As he plunged into the life of Thaddeus Kosciuszko, he felt the same exhilaration he had experienced as a child reading about the lives of his heroes, learning their stories for the very first time. As McFadden had read, Kosciuszko had left his native Poland and come to fight alongside George Washington during the American Revolution after having been inspired by the words of the Declaration of Independence. McFadden found him particularly interesting because, unlike Alexander, Caesar, or Napoleon, he fought not for his own glory but rather for the pure ideal of liberty. In doing so, Thaddeus Kosciuszko achieved a glory greater than that won by any combination of kings or emperors.
He was grateful to Robert Turnbow for giving him this book, but he could not deny that it made him somewhat uneasy. He weighed his own struggle and that of his comrades against that of Kosciuszko and found it wanting. After all, any man worth his salt would take up arms to defend his home and family from hostile invaders. But what kind of man would abandon the comforts of his own hearth and home and travel to a distant land to fight for the freedom of others?
McFadden was able to read perhaps thirty more pages, carrying the story through Kosciuszko’s participation in the Battle of Saratoga, before he found his attention being drawn back to the image of Cheeky Joe on a boat, escaping across the Chattahoochee. He struggled for a few minutes to get into the book, but could not.
He set the book down and picked up the last letter he had received from Annie. She had written it three days before and it had arrived the previous day. Their correspondence had developed to the point where they were exchanging two or three letters a week. The fact that they were only a few miles apart made writing to one another fairly easy. Some of the other Texans in the regiment were beginning to express, in a good-humored manner, a certain jealousy about McFadden receiving so many letters.
Their relationship was growing. Annie had come up to visit the regiment three times now and she had written of her intention to come for a visit the next day. On each occasion, she had brought much-appreciated fresh produce from the mysterious slave named Ponder. The 7th Texas had begun sharing some of their bounty with the other units in the brigade, so as not to create too much resentment.
The letters that crossed between them were becoming deeper and more meaningful. They continued to discuss their favorite literature. Annie had asked McFadden about Scotland and what he knew about the country’s history. She had also asked him, in an oddly forward manner, what he intended to do after the war was over. He had had trouble crafting a proper response to this question, for he himself did not know the answer to it.
Try as he might, though, McFadden could not focus on Annie’s letters. He could not focus on anything, in fact, except the face of the man in that rowboat on the river. What if McFadden was right and it had been Cheeky Joe? The wounded Union soldier nearby had told him that the unit they had driven off had been the 118th Ohio. Like every other regiment in Sherman’s army, they were now safely back on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River. Wherever his enemy was, he was beyond McFadden’s reach.
He didn’t want to think about Cheeky Joe. For more than two years, the man had stalked his dreams. Then Annie Turnbow had begun to relight a different kind of fire inside of him, a fire that promised to lift him up into a bright and happy future, rather than drag him down into the dark regions of terror and revenge.
He laid down on his cot. Perhaps a nap would do him good. He began to think that Major Collett had been wrong in asking him to take some time to rest. Had he been busy with his new duties as one of the regimental officers, it would have been easier to turn his mind away from Cheeky Joe. After all, Annie was supposed to be coming up for another visit soon, this time accompanied by her father. It would not do for McFadden to be distracted by what, in all probability, had just been a case of mistaken identity.
But try though he might, McFadden would not fall asleep, nor could he convince himself that he had mistaken the man’s identity. Not for a single minute.
*****
August 3, Evening
Hood stared unhappily down at the desk in front of him. He had finished three letters in the past three hours and was now about to begin a fourth. Writing was always uncomfortable for him, as his useless left arm was unable to hold the paper down. Still, he had learned to manage.
He noted that the sunlight coming through the window was beginning to fade. Glancing about, he saw only three candles in his room. Irritated, he pounded on the wall in front of him. A few moments later, the door was opened by a lieutenant, one of the two staff officers traveling with him.
“Yes, sir?” the man asked.
“This miserable excuse for a hotel has provided me with only three candles. Kindly ask the owner for more.”
“At once, sir.” The man saluted and was gone.
Hood shook his head. He was not much impressed with the town of Opelika, Alabama, just over the border from Georgia, and the hotel in which he was staying also seemed a model of mediocrity. But at least they had provided him with a decent bottle of Tennessee whiskey, which had helped him with his writing.
He looked down at the three letters he had already finished. The first had been to General Bragg, who had gone down to Mobile to inspect the coastal fortifications there. Although the bulk of the letter was a rather dry description of the progress and anticipated future course of Hood’s journey to the Trans-Mississippi, the letter had ended with a suggestion that Bragg and Hood might meet before the former returned to Richmond and the latter had moved on to the west.
Obviously, Bragg would see that the last portion of the letter was what the letter was actually about. Hood needed to discuss matters with Bragg, for he wanted to discover why he had not been appointed to replace Johnston. It had seemed clear to Hood that this had been the plan on which they had agreed during their meeting outside Atlanta. Any hope of becoming the commander of the Army of Tennessee was clearly now at an end, but Hood felt he deserved a proper explanation from Bragg.
