Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  The response of Granbury’s Texas Brigade, however, would not be duplicated in other units of the Army of Tennessee. Cleburne would get little sympathy from men from the states east of the Mississippi River, where slavery was as deeply ingrained in the culture as the blood which flows through a human body. Cleburne’s long and patriotic record would count for nothing against their furious prejudices. They would demand Cleburne’s head. McFadden was worried that they might well get it.

  Major Collett, mounted on one of the few horses that had been captured from the Yankees at Peachtree Creek, rode up alongside the column.

  “How’s it going, Jim?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “The river’s about a quarter of a mile ahead. Your men okay?”

  “They’re fine, Major. They just keep talking about these rumors regarding General Cleburne.”

  “Rumors are just that, McFadden. Rumors.” He raised his voice so that all the men could hear him. “It is not the place for the men of this army to raise questions about the commander of their division. You’ll be sure to make that clear to them, won’t you, Lieutenant McFadden?”

  “I will, sir!” he said loudly.

  Collett spurred his horse and trotted off down the column, intent on checking on the rest of the regiment. Cowed by their commander’s words, the men stayed relatively silent for the remainder of the march.

  A few minutes later, McFadden could see the column of the 17th/18th Texas Dismounted Cavalry veer sharply to the right. It soon became obvious that the road turned in that direction in order to run parallel with the Chattahoochee River. They had reached their destination. Another few minutes marching brought the 7th Texas to its assigned position along the picket line, which had been held by the 45th Alabama.

  The Texans relieved the Alabamians, who happily departed with the usual exchange of good-natured insults. As the men settled into position, McFadden gazed out over the river. Across the water, only a few hundred yards away, Yankee pickets could be clearly seen on the opposite bank, standing around quietly. A few fires were visible, over which the Northern soldiers appeared to be cooking food.

  This was the fifth occasion since the Union army had withdrawn across the river that the 7th Texas had arrived on the picket line. On each occasion, an informal ceasefire had prevailed. McFadden hoped that such would be the case again.

  He cupped his hands. “Hello over there!” he called.

  “What?” a Yankee shouted back.

  “May I speak with your commanding officer?”

  After a few minutes, a man in an officer’s uniform appeared at the bank.

  “What do you want, reb?”

  “The 45th Alabama has been relieved! We are the 7th Texas!”

  “Well, hello there, Texas! Welcome to the picket line! We are the 20th Ohio!”

  “20th Ohio?” Private Montgomery said thoughtfully as he removed his knapsack and sat down to rest. “Aren’t those the same bastards we tangled with at the Battle of Raymond?”

  “I think you’re right, Ben,” McFadden answered. He cupped his hands and called out again. “Ohio! No need for any unpleasantness! We won’t shoot if you don’t!”

  “It’s a deal!” the Yankee officer shouted back. A few moments later, he attempted a joke. “Remember the Alamo!”

  McFadden posted his troops. The 7th Texas stretched out in a line several hundred yards long. Their job was to watch this portion of the river and report any unusual enemy activity. In the unlikely event of a major Union effort to cross to the south bank, they were to delay the Yankees and send word higher up the chain of command about what was happening. Their previous stints on the Chattahoochee picket line had been uneventful and McFadden saw no reason to expect this one to be any different.

  *****

  August 30, Evening

  The long table in Lincoln’s White House office was strewn with newspapers and telegrams being sent by friendly reporters covering the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Off to one end, largely ignored for the time being, was a pile of military maps. Outside the window, a late summer storm was drenching the city and the occasional rumble of thunder could be heard. In the distance, the still uncompleted Washington Monument was visible, as if waiting for the war to be over so work on it could resume.

  Lincoln grinned wistfully as he watched Stanton and Seward sift through the mass of paper on the table, trying to obtain any information they could about what was going on in Chicago. Both men were puffing on large cigars. Occasionally, Hay and Nicolay would enter the room with more newspapers and new telegrams. To the President, his closest advisors were following the news of the Democratic National Convention in much the same manner as he had often seen them follow the events of a developing battle.

  Stanton grunted. “It looks like their nominee for Vice President is going to be Congressman George Pendleton of Ohio.”

  “From where do you have that?” Lincoln asked.

  Stanton glanced at the by-line of the paper he was reading. “Noah Brooks of the Sacramento Daily Union.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Brooks generally knows what he’s talking about.”

  Seward laughed bitterly. “Pendleton? That spineless little man? The Democrats are scraping the bottom of the bucket, indeed. He’s been a defeatist since the very beginning of the war.”

  “Don’t pooh-pooh too soon,” Lincoln warned. “McClellan can’t rightly be accused of defeatism because he served as the commander of the Army of the Potomac. By choosing Pendleton as his running mate, the Democrats are moving with public opinion.”

  “How can nominating a defeatist vice presidential candidate help the electoral prospects of the Democrats?” Stanton angrily demanded. “Since the loss at Peachtree Creek, we have won the Battle of Mobile Bay and successfully defeated the rebel attempts to cut our supply lines to Georgia. Joseph Wheeler and Nathan Bedford Forrest are both dead. Surely these successes should be helping to rally public support for the war effort?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “It’s impossible to say. Of course, the news of Forrest’s death ran in giant letterhead across the front page of the New York Times and all the other Republican papers the day after the news arrived. But the Democratic papers scarcely mentioned it at all. If you got your information from the New York World, you’d probably have no idea that Forrest was even dead.”

