On the other side of the table sat William Tecumseh Sherman, now the former commander of the Union armies in the West. He picked at his food unenthusiastically, an expression of profound and unsettled sadness on his face. Grant looked over at him, sipping his coffee, and tried to come up with words that would make him feel better.
“I meant what I said in my telegraph, Cump,” Grant began. “The decision to come out here and take personal command has been the hardest choice I have had to make in this war. One of the hardest choices I have had to make in my own life, I don’t mind saying.”
“I know, Sam,” Sherman replied tiredly. “I know.”
“Had it been possible, I should certainly have asked for you to remain in Georgia as my chief-of-staff. But I was prevented from doing so. Not my choice, you understand.”
“Politics,” Sherman grunted. Neither he nor Grant had much time for politics or politicians. They were soldiers and obeyed orders. Sherman didn’t bother to ask for details about what Grant was talking about, but he could imagine that Stanton or some other suit-wearing bigwig had made it clear to Grant that keeping Sherman on in any capacity would not be permitted, probably because of what the newspapers would say or because the governor of some big state might object. It didn’t matter.
“Where are you going?” Grant asked.
“Washington,” Sherman replied. “I’ve been asked to appear before the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War. I suppose I am to be made a scapegoat for the disaster at Peachtree Creek.”
Grant’s face flushed. “I had no idea,” he said.
“I received the telegram from Senator Wade just last night.”
“I shall use every means within my power to ensure that you receive a fair hearing. And I am sure the President will do so as well. The battle was lost due to bad luck, not because of any failings on your part. By rights, you should have been in Atlanta long ago.”
Sherman shrugged. “I am to be crucified. There is nothing you or the President can do about it. It’s all politics. You know how it is. Besides, the more blame they heap on me, the less that can be thrown against you and the President. It’s all for the best, Sam.”
Grant shook his head. “A damn disgrace. That’s what it is.”
“It’s all for the best. And after my crucifixion, I shall go home to my wife and family in Ohio. I can’t really imagine where else I would go. There, I shall lie low for awhile, at least until the war is over.”
“And then?”
He shrugged again. “If you succeed, I can live out the rest of my days in the happy knowledge that, at least at the beginning of the conflict, I played some small role in ensuring the continued survival of the Union.”
“The role you played at Shiloh and Vicksburg was critical. I would not have won without you.” Grant took another sip of coffee, wishing it were bourbon. “Besides, I might well fail against Johnston.”
Sherman looked at him carefully. “Your arrival will help restore the morale of the men. The reinforcements you have brought to the Georgia front will again establish a significant numerical superiority. And the failure of the rebel cavalry raids on the railroads, especially the deaths of both Wheeler and Forrest, will ensure a steady flow of supplies to the army on the Chattahoochee. I believe that you will have a better chance of defeating Johnston than any other man possibly could. Better than me, by God.”
Grant nodded. He didn’t doubt the wisdom of Sherman’s words. Much as he wished it were not so from the standpoint of personal friendship, the news of Sherman’s departure and Grant’s arrival had been greeted with great enthusiasm by the rank and file of the Yankee soldiers along the Chattahoochee. He had also ordered additional reinforcements from Missouri to join him in Georgia, judging that weakening the defenses of that state was worth the risk if it meant increasing the chances of victory at Atlanta.
If the information he had received was correct, despite the losses in battle and from expired enlistments, Grant estimated that he would soon be able to put about ninety thousand men in the field against Johnston’s army, which numbered between fifty and sixty thousand. It was not as great an advantage as he had enjoyed over Lee in the recent campaigns in Virginia, but it was an advantage nonetheless.
Grant had never fought Johnston in a major battle, although elements of their respective forces had skirmished with one another on the edges of the Vicksburg campaign. He had carefully studied Johnston’s tactics, read the reports of every Union general that had played a role in any battle against him, and felt he knew what to expect. Besides which, Johnston could not possibly be as good a general as Robert E. Lee, and Grant had managed to fight Lee to a standstill in Virginia.
He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, lit it, and was soon puffing away. “I’ll do my best, Cump. Maybe it’ll be enough. Then again, maybe not. Either way, what else can we do?”
“Nothing,” Sherman replied. “Nothing at all.”
*****
August 28, Morning
Marble stirred in his bed as he faintly realized that sunlight was coming through his window. Instantly he was awake, his mind already racing with thoughts of electoral votes to be won, deals to be made, and egos of restless politicians to be flattered. He kicked off the sheets of his bed and strolled to the window, thrusting apart the curtains and letting sunlight flood into his room.
Marble nervously glanced under the bedside table to make sure that the carpetbag he had been given by Alexander Humphries was still there. There was absolutely no reason for him to have thought otherwise, but considering the amount of money the bag contained, he couldn’t help but double check on it every few minutes. What was in that bag was going to be of great benefit to his future ambitions.
