There was a long silence. Hardee pursed his lips and said nothing for some time. Johnston waited patiently. “So, that’s it, is it?” Hardee finally asked.
“Only Jefferson Davis knows for certain. But I think so, yes.”
Hardee shook his head again. “Not fair. Cleburne was only saying what he honestly believed.”
“His logic was perfectly reasonable, if you ask me. Were the slaves to serve as soldiers in our armies, we could face the Yankees with armies equal in strength. Moreover, if the Confederacy were not a slaveholding nation, we would long since have obtained official diplomatic recognition from Britain and France, with all that entails.”
Johnston spoke with conviction he did not entirely feel, for though he was no friend to slavery himself, he thought Cleburne’s plan had been naïve and hopelessly impractical. He recalled the raucous meeting of the senior officers of the army that had taken place in January, seemingly a lifetime ago, at which Cleburne had pitched his idea. Some of the generals present, including Hardee, had endorsed Cleburne’s plan, but most had opposed it. Indeed, General Walker had bitterly denounced the idea and had come close to accusing Cleburne of treason. Whatever its merits, Johnston had recognized the memorandum’s potential for stirring up strife within the ranks of the Confederacy. It was just as well that, upon learning of Cleburne’s memorandum, President Davis had promptly ordered all discussion of it terminated.
“Well, we must obey the orders of the War Department,” Hardee said reluctantly. “It will be hard on Cleburne, though. He burns for advancement, and no man is more deserving.”
“You and I are as one on this question, William. However, since Richmond has made its wishes known, whom do you advise I appoint to take over Hood’s corps?”
“If it is not to be Cleburne, then I suppose the honor should fall to Benjamin Cheatham,” Hardee replied. “He’s a good soldier and very popular with the army. His performance in battle has always been good. At Peachtree Creek he was second only to Cleburne in his contribution to victory.”
“I agree,” Johnston said. “Cheatham it shall be.”
In truth, Johnston had already decided to promote Cheatham and would have done so even had Hardee recommended someone else. But he was happy to allow Hardee to think he had been the deciding factor. With so many enemies within his own ranks, Johnston knew he needed friends.
*****
July 28, Morning
By the standards of the giant armies waging war against each another in Virginia and Georgia, the Confederate encampment outside the town of Tupelo in northern Mississippi was not particularly large. The few acres of tents, most of them captured from the enemy, sheltered only about 3,500 rebel horsemen, all trying to find some relief from the oppressive Mississippi summer. It wasn’t the size of the force that made it formidable, so much as its commander.
That commander sat quietly in his headquarters tent, reading a Louisville newspaper only four days old, smuggled in earlier that day by a spy. In his mid-forties, he was tall and exceedingly well-built. He bore scars of numerous wounds, some inflicted by the Yankees, others by his own kind.
Nathan Bedford Forrest didn’t smile very often. Neither did anyone who happened to be in his presence. That was probably just as well, for on those rare occasions that Forrest actually did smile, its effect was to freeze the blood in a man’s veins, as if Satan was making a joke at their expense.
He had earned his reputation and did his best to quietly foster it. This was not because he particularly enjoyed it. He was not one of the flamboyant dandies of the Confederate cavalry like Jeb Stuart or John Hunt Morgan. He couldn’t have cared less for newspaper headlines in and of themselves. Rather, he built his reputation because he knew that it gave him an advantage in battle. When Yankee soldiers heard rumors that Nathan Bedford Forrest and his deadly troopers were approaching, the fear in their hearts rendered them half defeated before he and his men even appeared over the horizon.
Some of the stories which were told about him, such as the allegation that he had killed more than two dozen Union soldiers in hand-to-hand combat, were quite true. Others were more fanciful. It was said that he could cause birds to fall dead out of the sky merely by looking at them, that he never slept, that wolves obeyed his commands, and that his horse King Philip exhaled fire and had red-glowing eyes. There were other stories, even more far-fetched and even more frightful.
Forrest was not concerned with such stories now. He tossed down the paper in frustration, for it contained no details about the recent battle he had fought against Union forces just west of Tupelo, two weeks before. While the battle had been tactically inconclusive, the Yankees had hurriedly retreated to their stronghold of Memphis in its immediate aftermath. Forrest had hoped to glean some information about the condition of the enemy forces from the newspaper article, but the editors were more concerned with the fighting taking place in Virginia and Georgia.
Forrest was gratified, though, to get further details about the Confederate victory at Peachtree Creek. He had to admit his surprise at the sudden turn of events. While Johnston handled his army with a certain level of skill, he was far too cautious a general for Forrest’s taste. Nevertheless, he had inflicted a decisive defeat on Sherman, which was all Forrest cared about. As far as he was concerned, the more Yankees in Hell, the better. Moreover, success in Georgia might weaken the enemy in West Tennessee, allowing him to mount the raid against Sherman’s railroads that he had been dreaming of for weeks.
His own command was in good shape, which made him very proud. He had beaten back everything the Yankees could throw at him, fighting them to a draw in the recent battle outside Tupelo and, a month before, utterly smashing a superior Union force at the Battle of Brice’s Cross Roads.