  “Manton Marble is a miserable little bastard,” Stanton spat. “I hope he rots in hell.”

  “Don’t matter, anyway,” Lincoln said. “Mobile Bay and the killing of Forrest are all fine and well. But the attention of the nation is on Richmond in the east and Atlanta in the west. Unless and until one of those cities falls into our hands, the public will keep thinking that we’re losing this war. And if they still feel that way in November, the three of us will soon be looking for new employment.”

  A particularly disturbing roll of thunder sounded through the room at that moment.

  “If Grant can somehow defeat Johnston and capture Atlanta, all may yet be put right,” Seward said.

  “From his last telegram, he should arrive at Vining’s Station, where our forces are encamped on the north bank of the Chattahoochee, tomorrow morning,” Stanton said. “Assuming he has some sort of plan, he should be putting it into effect within the next few days.”

  “If he has a plan, he hasn’t told me about it,” Lincoln said. “But I trust Grant. I allow him to keep his own counsel. For all his faults as a commander and a man, he is the best we have. We must roll the dice and hope for the best.”

  “Of course,” Stanton said. “But we must also prepare for the worst. If Grant fails, we must continue to do whatever is necessary to ensure the reelection of our administration.”

  “We are already doing all we can,” Lincoln protested. “Every Republican mayor, governor and congressman is barnstorming the country, giving speeches to every crowd that can be gathered, no matter how small. Raymond had his printing press running day and night, churning out pamphlets by the thousands. M
eanwhile, I have to debase myself here in Washington, promising every low-level clerkship in every post office or customs house in the Union to unscrupulous scoundrels in exchange for their support.”

  Stanton shook his head. “No, Mr. President. I am talking about measures that are considerably more stern than that.”

  Lincoln folded his arms and stared at Stanton, wordlessly asking him to explain himself.

  Stanton went on. “Missouri, Kentucky and Maryland are all under military occupation. We can use the troops we have there to control access to polling places. We can do the same in New York City, using the troops we sent there to restore order after the recent riots. Without New York City, the Democrats cannot win New York State. If needs be, we can do the same in other cities where there has been civil unrest. Philadelphia, for instance.”

  As Stanton spoke, Lincoln’s face become more and more gloomy. Seward stared on impassively, shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke.

  Stanton went on. “If we take these measures, it would ensure that the Republican ticket will carry the border states, as well as New York and Pennsylvania. Combined with your own state of Illinois and the abolitionist strongholds of New England, it would give us more than enough electoral votes to secure your reelection.”

  “Mr. Stanton,” Lincoln said sternly. “We cannot have free government without fair elections. What you are suggesting would effectively turn me into a military dictator.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. President. But what if the alternative is the dissolution of the nation?”

  Lincoln said nothing, pursing his lips and staring down at the table.

  Seward spoke up. “If God favors us, which I am sure He does, we shall not be forced to make any decision on these matters. Grant will defeat Johnston, capture Atlanta, and swing public opinion back in the direction of Union and abolition. When the election is behind us, we can move forward forcefully with the war effort, defeat the Confederacy, and get on with the business of building the nation.”

  Lincoln nodded. “I pray you are right, Mr. Seward. If I am ever forced to choose between seeing the nation severed and leaving the blacks in chains or adopting the measures just now suggested by Mr. Stanton, I’d rather have an assassin put a bullet in my head than make such an appalling decision.”

  *****

  August 31, Morning

  With the piercing sound of a mighty steam whistle, the train slowed to a halt at the station at Marietta. A few minutes later, an immense cigar stuffed into his mouth, looking perfectly calm and rather sloppily dressed, Ulysses S. Grant emerged from the passenger car.

  A nearby officer sharply turned and gestured to a brass band, which proceeded to belch out a tune of some kind. Grant had no idea what song was being played, as he had never understood music and considered it an unintelligible annoyance. But the men of the band appeared to be enthusiastic, so he indulged them by nodding in what he hoped looked like an approving fashion before turning away.

  There were several companies of troops in and around the train station, for Marietta was the primary supply base for the Union armies encamped on the northern bank of the Chattahoochee River. Upon seeing Grant, the Union troops spontaneously began cheering. Grant did not smile, but lifted his hat in a gesture of appreciation. He instantly knew that the men belonged to the Army of the Tennessee, rather than either the Army of the Cumberland or the Army of the Ohio. He knew it in the manner that a parent might recognize a child that had been lost for many years. The Army of the Tennessee was his old command, which he had led from the earliest days at Fort Donelson through the terrible Battle of Shiloh, the long struggle to capture Vicksburg, and the final triumph at Chattanooga in late 1863.

  Grant felt as if he were coming home. The Army of the Potomac in Virginia, however much he respected it, had never been anything but a stepchild to him. Valiant though its men might be, the Army of the Potomac had often disappointed him in the battles against Lee. While leading the Army of the Tennessee, however, Grant had known nothing but victory. He prayed that this would be true once again. The cheering the men were giving him was the first sign of reassurance he had had in some time.

