant.”
“As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Vallandigham is the enemy of Lincoln. Lincoln is your enemy. Therefore, Vallandigham is your friend.”
McClellan shrugged. “Put that way, I cannot but see your logic. The most important thing to me is that Lincoln is defeated.”
The waiter arrived with their dishes and refilled their glasses of wine. For a few minutes, the conversation became muted as the two men plunged into their delicious meals. Delmonico’s had enjoyed its reputation as the finest restaurant in New York City for decades and the taste of the food proved that it was completely deserved.
“How do we stand electorally?” McClellan asked. He tried to sound nonchalant, but Marble could tell that the former general’s mind was buzzing with anticipation regarding the answer he was about to receive.
“Very well,” Marble said with a smile, sipping from his wine glass before going on. “New York is all but locked down for you. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that New Jersey, your home state, is also as good as won. We have no doubt that the border states of Kentucky, Delaware, and Maryland are leaning heavily in your favor.”
McClellan did the math in his head. “That would give us sixty-two electoral votes.”
“Yes. More than half of the one hundred and seventeen votes that will be required for victory. But my sources in Pennsylvania, Michigan, Minnesota, Indiana and even Illinois are continually sending me very positive news. With this latest disaster yet again demonstrating the incompetence of the Lincoln administration, the situation for us can only improve.”
“If we add the states you just mentioned to the ones you have already asserted are definitely in our column, our total would come to 121 electoral votes.”
“Four more than needed to win the Presidency, General McClellan. And that’s only counting the states which are either certain to vote for you or are likely to do so. You cannot discount the possibility of surprises. I’m even hearing rumblings from Connecticut and Rhode Island of unexpected Democratic strength.”
“Well, this is very pleasant news,” McClellan said, smiling for the first time and taking a sip of his Burgundy. “It also matches what I am being told by other people who are well-informed on political matters. Governor Seymour shares your confidence that we will win New York. And Chairman Belmont has written numerous letters to me outlining, as you just did, the likelihood of most of the Northwestern states falling into line as well.”
Marble nodded. “I am glad you are able to verify what I say with other sources. As a newspaper man, I more readily trust many people saying the same thing than a single person saying one thing. And what everyone is telling me is that you shall be the next President of the United States.”
McClellan smiled and went back to his glazed ham, eating it with more gusto than he had before.
*****
July 22, Night
Sherman leaned against a tree, smoking a cigar and gazing off to the southeast. He was still south of the Chattahoochee River, with Atlanta a mere five miles away. For all the chance he had of reaching the city, it might as well have been on the far side of the Moon.
Three days before, Sherman had commanded a great host of soldiers more than a hundred thousand strong. Following the disaster at Peachtree Creek, its numbers had been reduced to perhaps seventy-five thousand men. Sherman figured that only about half of them could be considered reliable.
The Confederate army, by contrast, was no doubt flush with victory, largely reequipped with captured cannon and muskets, and possibly receiving large reinforcements from Virginia. Sherman couldn’t be sure how much the enemy had suffered in the recent battle. Nor could he be sure whether or how many troops from Lee’s army were actually arriving. All Sherman knew was that he needed to put the Chattahoochee River between him and Johnston.
As he had ordered, the armies of Schofield and McPherson had taken up position in a line running from east to west a few miles north of Peachtree Creek. Behind that line, the shattered remnants of the Army of the Cumberland were withdrawing across the Chattahoochee.
Off in the distance, Sherman could hear scattered musket fire and the occasional boom of artillery. The rebels had been harassing his men all day, as if to mock them for their recent defeat. It stung to realize that many of the cannon now shelling his men had been captured from him during the battle two days before.
“Cump?” said a voice from behind him. He recognized it as McPherson, though he had not previously heard his subordinate approach.
Sherman did not want to talk to McPherson. Indeed, he did not want to talk with anyone at all. All he wanted was to be left alone until his entire army was safely on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River. A feeling of intense and indescribable exhaustion swept over Sherman. He realized that the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was to speak to another human being.
“Cump?” McPherson asked again. “Are you all right?”
With an enormous amount of will, Sherman was able to answer. “Yes. I’m fine.”
He heard McPherson walk a bit closer, though his subordinate seemed careful to keep his distance. “My army continues to hold its position. The enemy is mounting only weak sorties. Probing attacks, seems like.”
Sherman replied with a grunt.
McPherson waited a moment before going on. “Schofield is reporting more or less the same situation on the right. Johnston’s men have closed up to our positions, but they seem to have no intention of making a determined attack.”
“Very well,” Sherman said.
