Next in line was the man Johnston was most delighted to see, Senator Louis Wigfall. Just returned from his visit to Texas, having narrowly avoided a Yankee gunboat when crossing the Mississippi, Wigfall was now on his way back to Richmond. It was the first time Johnston had seen his friend since the night following the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, where he had first warned Johnston of the machinations of Davis and Hood.
Mayor Calhoun, Vice President Stephens, Governor Brown, and Senator Wigfall were only four among two dozen distinguished guests. Some were members of the Georgia state legislature, while a few were members of the Georgia congressional delegation who happened to be home on visits to their constituents. Others were prominent merchants and businessmen from Atlanta’s commercial community. Most of these men had been accompanied by their wives, who were wearing dresses that struck Johnston as oddly new and fashionable, considering the wartime hardships the South was experiencing. He couldn’t help but wonder how many rifles might have been purchased for his men for the amount of money represented by those dresses.
Sitting to Johnston’s right was his wife, Lydia. Throughout the campaign, she had bravely remained in Atlanta despite his occasional suggestions that she depart for some safer place. Johnston had always left the final decision to her and she had chosen to stay put. Despite their proximity, Johnston had seen his wife only on a few occasions since the campaign had begun, though he had written her on a nearly daily basis.
“You look radiant, my dear,” Johnston whispered in her ear. It was true. Looking at her, he felt a pang of regret that their devoted marriage had remained childless.
“Do I?” she asked. “This dress is one I had left over from before the war. I fear these other ladies are wearing the latest fashions of Paris, having had them run through the blockade.”
“Even the second most beautiful woman in the Confederacy does not possess so much as one-tenth of your beauty.” She playfully slapped his arm.
Mayor Calhoun rose to his feet, tapping his wine glass with his fork to quiet the other guests. When this had been accomplished, he held forth.
“I wish to propose a toast to General Joseph Johnston, the commander of the Army of Tennessee, who defeated the Yankee hordes of Sherman and saved the city of Atlanta from certain destruction!” He raised his glass. Everyone around the table stood and raised their glasses. “To General Johnston!” Calhoun said.
“To General Johnston!” the room roared in reply.
As the guests resumed their seats, Vice President Alexander Stephens cleared his throat to speak. “That Johnston was the savior of Atlanta is not to be doubted. The question the history books shall ask is whether our victory might have come earlier and at a smaller price in blood had the chief executive of our nation pursued a proper political and military policy.”
Johnston couldn’t suppress a smile, as any criticism of the President was music to his ears. Despite himself, he could not resist responding. “Far be it from me to speak ill of the President, but I must say that his policies have certainly hindered the defense of Atlanta in many ways.”
“Oh?” Stephens asked. “How so?”
“I believe that had the President seen fit to order Forrest into Tennessee back in June, when I first urged him to do so and when it might have actually done some good, we should have defeated Sherman before he had reached the Chattahoochee River. As it was, I had no choice but to fall back nearly to the gates of Atlanta before being able to attack him successfully.”
“Intriguing,” Governor Brown said. “As I recall, I myself sent many telegrams and letters to the President also asking him to order Forrest into Tennessee. As he seemed happy enough to do it following the Battle of Peachtree Creek, I am at a loss to explain why he failed to do so before the battle.”
“I am distinctly not at a loss to explain it,” Wigfall said gruffly. “If you ask me, Davis refused to order Forrest into Tennessee until it was too late to do any good because he actually wanted Johnston to be defeated. His petty vindictiveness toward General Johnston placed the Confederacy in great danger. It was in spite of the President that Johnston was able to emerge triumphant, and certainly not on account of any help the President provided.”
Side conversations among the dinner guests had now largely stopped and everyone was suddenly fixated on the three-way discussion among Stephens, Brown and Wigfall. Johnston himself, feeling that he had perhaps said too much even with his single sentence, sat back and acted as though the conversation were about horse racing.
“The President’s treatment of General Johnston is nothing new,” Wigfall said. “He denied him his proper place in the chain of command back in 1861 and refused to properly support him on the Virginia Peninsula in 1862 and during the Vicksburg Campaign in 1863. Is that not so, General?”
Johnston heartily agreed, but felt it improper to say so. “Etiquette requires me to remain silent on such a question in such a public sphere as this.”
Vice President Stephens went on, as though Johnston had said nothing. “General Johnston is far from the only general who has received such treatment from the President. Beauregard and D. H. Hill have as well.”
“Such is the fate of any general who fails to acknowledge the omnipotent genius of the almighty Davis,” Wigfall said, drawing laughter from around the table. Some of the laughter was hearty, while some sounded distinctly uncomfortable.
“His treatment of generals who earn his personal disfavor is bad enough,” Brown said. “But look at the policies of his administration in Richmond! We seceded from the United States in order to escape the centralization of power in Washington, but we find ourselves paying taxes directly to Richmond and having draft officers from the central government swarm through our towns and farms to round up our young men for service outside our state. It’s absurd.”