The second letter had been to President Davis, in which Hood had described his vision of a campaign in the Trans-Mississippi. General Kirby Smith was the overall Confederate commander west of the Mississippi River, but it was Hood’s understanding that he would be placed in command of the troops in Arkansas. Hood’s suggestion was for a large force of Confederate cavalry to raid into Missouri while a force of Texas infantry, under his own command, launched an offensive to recapture Little Rock. With Union forces likely to be diminished by the need to reinforce Sherman in Georgia, such an offensive had a chance of success.
He knew that President Davis was not entirely pleased with Smith’s performance in the Trans-Mississippi. The thought had already entered Hood’s mind that, having failed to obtain command of the Army of Tennessee, he might now aspire to command in the far west. It was worth thinking about, in any event. Whatever happened, Hood felt some satisfaction at moving closer to Texas, his adopted state.
The only drawback to his current plan was that it was taking him farther away from Sally Preston. The third letter he had written, which he had actually begun on the train the day before, had been addressed to her. Of course, he could not openly describe to her the machinations he had attempted to get Johnston removed from command and have himself appointed in his place. Nevertheless, the simple act of writing to her acted as a tonic to his disappointment, smoothing over the turmoil that his spirit was having to endure.
He had sacrificed his honor as a Southern gentlemen in undermining Johnston’s command. The letters he had written to Bragg and Davis criticizing Johnston’s leadership had been sordid and ignoble. He knew that. Even worse, he had botched the attack at Cassville when it had had a chance of success. He had done it again at New Hope Church a few weeks later. He had advocated retreat from defensive positions he suspected could have been held. If he were being honest with himself, John Bell Hood had to admit that he had jeopardized the success of the Army of Tennessee and potentially the very survival of the Confederacy in
his quest to obtain high command and military glory for himself.
The letter he had written to Sally had described his request for a transfer to the west as a routine matter. In fact, he had suggested that General Smith had asked for his presence on the other side of the river, though this was as false as many of the other claims he had made in his recent letters.
He was about to begin his fourth letter of the day, addressed to Senator Benjamin Hill and requesting him to describe his recollection of the meeting of the Army of Tennessee high command on July 1, when there was a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Hood said, more loudly than necessary.
The door opened and the lieutenant appeared, bearing a dozen or so candles.
“Here you are, sir,” he said, placing them carefully on the side of the desk.
“Thank you,” Hood said, anxious for the man to depart.
“And this came for you, sir,” the officer said, handing Hood an envelope.
He took the envelope and wordlessly waved the man away. He left the room and shut the door seconds later. Hood tore open the envelope, finding two smaller envelopes inside as well as a single letter. He quickly opened the letter and began reading.
General Hood,
I have received your two most recent letters addressed to my daughter. These two letters are hereby respectfully returned unopened. Please be advised that any letters I receive from you addressed to my daughter in the future shall likewise be returned to you unopened. I thank you for the attention you have paid to my daughter up to this point, but it is no longer welcome.
Sincerely,
John Preston
Hood did not need to read the letter twice to see in an instant that whatever hopes he had entertained of making Sally his wife had been utterly destroyed. He had to restrain himself from bellowing out in rage. He stood as best he could, grabbing his crutch and clambering back and forth across the short length of the room, clutching the letter in his hand and crumpling it into a tight wad.
He went back to the desk and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, quickly pouring himself a large glass. He unfolded the letter and read through it one more time, desperately trying to see if there was some word or phrase he had missed which might give him some sort of hope. But he knew there was none. Sally’s father had spoken decisively and unambiguously.
After taking a large swig, Hood slammed the glass down onto the desk and clutched his hair, his face curling into a mask of wrath. In the innermost recesses of his mind, he knew that Sally shared the elitist prejudices of her parents. That glaring fact was what had driven him to seek command of the Army of Tennessee in the first place.
He thought of her face, her sparkling eyes, her flowing hair. For just a moment, he imagined how her comely body would have felt when he would finally have been able to take her to his bed. He thought of her laugh, and how impressed all the aristocrats in Richmond would have been had he arrived at their stuffy dinner parties with her on his arm. No one would ever have spoken of John Bell Hood in a mocking manner again.
That dream was now dead.
Hood threw his whiskey glass against the wall, where it shattered violently. Fortunately, there was another glass on the desk, so Hood was able to quickly pour himself another drink. He had a feeling he would need many more before the night was over. He might even have to send one of his staff officers to obtain another bottle before too much longer.
Hood’s mind fixated on Joseph Johnston as the cause of all his pain and fury. The mental image of the puffed-up, arrogant, disdainful man, riding about on his horse as though he were Robert E. Lee, made Hood furious. Had Johnston been standing before him at that moment, Hood would simply have pulled his revolver out and shot the man down like the dog he was.
Somehow, Johnston had discovered that Hood had been writing to Bragg and Davis behind his back. Hood was determined to find out how that happened and who was responsible. It should have been no business of Johnston’s that he was writing letters to the President and his military advisor. Besides, if Johnston had adopted a manly military posture from the beginning of the campaign, those letters would not have been necessary. Johnston really had no one to blame but himself, as far as Hood was concerned.