These thoughts were still rolling through Forrest’s mind when a staff officer entered the tent.
“General Forrest, excuse me, sir.”
“Yes, Captain. What is it?”
“We’ve received a telegram from the departmental headquarters. Here it is, sir.” The man passed the paper over to Forrest, then quickly saluted and exited the tent. Forrest grabbed the paper and quickly read it.
General Forrest,
The victory recently achieved over General Sherman in Georgia renders it more desirable that we cut the enemy supply lines. You are thereby directed to operate with your force against Sherman’s railroads in Tennessee. You may operate as you see fit, but your command is to remain north of the Tennessee River. If at all possible, destroy the bridge over the Tennessee River at Bridgeport, Alabama.
Secretary of War Seddon
It was the order Forrest had been waiting for. Within thirty seconds of reading the telegram, Forrest was outside the tent, barking orders at his three brigade commanders. Less than ten minutes later, the quiet camp had turned into a maelstrom of activity, the men quickly folding up their tents and rolling up their blankets, saddling their horses with a speed and coordination possible only for men who had practically lived on horseback for the previous three years. In only half an hour, what had been a well-laid out military encampment had entirely disappeared, replaced by 3,500 Confederate cavalrymen mounted, armed, and ready for action.
While all this was going on, Forrest hurriedly conferred with his brigade commanders, tracing out his proposed route of march on a map. The details would be worked out later, Forrest said. What was important now was speed and an early start.
Forty-five minutes after Forrest had been handed the telegram, officers shouted orders to their men and the entire mounted force began trotting northeast.
*****
July 28, Evening
“I shall make no complaint,” Cleburne said stoically. “Please convey my congratulations to General Cheatham, who very much deserves this promotion.”
Hardee looked at his friend warmly. “Again, as was the case when we needed to find a replacement for General Polk, I told General Johnston that you were the best possible choice. But because Cheatham’
s appointment as a major general precedes you, it was thought best that he take up the position.”
“You need not sugar-coat it, my friend. It is about much more than seniority. I am not a West Pointer, but then neither is General Cheatham. If you ask me, my lack of promotion is due to my memorandum on recruiting freed slaves into our army.”
Hardee nodded. “I won’t deny the truth of it, my friend. I just hope that you do not see Cheatham’s appointment as a reflection of Johnston’s opinion of you. He believes you are quite possibly the greatest division commander in the Confederacy.”
Cleburne shrugged and reached for the mug of coffee which sat next to his plate of roast beef. Outside, the warm humidity of the Georgia evening did not seem to dampen the spirit of the men, who continued to play their banjoes and sing around their campfires.
“How are things in your division?” Hardee asked.
“Fine, I suppose. The men are rather bored, I think. The rumors are circulating about Wheeler’s raid against the railroad.”
Hardee shrugged. “I expect nothing good to come from that. Wheeler is good in a fight, but honestly worth little when it comes to anything as complicated as tearing up railroad track.”
“What does Johnston expect?”
“Nothing, most likely. I frankly think he sent Wheeler off north just to get rid of him, rather than out of any expectation that his raid will be a success. No, Johnston is trusting in General Forrest for that.”
“We’ll see,” Cleburne said.
“Have you had any word from Susan?”
“Yes,” Cleburne said, his face brightening at the mention of his fiancée. “A letter from her arrived just yesterday. Mobile is apparently in consternation at the prospect of an attack by the Yankee navy, which might be a prelude to an effort to capture Mobile itself.”
“Where will she go if they do attack?” Hardee said, concerned.
“Montgomery, most likely. I would prefer for her to come to Atlanta, so that we might get to actually spend some time together. But if Sherman attempts to cross the river again, the fate of Atlanta would again be uncertain, and I will not permit Susan to be placed in a potentially dangerous situation.”
Hardee laughed. “You are a gentleman, Patrick. Rest assured, you and your love will have ample time to spend together when the war is over. The whole rest of your lives, in fact.”
Cleburne reflected on the uncomfortable fact that such optimism depended on him surviving the war. That was something of which Cleburne himself was not at all confident. The leg wound he had suffered at Peachtree Creek had been minor, but still burned and would keep him limping for at least another week. He had been in the thick of the fight for much of the battle, mounted on a horse and obviously a high-ranking officer. How many bullets had been fired at him he could not possibly know. By all rights, he should have been killed, yet he had passed safely through.
It had been far from the first time. In the midst of a small battle during the invasion of Kentucky, an enemy bullet had sliced through his cheek and knocked out two of his teeth. The wound had appeared worse than it actually was, but Cleburne was well aware of the fact that he had come within an inch of having his head blown off. He also had suffered a minor wound at the Battle of Perryville. No one had to tell him that he was as vulnerable as anyone else.
Cleburne found himself wondering how long his luck would hold. He then chastened himself for asking such a stupid question. Obviously, God would not have brought Susan Tarleton into his life if He intended for him to die on some blood-soaked battlefield before they even had a chance to be married.
“Remember Bleak House?” Hardee said with a smile.
“How could I forget?”
“Not even seven months ago,” Hardee said wistfully. “It seems like a lifetime.”