“If I am not mistaken, the War Department has even established regulations dictating what blockade runners can and cannot hold as cargo,” Vice President Stephens said. “Is it not so, Captain?”
He had addressed this question to an extremely well-dressed guest at the table, who had a warm and wry smile and an elegantly thin mustache. Johnston did not know who the man was, though clearly most other people at the table did. Since he had been addressed as a captain but did not wear a naval uniform, and because of the nature of the question, Johnston assumed that he was the captain of a blockade runner.
“The regulations require that half the space on each blockade runner be reserved for government cargo,” the man responded.
“Does this not trouble you?” Wigfall asked.
The man shrugged nonchalantly, as though he considered the whole matter nothing more than an amusing game. “I am happy to bring in rifles and cannon if I am paid well for it. But in truth, the cargo I most enjoy running past the Yankees consists of fine dresses and perfumes for the ladies and good brandy and cognac for the men.”
The table laughed heartily at this statement. Johnston thought it unpatriotic, yet found himself joining in the laughter nonetheless. The man smiled as he took another sip of wine, saying nothing more.
Wigfall spoke up again. “I have heard it said by many people that we have simply exchanged one petty tyrant in Washington for another in Richmond. Not a good tradeoff, if you ask me.”
Johnston decided to interject. “I suppose that the necessities of war have required certain compromises. After we have achieved our independence, we can return to a proper and smaller form of government.”
“The correct sentiment,” Stephens replied. “But do you really think that President Davis, having accumulated so much power in his hands, shall happily give it up when the war is over? Is he really that sort of man?”
“I am not qualified to express any opinions on such political questions, Mr. Vice President.”
“You do not give yourself enough credit, General,” Governor Brown said. “History is full of men who excelled in the art of war and who later excelled in the art of politics. George Washington comes
to mind.”
“I cannot even see myself standing in the shadow of George Washington,” Johnston replied.
“A pity,” Stephens said. “After all, the Constitution limits the President to a single term in office. An election will have to be held in 1867. Davis will naturally attempt to choose his own successor in an effort to maintain his effective control over the Confederacy. Those of us who love liberty shall have to find a man of conviction to challenge whoever Davis puts forward. A general who has earned the love of the people by winning a dramatic victory over the Yankees would fit the bill nicely, I should think.”
Johnston said nothing, looking down at his plate and carefully sipping his wine. Wigfall, Brown, and Stephens watched him intently, as did every other person sitting at the long table, but the general never looked up. Gradually, he resumed eating his food, ignoring the silence and all the eyes that were fixed on him.
Mayor Calhoun stood up and cleared his throat, having clearly decided to rescue Johnston by changing the subject. “I am happy to report that I have given permission for the Athenaeum to reopen. An acting troupe up from Savannah will be putting on Shakespeare’s King Lear a week from today.”
There was a happy chattering from the assembled guests, followed by light applause. Calhoun beamed happily. “I thought that there would be no better way to celebrate the salvation of the city than to begin the process of getting things back to normal.”
Johnston pursed his lips. “Mr. Mayor, with all due respect, the threat to Atlanta is not yet over.”
“What?” Calhoun said, still smiling. “Surely you’re jesting, General Johnston. You shattered Sherman’s army at Peachtree Creek and forced him to retreat north of the Chattahoochee.”
“The Battle of Peachtree Creek took place a month ago. Despite the best efforts of my own cavalry and that of General Forrest, the enemy supply lines have not been cut. Even with their heavy losses, they continue to outnumber us, especially as they have been receiving heavy reinforcements from the Eastern Theater. There are yet many months remaining in the campaigning season. I regard another Northern offensive as inevitable.”
Calhoun’s smile had vanished as he listened to Johnston’s words. Rather than continue the conversation, which would have required him to either contradict the general or to agree with his pessimism, he simply returned to his seat.
At that moment, the doors opened and a coterie of slaves entered with dishes of frozen custard. The awkwardness of the preceding minutes of conversation vanished as the guests plunged their spoons into the delicious dessert. Within moments, animated conversation again filled the Trout House dining room.
“Do you really believe Atlanta is still in danger, darling?” Lydia asked her husband.
“Sherman has been completely inactive for the past few weeks. I do not know why, but it cannot remain this way. Something is bound to happen in the very near future.”
“As much as I cherish our friendship with the Wigfalls, I am displeased with Louis this evening. To speak of you as a potential political candidate? And in such a public sphere? It’s not proper.”
“Believe me, love. When this war ends, I intend to live out my days in peaceful retirement with you. I suppose I might pen my recollections of the events of this war, but you may rest assured that I have no political ambitions whatsoever.”
“It pleases me to hear it, darling. If you ever express even the slightest interest in running for political office, I shall exercise my wifely right to veto.”
Johnston laughed as he took another bite of the custard.