He looked out the window. From the top floor of the five-story Tremont House hotel, he could see the entire city of Chicago stretching out to the horizon. Although it was still early, he could tell that the city was already hard at work. Pillars of smoke from the city’s innumerable factories rose lazily into the air. The streets below were crowded with buggies, wagons, horses and pedestrians. Out there, Marble knew, vast warehouses were crammed with agricultural produce and storefronts were filled with every sort of commercial product.
The sound of a steam whistle caused him to glance over at a train coming toward the center of the city from the west, riding on a track which Marble figured was probably owned by the Galena and Chicago Union Railroad Company. He laughed softly. So much attention was being given to Atlanta by the newspapers of both North and South, including his own, because three railroads converged there. In Chicago, no less than thirty railroads came together. Marble reflected for a moment that the industrial output of the city of Chicago by itself very likely exceeded the industrial output of the entire Confederacy.
As he looked down on the city, Marble found himself enthralled by the limitless possibilities of business and commerce. Thirty years before, the area within his vision had been nothing but empty prairie. Now, it was a city whose size and commercial strength rivaled that of the great metropolises of Europe. As the vast empty spaces of the American West lay open to the country, once they had been cleared of the pesky Indian tribes, Marble had no doubt that the success story of Chicago would be repeated time and again over the next few decades.
He was determined to be a part of it. Indeed, as he was yet a young man, he saw no reason why Manton Marble should not eventually rise to be the principal actor in the drama.
There was a soft knocking at the door. It was a black waiter bringing a dish of coffee and a copy of the Chicago Times. After the tray and paper had been set on the table, the man handed Marble a note before departing.
Dear Mr. Marble,
As you and I are both staying here at the Tremont, I wonder if you might give me the pleasure of your company at breakfast at nine o’clock in the main dining room.
Governor Horatio Seymour
Marble checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter past seven o’clock, so he had plenty o
f time. He sat in a chair beside the window, enjoying the coffee and reading through the newspaper for some time. He was fascinated to read about the proposal by the rebel general Patrick Cleburne to free the slaves and enlist them into the Southern army. Marble assumed that this would be the end of the Irishman’s promising career, but he saw nothing about it that mattered much to him.
Aside from that item, nothing in the news seemed particularly momentous. Jubal Early’s army had fought an indecisive battle with Union forces in the northern Shenandoah Valley and the U.S. Navy had opened another bombardment of Confederate coastal defenses in Charleston. In foreign affairs, some squabble was going on in Europe concerning an uprising against Russian rule in Poland, but that was no concern of Marble. He enjoyed his coffee and finished reading the paper, before spending some time freshening himself up for his breakfast with Seymour.
The dining room of the Tremont exuded elegance but, like everything else in Chicago, was characterized by its obvious newness. There was a feeling that the paint was still slightly wet on the walls and that the waiters had not been at their jobs long enough to have gained sufficient experience. Despite this, if the smells emanating from the kitchen were any indication, the chef and the staff preparing the food were more than experienced enough.
Marble slid into a chair across the table from Governor Seymour, who looked at him with a winning smile.
“Ah, Marble,” he said simply. “I am glad you received my note.”
“I thank you for your gracious invitation to breakfast, Governor.” Seymour was already feasting on a plate of fried oysters. Partly to curry favor and partly because they looked delicious, Marble immediately ordered the same dish for himself.
“So,” Seymour said as he folded up his newspaper and set it aside. “The train stations of the city are packed with Democrats from across the land. Yesterday the delegations from Pennsylvania and Ohio arrived. Fifteen thousand people are expected to attend the convention, rumor has it. Men from as far away as California and Oregon are coming.”
“It is inspiring to see such an outpouring of support for the Democratic cause,” Marble said.
“Do you agree that McClellan’s nomination is assured?”
“It is, in all but name. The New York delegation will vote for you on the first ballot, in deference to your position as the favorite son of the state. But on the second ballot, they shall switch their vote to McClellan.”
“I have no desire to be President. Not this year, anyway.”
“Perhaps in 1872?”
“Perhaps.” There was a pause. “Now, are there any other contenders?”
Marble shrugged. “No serious ones. Many of the delegations will, like New York, vote initially for a favorite son. But on the second ballot, I think we shall see the convention coalesce around McClellan.”
Seymour smiled. “Just as we planned.”
Marble already knew what he would do if any dark horse candidates unexpectedly emerged to challenge McClellan’s nomination. Using the money provided by Humphries, a few select bribes would be paid and whatever support the dark horse had would rapidly collapse.
“If there are any difficulties, I believe they shall arise out of the committee which is writing the party platform.”
“In what way?” Seymour said, happily picking at his oysters.
“There are still some Democrats who are not of the position that our platform should call for an immediate termination of hostilities. Granted, many of these voices have been silenced over the past few months as disaster has followed disaster on the battlefield, but they still represent a sizable fraction of the party. Perhaps as much as a quarter.”
Seymour shrugged. “The people want peace. They are tired of the endless casualty lists. They are tired of runaway inflation. Our recent military defeats have surely convinced the vast majority of war hawks within our party that peace and negotiations are the only way forward.”