  Twenty yards from the track, McPherson, Schofield, and Howard stood together, decked out in their finest uniforms. As if they were still cadets at West Point, they snapped to attention and saluted at the sight of the general-in-chief. Grant merely took a long pull from his cigar, entirely unimpressed by this display of military ostentation. He himself wore a uniform that would not have looked out of place on a private, and only the dust-covered stripes on his shoulders identified his rank of Lieutenant General, which had been held by no one else in American history except George Washington.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Grant said as he strode up to the three generals.

  “Good morning, sir,” the three answered as one.

  “Was that brass band really necessary?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it, General,” McPherson answered apologetically. “But it was thought that it would be good for the morale of the men to see their old commander greeted by appropriately martial music.”

  Grant grunted, taking another long puff on his cigar. A few minutes later, he mounted Cincinnati, a marvelous horse that had been given to him by an admirer from Missouri. He and his three subordinate commanders then rode away from the Marietta station toward the central command post down at Vining’s Station.

  The four men were trailed by the predicable mass of staff officers and an escort consisting of a company of troopers from the 1st Ohio Cavalry Regiment. As they rode south, they passed by regiment after regiment of Union infantry, some newly arrived from other theaters and some having been in the region for months. The regiments cheered Grant one and all, though he affected no acknowledgement of it.

  “My orders regarding the reorganization of the forces have been carried out?” Grant asked.

  “Completely, sir,” McPherson answered. The other two generals remained silent, content to let McPherson speak for them. Not only was he their senior both in rank and age, but his close personal friendship with Grant gave his words greater weight.

  Grant nodded, trusting that McPherson would not give such assurance unless he were certain he was correct. For the campaign Grant envisioned, he had wanted a more nimble organization of the federal armies in the West than Sherman had employed when he had first set forth from Chattanooga four months before. Therefore, through careful allocation of reinforcements and the shifting of some divisions from one army to another, there had been a significant change in the makeup of the three armies on the Chattahoochee.

  The Army of the Cumberland and the Army of the Tennessee were now roughly equal in size, with Howard and McPherson each counting about thirty-five thousand men under their command. The Army of the Ohio was somewhat smaller, with Schofield being able to count on about twenty-five thousand men. For reasons which thus far had not been explained by Grant, the Army of the Ohio held most of the cavalry present with the Yankee forces in Georgia. Indeed, nearly half of Schofield’s force consisted of horsemen. What this fact suggested for the shape of the coming campaign, or whether it held any significance at all, the three army commanders had not ventured to guess.

  “How is the morale of the men?” Grant asked.

  “Better now that you’re here,” McPherson answered.

  “Give it to me straight, James.”

  “I am giving it to you straight, Sam. Morale has improved considerably since news came that you were coming to take personal command.”

  “News of the failure of the rebel cavalry to cut our supply lines has also had a positive effect on the men,” Schofield added. “The deaths of Wheeler and Forrest have been especially well-received. It’s like two bogeymen have been done away with by an exorcism.”

  “He’s right,” Howard interjected. “Several of the regiments greeted the news of Forrest’s death with spontaneous celebrations. Many units got rather too drunk, if you ask me.” The three other generals paid little
mind to Howard’s last comment. They knew well that, as far as Howard was concerned, even a single drop of liquor was one drop too many.

  “I don’t want any of you to sugarcoat anything,” Grant said. “I need to know the exact truth. If the men here on the Chattahoochee are reading the same newspapers as the men in the trenches around Petersburg, they cannot help but have been affected by the news of riots and war-weariness in the North.”

  “It cannot be denied,” Howard said.

  “I suppose not,” Schofield said. “Although there are some positive signs, I must admit that the morale of our men is still somewhat shaky. They still have not fully recovered from the defeat at Peachtree Creek. The bad news from up North, and from other fighting fronts, has also not helped.”

  “We’ve all been in such situations before,” Grant said. He gestured toward McPherson. “James here was with me at Shiloh, where we were pounded badly on the first day but came back to win on the next. General Schofield, if I’m not mistaken, you fought at Wilson’s Creek, where our side suffered a heavy defeat. But we eventually triumphed and took back the lost ground. And General Howard, your men were roughly handled on the first day at Gettysburg, but went on to play a critical role in winning the battle.”

  “The men are not beaten,” McPherson said. “But they need something onto which they can hold, some promise of victory. With so much talk of peace, of stopping the war and letting the rebels have their own way, they need some sort of reassurance. No man is willing to be the last man to die in a losing war.”

  Grant did not agree with McPherson’s last point. He found himself thinking of the Battle of Chapultepec during the Mexican War, nearly two decades before. He had been part of the American assault force on that memorable day, and he well remembered the courageous Mexican military cadets, none older than twenty. They had gallantly fought to the death rather than surrender, even after they had to have known that any hope of victory was gone. He would never forget the sight of the final surviving cadet, who wrapped himself in the Mexican flag and hurled himself off the ramparts of the Chapultepec fortress, plummeting to his death rather than be taken prisoner.