“Cump, it seems to me that Schofield and I would be able to hold our positions on the south bank of the river even against a heavy attack. Our men are well dug in now.”
“No. You shall continue your retreat across the river as previously ordered. I have already had one army shattered on the south bank of this damned river. I shall not risk losing the other two.” Sherman did not turn to look at McPherson while be spoke, but continued to gaze off to the southeast.
“Perhaps it is not that great a risk,” McPherson said. “Together, Schofield and I can put forty thousand men in the field. Considering that Johnston must have suffered heavy losses two days ago, I reckon we still match his numbers even if we do not count the still intact units of the Army of the Cumberland.”
Sherman shook his head. “Grant sent me a telegram a few days before the battle, telling me that Lee was likely sending Johnston twenty-five thousand reinforcements. Indeed, it may have been the arrival of the first of these units that encouraged Johnston to attack in the first place. In all likelihood, General McPherson,
we are outnumbered by the enemy, with our backs to a formidable river, and the morale of our men is at rock bottom. To remain on the south bank risks turning what is already a complete disaster into an even worse catastrophe.”
McPherson waited some time before responding. “Well, what are your orders, then?”
“The same as they were before. You and Schofield are to hold your positions until the Army of the Cumberland has completed its withdrawal across the river, then withdraw yourselves, destroying the bridges as you do so. It is a very simple order. Obeying it should be no trouble.”
“Of course,” McPherson said, his voice uncertain. He cleared his throat to indicate a new topic. “Can I assume that you will be appointing General Hooker to command of the Army of the Cumberland? He is the senior corps commander, after all. Though I don’t like him any better than you do, I have to admit that he has done a decent job of cleaning up the disorganization.”
A look of confusion clouded Sherman’s face. Over the previous two days, he had often dwelt on the fate of Thomas, until a message from Johnston arrived under a flag of truce confirming that he was a prisoner, uninjured and safe. Sherman knew that he should had communicated this information immediately to the War Department, to say nothing of Thomas’s wife, but he still had yet to do so. It would require nothing but a few words to a staff officer, yet Sherman found that he simply couldn’t get his mind to do it.
Worse, Sherman suddenly realized that he had not yet given the question of who was to command the Army of the Cumberland a moment’s thought. He was seized by a moment of silent terror. If he was unable or unwilling to give proper consideration to an issue of such great importance to the campaign, how could he judge himself fit to command all of the Union armies in the Western Theater?
Again, the memories of late 1861 came roaring back, like a fire he thought had been extinguished that suddenly exploded back into life.
“Cump?” McPherson asked, concerned.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to leave Hooker in command?”
“No,” Sherman said, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I am. I shall give command to General Howard.”
“Very well,” McPherson said, sounding slightly unconvinced. General Oliver Howard was a fine Christian gentleman, but his performance as a corps commander in both the Army of the Potomac and the Army of the Cumberland had been little short of disastrous. “I imagine that General Hooker will be less than pleased when you inform him of your decision.”
“Hooker may go to the devil, for all I care. That man shall never be at the head of an army under my command. Now, General McPherson, is there anything else?”
McPherson waited a moment, staring at his commanding general with a look of great concern.
“Well?” Sherman said.
“No, sir. Nothing else.”
“Good. Now return to your army and continue to carry out my orders as planned.”
McPherson saluted and slowly turned to leave. He waited for Sherman to face him and return his salute. But he never did, continuing to puff away on his cigar and stare off into the distance.
*****
July 23, Morning
Thomas shifted uncomfortably on an old rickety chair that seemed likely to fall apart at any moment. Throughout the dusty and poorly-ventilated warehouse, dozens of other captured Union officers either stood about in quiet conversation or lay on moldy blankets on the floor, trying to get some sleep. Although it was still morning, the heat was already stifling.
There were well over two hundred prisoners in this warehouse alone. Most were lieutenants and captains, although there were also a large number of majors and colonels. Thomas was the only general in the warehouse, but conversations with other prisoners revealed that at least three other generals had been taken prisoner during the battle, which meant that there were probably other buildings nearby, similarly stuffed with captured Union officers.
Thomas himself had arrived only the night before. For the first two days of his captivity, he had been held in a small house near Johnston’s headquarters, guarded by a squad of Tennessee infantrymen. He had been visited by many Confederate generals he had known in the peacetime army before the war. Some had been gracious and kind, but others had been sarcastic and mocking, dwelling on his perceived betrayal of the South.