“You shall have to convince any remaining war hawks to drop their opposition to opening negotiations with the South. As the presiding officer of the convention, you shall give the opening address. You will have the opportunity to achieve the result we need.”
“I was intending to make my opening address, in effect, a eulogy for Clement Vallandigham.”
“And so it should be. The message of our martyr was that the war is wrong, the war is useless, and the war is bringing the nation nothing but misery. Because he had the courage to say such things to the people, Vallandigham was killed.”
Seymour nodded. “I see what you’re saying. Ordinarily, I would object to exploiting the name of a man so recently killed for such a political purpose. But in this case, it is exactly what Vallandigham would have wanted.”
“Yes, he would have. Furthermore, if I might be forgiven for making a political recommendation, the more prominent hawks remaining in the Democratic fold might be mollified if they were promised certain plum political positions, such as posts in the Cabinet.”
“It’s already being discussed. We are prepared to offer the position of Secretary of State to Governor Joel Parker of New Jersey and the post of Ambassador to France to Congressman Francis Kernan. A few other offers are on the table for other men. Feel free to spread the word that if those Democrats who have offered support for Lincoln’s war effort will now simply shut up and toe the party line, they might receive some very beneficial rewards.”
“I will happily do so,” Marble said cheerfully. He would also spread his largesse.
Seymour snapped at a nearby waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne. “Will you join me in a glass, Manton?”
“Of course.” Marble was never a man to turn down an offer of alcohol.
As he sipped his glass, Seymour inhaled deeply and smiled. “I think everything is coming together nicely, Manton. Our party shall be united behind a strong and respected candidate and shall have a platform calling for peace around which the people shall rally when the time comes. The Lincoln administration daily continues to display its incompetence. The presidential election is only seventy-two days away.”
“Our prospects are indeed good, and they seem to be getting better. Barring any unforeseen event, I honestly cannot see any scenario in which we might fail.”
*****
August 28, Noon
Because he enjoyed inspections so much, Cleburne sometimes found it difficult to maintain the unsympathetic and stern expression for which the occasions clearly called. As he and Hardee walked down the length of the division, which was drawn up in a field in parade ground formation, they passed by each regiment in turn. Right now, the men they were passing by were the Arkansans of Warfield’s Brigade. Each regiment stood tall and proud, as if they were competing with one another to earn the greatest admiration from their commanders.
The men looked tough, which was no surprise to Cleburne. Life in Arkansas made all men tough, as Cleburne knew better than most. He had made the state his home after immigrating from Ireland. He recalled the memorable day in 1856 when he and his close friend and political ally, Thomas Hindman, had been ambushed in the streets of Helena, Arkansas, by a gang of anti-immigrant fanatics following a political debate. The gunfight that had followed had left both Hindman and Cleburne lying on the street, badly wounded, although Cleburne had succeeded in killing one of their attackers. Arkansas was a rough place, but it also produced some damn fine soldiers.
“Your men appear to be in excellent condition, General Cleburne. You are obviously taking very good care of them.” Hardee spoke these words loudly enough for several nearby soldiers to hear him, knowing that it would be good fodder for campfire discussions during the evening.
“Thank you, sir. But the credit belongs entirely to the men themselves.”
“And to the Yankees, who kindly presented us with several thousand new pairs of shoes last month.”
Cleburne chuckled. More than half the men in his division were sporting footgear taken from dead or captured Yankees after the Battle of P
eachtree Creek or from the enemy supply depots captured when Sherman’s men had retreated across the river. Some of the regiments were now equipped with new Springfield or Enfield muskets captured from the Yankees as well. Even better, four of the enemy cannon captured at Peachtree Creek had been assigned to Cleburne’s division, allowing him to organize a new battery of horse artillery that gave him significantly increased firepower. All things considered, his division was in better condition than it had ever been since he had first taken command.
But it was not as big. Although the severe losses Cleburne had suffered at the Battle of Peachtree Creek had been partially made up by returned deserters and a paltry number of new recruits arrived from Alabama, the total strength of his division was only a bit over three thousand men. When the campaign had begun back in May, the division had fielded nearly twice that number. Far too many of his beloved men now lay in shallow graves scattered across northern Georgia.
Hardee and Cleburne passed by the last regiment of Warfield’s Brigade. The next unit was Lowrey’s Brigade, which was now commanded by Colonel Aaron Hardcastle as Lowrey was still recovering from the terrible wound he had received at Peachtree Creek. The men snapped to attention. Hardee and Cleburne exchanged salutes with the brigade officers. They then watched each regiment in turn go through its proper drill.
As they moved from one unit to another, Hardee began speaking in a more conversational tone, quiet enough so that the men could not easily hear him.
“Johnston has called for a meeting of senior commanders for tomorrow night.”
“Has he?” Cleburne replied. “Well, I imagine he wants to discuss how Sherman’s departure may alter the military situation.”
“No doubt.”
“And Grant will be the new commander.”
Shattered Nation Page 61