*****
August 20, Night
There was no one in sight. The sound of his footsteps was strangely audible amidst the eerie silence of Richmond at night. Grace Street was home to many of Richmond’s older and more elegant houses, mostly owned by those fortunate few who had inherited their wealth rather than made it themselves. Walking to the east, away from the center of the city, Bragg passed by the stately home of Miss Elizabeth Van Lew, an eccentric Union sympathizer everyone called “Crazy Bet”. Insane or not, she would have long since been thrown in jail had Bragg had anything to say about it. He dismissed the thought as irrelevant to the matter at hand.
He was not wearing his habitual immaculate gray uniform. Instead, Bragg was wearing black civilian clothes. Although scarcely a soul was walking the streets, as it was approaching midnight, provosts on horseback occasionally rode by in their endless patrols of the streets. Recognizing him as a general, they would certainly stop to salute him. As it was, Bragg wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.
As he walked down the street, Bragg knew he was taking a risk. John Daniel, editor of the Richmond Examiner, was one of the most ardent critics of the Davis administration, never letting pass an opportunity to lambast the President or disparage his policies. Among the favorite targets of the venomous pen of Daniel and his team of hack writers had been Bragg himself. That was an unforgivable sin in Bragg’s eyes, made all the worse by the fact that Daniel had been a staunch defender of Joe Johnston since the beginning of the war.
There was, however, one cause to which Daniel felt an even stronger commitment than his crusade against Jefferson Davis. Daniel was a passionate defender of slavery and white supremacy. That was what Bragg was now counting on.
Bragg turned north and began walking up 22nd Street until he came to St. John’s Episcopal Church, famed as the location where Patrick Henry had made his “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death” speech at the beginning of the American Revolution.
A man similarly dressed in dark civilian clothes stood beneath a tree off to the left of the church’s main door. He was smoking a large cigar, but tossed it into the ground when he saw Bragg approach.
“Mr. Daniel?” Bragg asked uncertainly.
“So, it was not a joke,” the man replied. “When I got your note, I thought either someone was playing a prank on me or that you had gone out of your mind.”
“Why is that?” Bragg asked, walking up beside Daniel. He motioned for the newspaperman to walk over with him to a spot just beneath one of the church’s windows, from which a faint glow was being cast by liturgical candles.
“Your note said that you had confidential information about a critically important story which you wished to share with me. No man has been treated more roughly in the pages of my newspaper than yourself, so why on earth would you want to help me?”
“My reasons are my own, Daniel.” He held up the packet. “Do you want this or not?”
“I’m not sure. What exactly is it?”
“Proof that one of the Confederacy’s most distinguished military commanders is in favor of the abolition of slavery.”
Daniel’s face immediately became dark and angry. “Who?” he quietly demanded.
Bragg didn’t answer directly, instead passing over the packet. Daniel opened it and withdrew the first few sheets. As the editor started reading, Bragg went over his mental calculations once again. The written statements and other pieces of evidence given to him by Hood, of which Bragg had made several copies, revealed the full extent of the proposal by General Cleburne to emancipate slaves and enroll them as soldiers in the Confederate Army. Cleburne’s politics were generally unknown and he was not seen by the public as either for or against the President. If Daniel were provided with the text and background of the proposal, he would have no compunction against snatching up his pen and cutting Cleburne to ribbons in the face of the public.
“Patrick Cleburne?” he asked, incredulous.
“None other, I’m afraid. As you’ll see from the included papers, he convened a meeting of the high command of the Army of Tennessee back in early January, not long after Joe Johnston took command of the army. There he laid out his proposals to free as many slaves as possible and enroll them as soldiers in the army, freeing their families as well.”
As Daniel continued reading, a look of disgust came over his face.
“This man speaks as though the negroes could fight
in battle as well as white men!”
“I know,” Bragg replied. “It’s disgraceful. Quite disgraceful, I must say.”
Daniel shook his head. “He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t understand the ways of the South. Still, for such a successful general to be suggesting such things! It is an absolute abomination!”
“Keep reading,” Bragg said. “I think you will find something even more surprising.”
Daniel glanced up suspiciously at Bragg for a moment but continued to leaf through the papers. A few minutes later, his eyes widened in shock.
“Johnston!” Daniel exclaimed. “Johnston backed Cleburne’s proposal?”
“So it seems,” Bragg replied. He knew that this was the most delicate moment of the exchange. Because he was held in such high esteem by Senator Wigfall and other prominent politicians who opposed the Davis administration, Johnston had become the darling of the Richmond Examiner editorial pages. Some idiotic columns in the paper had even described Johnston as equal in military skill to Robert E. Lee. Daniel would be reluctant to print anything that put Johnston in a bad light, but the copies of the affidavits of Hood, Walker, and others that implicated Johnston, as well as Hardee, would hopefully persuade him.
“To think that I defended Johnston in the pages of my newspaper, while all along he was a damned abolitionist!”
“I didn’t know there was another kind of abolitionist,” Bragg said with what amounted to a smile. “I trust that these papers shall be put to good use in the pages of the Richmond Examiner?”
Daniel looked up from the papers and stared Bragg deeply in the eye, silent for several moments. “Why are you doing this, Bragg?” he asked skeptically. “You have it in for Cleburne and Johnston?”
Shattered Nation Page 56