To all such snide comments, he had made the same response he had made to General Johnston the night of his capture. He had sworn an oath to protect the United States and its Constitution, and he stood by his oath. His Confederate counterparts had violated their oath, and for that he would pray to God for the salvation of their souls.
Two days later, General Johnston had sent him a note. Richmond had acceded to his request to be treated no differently than any of the other officers who had been taken prisoner. He had been immediately transferred to the warehouse, with his guards hinting that a movement to yet another new location was imminent.
The prisoners had pieced together a general picture of exactly what had happened to their army during the Battle of Peachtree Creek. Although Thomas noted how studiously polite and deferential they were to him, given his status as their superior officer, he could not help wondering about the occasional side glances he saw cast in his direction. He couldn’t blame them if they laid responsibility for the catastrophe squarely at his feet. In their place, he would probably have done the same.
The prisoners had been forbidden to come within ten feet of the walls of the warehouse. Lining the walls were three or four dozen rebel guards, loaded muskets on their shoulders. Most were old men and young boys, which told Thomas that they were of the Georgia militia rather than the Army of Tennessee. Attempts to start conversations with these men had usually been met with angry warnings not to do so.
The guards had initially spent a lot of time loudly taunting Thomas, calling him a traitor, a coward, and a fool. He had done his best to ignore these insults, but this had only sparked a desire on the part of the guards, who were every bit as bored as the prisoners, to see who might be the first to get some sort of response from the Unionist Virginian. Eventually, a group of fellow prisoners had stood together around Thomas, forming a human wall that blocked their commander from the sight of the guards. Eventually, the rebels lost interest in the game.
There was a sudden murmuring among the prisoners closest to the warehouse double-door, which was big enough to accommodate a horse and wagon. Thomas was at the far end and could not see what was happening. A few minutes later, though, the doors swung open, flooding the warehouse was so much light that Thomas and many other prisoners had to momentarily shield their eyes. Outside, a long line of rebel soldiers was visible. An officer entered the warehouse.
“Attention, prisoners!” he grandly announced. “You are being transferred to a train for transport out of Atlanta! Be advised that you must follow the directions given to you at all times! Anyone who attempts to escape will be shot! Furthermore, if anyone does manage to get away, one of your fellow prisoners will be shot in your place! Is that understood?”
“Where are we being sent?” a Union major asked.
“Macon, about a hundred miles south of here. That’s the last question I shall answer.”
Thomas did not find this surprising. Up until quite recently, most high-ranking Union prisoners were sent to the infamous Libby Prison in Richmond. But a dramatic escape of several prisoners and the near approach of the Army of the Potomac had persuaded the rebel authorities to close Libby Prison down. If he recalled correctly, captured Union officers were now being sent to a special prison camp not far from the hellhole at Andersonville.
Thomas listened to the chatter among his fellow prisoners, who were discussing whether a cavalry raid on the prison camp in question might set them free. He doubted it. The rebel horsemen had proven superior to their Union counterparts at every stage of the campaign to date and the rebels would obviously be guarding their prison camps very carefully. Besides, even if Union cavalry did liberate th
e camp, how would the freed prisoners find their way back to friendly territory?
Over the next hour, the prisoners were led out of the warehouse in groups of twenty, marching in single file. Thomas went with the third group. Rebel guards marched on either side of them, watching them carefully and gripping their muskets tightly. They turned to the left as they exited the warehouse and began walking down the street.
On one side of the road stood a crowd of angry-looking women, with some older men and even some children mixed in. As he marched past them, Thomas could hear the shouts and jeers. The fury of rebel soldiers in battle was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared to the infinite hatred of the women of the South.
“Yankee pigs!”
“Scum of the earth!”
“Bastards!”
Some of the women in the crowd recognized Thomas and screamed out insults personally directed toward him, accusing him of betraying his state, betraying the South, betraying his family. One old man cried out that he hoped his captors would hang him from a sour apple tree.
A Union captain began to shout back a response to one of the abusers, only to have a guard violently slam the butt of his rifle into his knee, causing him to crumple instantly down onto the dusty road. The women laughed and applauded. Two fellow prisoners helped the man back onto his feet and he kept stumbling down the street toward their destination.
“Stand tall, men!” Thomas roared, unable to restrain himself any longer. “You are soldiers of the United States! Stand tall!”
As they kept moving down the road, the immense red brick structure known simply as the Car Shed loomed up ahead of them. The piercing sound of a train’s steam whistle came over the Union prisoners like a portent of doom. Every mile the train carried them southwards would be a mile deeper into the hated Confederacy, a mile farther away from their comrades, a mile farther away from freedom.
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