Hood had been seen as the most daring and aggressive commander in the Army of Tennessee, if not the whole Confederacy. Yet when he had finally turned to attack the Yankee hordes threatening Atlanta, Johnston had pushed Hood out of the action entirely, positioning him out on the right flank where there had been no action. The plaudits had been won by Hardee, Stewart, Cleburne and Cheatham, with nothing but the dregs left for poor John Bell Hood to gather. He had no doubt that Johnston had kept him out of the fight purely as an act of retribution. That was something no honorable man could forget or forgive.
Hood was certain of one thing. Joseph Johnston would pay. And Hood already knew which instrument of vengeance he would use.
*****
August 4, Morning
“General Forrest, the blockhouse is waving a white flag.”
Forrest laughed with disdain. It seemed that the men Sherman had detailed to guard his railroads in Tennessee were mostly militiamen of the type mustered into service for a mere hundred days and sent down by the governors of the individual northern states. Had he been up against hardened veterans, Forrest would have expected a better fight, but he figured that all seasoned troops had been sent down into Georgia to reinforce Sherman.
“Good,” Forrest told the staff officer, who bore the rather unfortunate name of Major J. P. Strange. “Have the men cease fire, then send over a reliable man to again demand that the Yankees surrender. If they balk, tell them to send a man to talk to me directly.”
“Yes, sir.” Strange saluted and rode off to carry out his orders.
Forrest thought the whole display was pathetic. The much-vaunted blockhouses had proven to be, if not exactly paper tigers, at least highly overrated. They had proven vulnerable to the four twelve-pounder artillery pieces he had brought with his raiding force. The moment he had appeared with a thousand men, the troops guarding the railroad bridge had retreated inside the blockhouse to wait for reinforcements. In response, he had simply had his artillery officer set up position at a convenient location and start pummeling the blockhouse with twelve-pound shells. He had plenty of ammunition, and eventually the walls of the blockhouse had been crumpled like matchsticks under the remorseless fire of his guns.
Ostensibly, the blockhouse was only supposed to protect the garrison of this particular railroad bridge until reinforcements arrived to drive away any Confederate raiding force. Forrest had thousands of his troopers swarming the surrounding twenty or thirty miles of territory, spreading confusion and havoc in all directions. If any large Union force was in the region, it would have little idea where to go or what to do.
He sat on his immense horse, King Philip, and waited. Studying the blockhouse with his field glasses, he could see that it had been reduced to a wreck, with so many gaping holes in its walls that the Yankee soldiers trapped inside were completely at his mercy. If he ordered his cannon to resume firing, they would all be killed in a matter of minutes.
Forrest raised his field glasses above the blockhouse and gazed for a time at his target: the Central Alabama Railroad bridge over the Duck River just north of the town of Columbia, Tennessee. It was an important link in Sherman’s supply line and destroying it would certainly strike a blow for the Confederacy.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, quickly thinking over the entire situation. The greatest Union supply base in the entire Western theater of war was at Nashville, which was protected by immense fortifications and a substantial garrison. It was impregnable, and enough food, fodder, and supplies had been accumulated there to provide for Sherman’s army for many months. He couldn’t capture the city, and riding into Kentucky to break the railroad north of Nashville would do no immediate good.
If any useful damage was to be done to Sherman’s supply line, it would have
to be done south of Nashville. Between Nashville and Chattanooga, the second biggest Union supply depot in the West, ran two different railroads. Breaking one of them would be a significant achievement, but so long as the other railroad remained in operation, their task would be incomplete. Considering how quickly Union construction crews would be able to repair the damage Forrest and his men could do, being able to break both lines and keep them broken seemed unlikely.
As he was enmeshed in these thoughts, Major Strange rode up to him, with a Union officer clinging to him on the back of the horse. The two men dismounted, but Forrest remained on King Philip. He raised his hand in a salute to the Union officer, whose uniform indicated the rank of major.
“Major,” he said simply. “I am Nathan Bedford Forrest.”
The Yankee major saluted. “Major George Foster. I am the commander of the blockhouse.” His tone betrayed apprehension, but not fear.
“In that case, I demand your immediate and unconditional surrender.”
“I am prepared to discuss terms, General. My men are colored soldiers. I would like your assurance that they will be treated properly as prisoners-of-war in accordance with the accepted rules of warfare.”
Inwardly, Forrest grinned. The killings at Fort Pillow had been a nasty business, but as far as Forrest was concerned their impact had been quite beneficial. His men had gotten out of hand and had slaughtered over a hundred black Union soldiers, either while they were trying to surrender or immediately afterward. Major Foster was clearly concerned that the same fate would now befall the men under his command.
“I repeat that you must immediately and unconditionally surrender. If you don’t, I will have my guns start firing again. You have no protection. If you don’t surrender, all of your men will surely die. And yourself as well.”
Shattered Nation Page 47
