Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Military failure was compounded by economic dislocation and social instability throughout the North. Inflation was increasing at a rapid rate, helped along by Wall Street financiers with Democratic sympathies who were buying gold as rapidly as they could. Although the riots that wracked New York City following the death of Clement Vallandigham had been put down by the troops of General Butler, there remained a simmering unease in the great industrial cities of the North. Low-level violence continued and major riots could potentially break out at any time.

  The thought caused Marble to remember Vallandigham. As many Republicans had feared and many Democrats had hoped, the man’s death was doing far more harm to Lincoln’s chances of reelection than any speeches he would have given and pamphlets he would have written had he remained alive. The Manhattan Massacre was being held up from Maine to California as an example of the Lincoln administration’s brutal and unconstitutional efforts to clamp down on dissent of all forms. Every Democratic newspaper in the country, and even some which normally aligned with the Republicans, had printed the names of all the civilians who had been killed in large block letters on the front pages, surrounded by borders of black.

  Marble considered all these facts, juggling them in his head as though they were all numerical factors in some giant mathematical equation floating in an abstract Platonic realm. Assuming the Democrats played their cards right, they all added up to an overwhelming victory at the polls in November, a victory which would not only give them the White House but would give them control of Congress as well.

  In order to play those cards correctly, the Democrats had both to nominate the right candidate and approve the right party platform. Like many others, Marble had been striving for many months to assure that their nominee would be George B. McClellan, who could hardly be accused of being a defeatist considering his long and well-known service in the first two years of the war. The platform had to call for a negotiated settlement to the war, while being phrased in such a way as not to disparage the great sacrifices the North had made up to this point. It would require a very delicate political balancing act.

  Hours passed. The train left New York City behind and ventured into the vastness of the Hudson Valley to the north. Marble realized that he didn’t much care how the convention turned out, or even how the war itself turned out. All that he cared about was helping the Democrats win the election. For with the Democrats in control of the federal government, his own power and influence as the editor of the New York World would be vastly increased and he would be in a position to dispense patronage to his friends and associates as he pleased. To achieve that aim, he would have been just as happy to kiss the ass of Jefferson Davis as he would have been to kiss the ass of every slave in the Confederacy.

  Marble was immersed in these thoughts when a man slid into the chair directly across from him, wearing a sinister grin.

  “Mr. Marble?”

  Marble nodded. “I am. And who might you be?”

  “My name is Alexander Humphries. I have written to you numerous times using only my initials.”

  “Ah,” Marble said, a smile creeping onto his face. He had initially ignored the letters from A.H. when they had begun arriving a year or so before, until he realized that the information they contained about events within the Confederacy was soon corroborated by other, more verifiable sources. Afterwards, the letters he had continued to receive had allowed the New York World to achieve numerous scoops that other newspapers could only print the following day.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  “Of course. You have never suggested in any of your letters any intention of presenting yourself personally to me, and certainly not so unexpectedly as to appear in the seat across from me on a train. Come to think of it, how did you know on what train I would be travelling?”

  Humphries shrugged. “As should be obvious from my letters, I am in a position to know a great many things.”

  “That’s certainly true,” Marble replied, not recognizing the danger that had just entered his life. “Your letters have been most useful to my newspaper. I thank you very much for them.”

  “You are most welcome. Our goals are the same. We both desire the defeat of Lincoln and the victory of the Democratic ticket.”

  Marble nodded, even as inwardly he eyed the mysterious person warily. He had no idea who Humphries was. His letters had demonstrated that he had inside knowledge of events within the Confederacy before they became known to many people in the North. The information he had fed to Marble was always useful as source material for stories that would be embarrassing to the Lincoln administration. There were many unscrupulous businessmen who ran cotton through the rebel lines to sell in the Union at an enormous profit, while selling grain to the rebel armies and bribing Yankee officers to look the other way. Marble assumed that Humphries was one of that sort, who also provided information to the New York World for unfathomable reasons.

  “I assume that you didn’t arrange to meet me on this train simply to exchange pleasantries,” Marble said.

  “Indeed not,” Humphries replied. Without another word, he picked his carpetbag up from the floor and passed it over to Marble. The editor opened it and had to restrain himself from gasping. Inside were large clumps of greenback bills, carefully taped together. He flipped through one set of wrapped bills, finding that all of them were twenty dollar notes. After examining a second set, he concluded that all of the greenbacks in the carpetbag were also twenty dollar notes.

  Marble looked across at Humphries. “How much?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Humphries said, as calmly as if he were discussing the price of a loaf of bread.

  “What the hell for?”

  “You are headed to the Democratic National Convention and you are one of the country’s most well-connected Democrats. Surely the money in that bag could prove useful in the upcoming electoral campaign, especially in states like Ohio, Pennsylvania and Indiana. Use it to pay for the printing of pamphlets. Buy liquor for the local drunkards if they agree to vote for the Democratic ticket. Toss a hundred dollars to the local judge to close the polling booths early if it looks like the abolitionists are voting too much. Do whatever you want with it, just as long as it contributes to the defeat of Lincoln.”