The memory of those heady days came rushing back to Cleburne like a deluge. Some time before, Hardee had become utterly smitten with an Alabama lass half his age, the refined and beautiful Mary Lewis, and had impulsively asked her to marry him. Besotted by the handsome general who professed such an intense love, Mary had accepted. A wedding had been hastily arranged at the wealthy estate of the bride’s father, which took its ironic name from the recent novel by Charles Dickens.
Hardee had asked Cleburne to serve as his best man and Cleburne had happily accepted. It had been the first leave of absence he had taken since the beginning of the war, two years earlier. Cleburne had expected to enjoy himself, happy to leave the stress of command and the disappointment of the failure of his infamous memorandum behind him for at least a few days. He could not have known the magical delight into which he was about to be plunged.
In the midst of a dreary and uninviting central Alabama countryside, Bleak House Plantation belied its name by being beautiful, warm, and inviting. It was a center of culture and refinement where the latest artistic and intellectual trends of London and Paris were discussed. Abandoning his teetotal habits for once, Cleburne had sipped champagne while marveling at the strange but beautiful pieces of French art that had graced the walls of the house, some of which had arrived just before the outbreak of the war.
The wedding itself had been a divine event. Cleburne had presented himself in a fine dress uniform of Confederate gray and with a ceremonial sword, both of them gifts from the men of 15th Arkansas Infantry, which he had commanded at the beginning of the war. He flattered himself if he thought that he appeared half as dashing as the other officers involved in the ceremony.
It was there that General Patrick Cleburne had met the lovely Susan Tarleton.
He had been the best man; she the maid of honor. From the first moment he had looked upon her, he had been struck down by the intensity of her gaze. She had heard of the gallant Cleburne, of course, for everyone in the Confederacy had heard of Cleburne. Still, he found it astonishing that she even deigned to notice him. Such beauty, such intelligence, such vivaciousness, such coyness; he felt that they were not to be found in any other female on Earth. Patrick Cleburne, who would have never surrendered to the enemy, had surrendered to Susan Tarleton at first sight.
The days that followed seemed like something out of a romantic poem from Elizabethan days. A beautiful steam paddleboat had carried the wedding party down the Tombigbee River from Bleak House to the city of Mobile. Bachelors were being struck down without mercy, as two of the groomsmen announced their engagements to members of the bridal party not long after.
Cleburne had spent every moment with Susan, walking the decks of the steamboat as they passed through some of the most beautiful countryside in the South. He didn’t talk much about the war, but rather his life before it and his dreams for his life after it. He was delighted to find that she didn’t hold his Irish birth against him, nor the fact that he had once been a humble enlisted man in the British Army. Indeed, she seemed captivated by the story of his rise from humble beginnings and his determination to make a name for himself in the Confederacy.
Once they reached Mobile, there had been a whirlwind of dinner parties and official events. Cleburne had spent the time with Susan and her family, for it had become obvious by this point that he was pursuing Susan with a view to a marriage proposal. The main newspaper in Mobile considered his presence in the city worthy of a lead story and he had been the guest of honor at a grand review of the Mobile garrison. Cleburne hoped that Susan and her family had been impressed.
His idyllic visit to Mobile had not lasted long. Soon he had returned to the Army of Tennessee, then encamped at Dalton waiting for Sherman to launch his spring offensive. But a steady stream of letters had passed between Cleburne and the object of his affections, each more ardent than the last. Only a few weeks passed before Cleburne had prevailed upon Hardee and Johnston for a few days of additional leave. He had dashed back down to Mobile and, within days, he and Susan were engaged.
“I went on that trip intending to help you gain a wife,” Cleburne said with a smile. “I did not expect to acquire one myself.”
&nb
sp; “You did me the honor of standing beside me as I was married. Introducing you to your future wife was the least I could do in terms of compensation.”
“I am looking forward to having you stand by my side on my wedding day, you know.”
Hardee smiled and slapped Cleburne’s shoulder. “I am deeply honored, my friend. And I shall look forward to the wedding with great pleasure. Indeed, if the trip we take for your wedding is even a tenth as pleasant as the one we took for mine, it shall be well worth it.”
“I very much wish this campaign were over,” Cleburne said. “If it were, we could depart for Mobile tomorrow. Susan and I could be married within a week.”
“Alas, duty.”
“Yes, duty. Sometimes I do not care for it.”
“You’re a liar,” Hardee said. “You are duty manifested in human form. I don’t doubt your love for Susan, but you could no more leave this army, leave your division, than you could cut off your own legs.”
Cleburne grunted and said nothing.
“Cheer up, my friend. The war will be over after the presidential elections in the North. We shall have succeeded in establishing the independence of our nation, and you can live out the rest of your life with your beloved. Whether you go home to Arkansas to practice law again or decide to remain in the army, you shall have a loving wife by your side.”
Cleburne shook his head. “I pray so, but it’s best not to tempt fate. A lieutenant in my division was killed at Peachtree Creek only hours after learning that he had become a father. I shall make Susan my wife this fall, peace or no peace, but I shall not dream of the future until the last shot of this damnable war has been fired.”
*****
Shattered Nation Page 44