  Marble licked his lips. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a stupendous amount of money. If used properly and in the right places it could certainly prove useful to the Democratic cause. And if he was the man who would be dispensing it, Manton Marble’s stature would certainly be on the rise. He was already one of the great up-and-comers within the party and having such largesse at his disposal would make his influence all the greater.

  He was astute enough to maintain his skepticism. He looked across at Humphries. “Who are you?”

  “Do you want the money or not?”

  “How do you know I won’t simply take the next steamer to Europe and take the money with me?”

  “If you do, you’d be well advised to avoid encountering me in the future.” The tone was neutral and polite, but the threat was obvious. “And I would expect you to provide me with an account of how the money was distributed, so that I may in turn present it to my employer to prove that his money is being well spent.”

  “And just who is your employer?”

  Humphries said nothing in response, simply smiling in a way that Marble found slightly menacing.

  Marble saw that he wasn’t going to get anywhere on that line of questioning. It was clear that he wasn’t a businessman. Most likely, he was a Confederate agent of some kind. But as long as Humphries choose not to answer him directly, Marble could honestly say that he did not know.

  “How will I find you to provide you with such an account?” he asked.

  “No need,” Humphries said. “I’ll pay you another visit. Just have the account ready and at hand when I do.”

  The train began to slow and, within five minutes, came to a complete halt. “All out for Kingston!” the conductor
shouted. Without another word, Humphries rose from his chair, shook Marble’s hand and stepped off the train. Staring out the window, Marble saw him disappear into the crowd.

  He clutched the carpetbag containing the money. He had made the comment about taking the cash and fleeing to Europe in jest, but he could not deny that the temptation was real. So much money invested the right way could provide a comfortable life for Marble in Paris or London until he died of old age. However, Humphries had made clear that such a course would be extremely dangerous. Besides which, Marble had no particular desire to retire amid the luxuries of the Old World. His world was politics and power, and it seemed to him that his own interests would best be served by using the money in exactly the manner Humphries had laid out.

  Marble spent the remainder of his journey contemplating how he would divvy up the money when he arrived in Chicago. It made for a pleasant trip.

  *****

  August 25, Noon

  Forrest leaned forward in his saddle, staring intently southwest at the ramparts of Fort Granger, on the north bank of the Harpeth River just outside the Tennessee town of Franklin. Around him, a cluster of officers wore stony expressions on their faces, while behind them nearly two thousand troopers waited patiently for the orders of their commander. King Philip neighed uncertainly for a moment and shook the bridles in his mouth, but quieted down almost immediately after his master gave him a few reassuring pats on the neck.

  It had been a frustrating few weeks for Forrest and his men. After burning the vital Yankee bridge at Bridgeport in northern Alabama, the raiders had turned north back into central Tennessee, intent on further destruction of the enemy supply lines between Nashville and Chattanooga. The arrival of Union reinforcements from Virginia had largely thwarted Forrest’s efforts. Strong Union forces were now in place across the key transportation routes. Since Bridgeport, the pickings had been slim.

  Leaving nothing to chance, the Yankees had deployed the equivalent of two entire divisions along the stretch of railroad between the two cities. Worse, these troops were not the pathetic and poorly trained “hundred day men” of the various state militias. They had come from the Sixth Corps, which was made up of hardened combat veterans of the Army of the Potomac.

  Forrest and his men were brave but not foolhardy. It was one thing to attack fortified posts held by Illinois militiamen who barely knew how to fire their muskets, but quite another to attack those same fortified posts when they were held by troops who had gone up against Lee’s veterans. For more than two weeks, they had ridden up and down the length of the Union railroads passing through central Tennessee, constantly having to elude Yankee cavalry sent to intercept them while searching for a weak point that they might successfully attack. They had not found one.

  However, Forrest thought his luck was about to change.

  Despite occasional heavy fighting which had raged around it for the past three years, the town of Franklin had been blessedly spared by the war. The presence of large Union forces in the fortress city of Nashville, only eighteen miles to the north, had deterred any major Confederate force from venturing into the vicinity of Franklin. Forrest had decided that the potential payoff of a lightning raid on the town was worth the risk.

  Forrest had accepted roughly a week earlier that the mission of his raid had been changed by circumstances beyond his control. When he and his men had launched themselves out of northern Mississippi into central Tennessee, their goal had been to disrupt the Yankee supply lines that kept Sherman’s armies in the field. Unfortunately, their best efforts had proven futile. The bridge over the Duck River at Columbia had been rebuilt with surprising speed. The miles of track torn up in various spots had also been put back into operation within a matter of days, if not hours. Even the immense span at Bridgeport would soon be back in service, according to Forrest’s spies. From all the information available, he knew that supplies of food and ammunition were continuing to reach the Yankee forces north of Atlanta with scarcely any interruption.

  Still, if his initial objective was not being achieved, Forrest knew that his actions were benefiting the Confederacy. By threatening the railroads, he was pinning down large numbers of enemy troops that would otherwise have been employed against the Army of Tennessee near Atlanta. That was a goal worth fighting for.

  The bridge over the Harpeth River in Franklin was not a critical juncture of the enemy supply line, but destroying it would force the enemy to spend several days and considerable resources building a replacement. It would also cause them to send a large force of infantry and cavalry to chase Forrest away. While not decisive, it would still be a significant blow on behalf of the Confederacy.

  Only the puny obstacle of Fort Granger stood in the way.

  To Forrest’s trained eyes, it didn’t look like much. Although it had been built nearly two years before, the fort’s dirt parapets looked like something a reasonably sized infantry force could have thrown together in a day or two. A few cannon bristled from the fort’s walls, but they appeared to be no larger than twelve-pounders. Along the ramparts, he could see a scattering of blue uniformed men, the bayonets on their rifles flashing occasionally in the sunlight.

  Major Strange was scanning the parapets of the fort with a spyglass.

  “Black troops, sir,” he said simply.

  “No hard task, then,” Forrest replied. “We can give these black bastards the same treatment we gave those who held Fort Pillow. If they don’t give up before the shooting starts, of course.”

  Even as he said the words, his wishes were already being carried out. One of his three brigades had already occupied the town of Franklin itself, to the delight of the local citizens, and would commence burning the railroad bridge the moment the cannon in the fort had been silenced. His other two brigades had simultaneously taken up positions to the north and east of the fort, from which it could be most easily assaulted.

  King Philip stirred again, sensing the possibility of a coming fight. Forrest didn’t think it would come to that. After the pathetic showing of black troops against his men at Fort Pillow, and the speed with which black troops had surrendered to him at Columbia, he didn’t think the outnumbered troops in Fort Granger would have much stomach for a fight.

  “Come along, Strange. Have the color-bearer bring a flag of truce.”

  Strange nodded and wordlessly pointed to the color bearer. Moments later, the three men were cantering down toward the fort, the white flag fluttering in the breeze. Three men advancing under a flag of truce should surely not have appeared threatening to the garrison of the fort. It was always possible that some hot-headed fool would open fire anyway, but such were the uncertainties of war.

  Forrest reined in a few dozen yards from the fort’s rampart. A few hundred black soldiers glared down on him with a hatred he could scarcely comprehend, but he paid no mind.

  “What white man commands you?” Forrest demanded.

  “I do,” an insolent voice with a New England accent replied. A white officer wearing an impeccable blue uniform, young but self-assured, appeared on the rampart. “I am Major David Easton, commander of the 13th United States Colored Troops.”

  Forrest sneered at the unit’s name. He didn’t think that giving a rabble of escaped slaves such a grand title was likely to make them any more effective in fighting. “I am Nathan Bedford Forrest.”

  “I know that,” Easton replied, his rather calm expression not changing.

  “I demand that you surrender Fort Granger immediately.”

  “Demand all you want. You shall not get it.” Easton smiled after he said these words.

  Forrest’s eyes narrowed. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. For years, he had relied upon his fearsome reputation for ruthlessness to intimidate his opponents. Frustratingly, Easton did not appear to be intimidated.

  “You do not have more than a few hundred men, Easton,” Forrest said. “I’ve never heard of the rabble you call the 13th United States Colored Troops, so I am
willing to bet that you and your negroes have never been in a fight. My men, though, number in the thousands and have fought on a hundred battlefields. You’re hopelessly outnumbered and your men are no match for mine.”

  “My men are secure behind stout fortifications and are well supplied with artillery. Your presence has not gone unnoticed and I was able to send a telegraphic message to Nashville for reinforcements before you cut the telegraph line. I would guess that they would be here in less than an hour. Do you think you can overrun my position so quickly?”

  “It took me less time than that to overrun Fort Pillow.”

  At those words, Forrest noticed a stirring among the black troops watching the conversation, not unlike a rustling of leaves in a breeze. They had all undoubtedly heard about what happened at Fort Pillow. He expected to see their faces melt into fear, but it did not happen. He could sense them tightening the grip on their rifles, gritting their teeth, and tensing their muscles. It was not fear these men were experiencing, but anger. In a part of his mind he scarcely acknowledged, Forrest found this unsettling.

  “I have heard much about Fort Pillow,” Easton replied. “So have my men. Why should we surrender if you intend to put my men to the sword? Or worse, send them back into slavery like you did with the garrison at Columbia earlier this month?”

  Forrest was somewhat surprised that Easton might consider slavery a worse fate than death, but that was an abstract question for another time and Forrest set it aside in his mind. “I’m tired of talking to you, Easton. Are you going to surrender or not?”

  “You and the bloody sons of bitches you have the dishonor of commanding can go straight to hell, Forrest. That is where you’re headed, you know, as soon as you depart this Earth. In my opinion, I can hold this fort. If you want it, come and take it.”