Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Yes, sir,” Walker said instantly.

  “Yes, sir,” Cleburne said a moment later, only a trace of hesitation in his voice.

  “Good. General Cleburne, you may return to your division. General Walker, I believe General Cooper is waiting for you.”

  Walker saluted, turned, and walked into Cooper’s room. Johnston was already walking back up the stairs. For just a moment, Cleburne stood still in the center of the hall, the eyes of all of Johnston’s staff officers on him. Then, he strode out the front door, where Red Pepper was waiting for him.

  *****

  September 3, Morning

  “Hello, Reb!” a voice called from across the river.

  McFadden stirred himself. He had been quietly reading the biography of Thaddeus Kosciuszko, happy that the quiet days on the picket line had finally presented him with an opportunity for uninterrupted reading. He was now approaching the end of the book, drinking in the story of Kosciuszko’s desperate struggle to free Poland from Russian tyranny. Still, he had already been reading for a few hours and the diversion from the Yankees across the river was not unwelcome.

  The same was true for his men. They had spent the past few days engaged in all manner of activities to keep their minds occupied. Some read newspapers, others wrote letters that had little chance of reaching Texas, while the more devout studied the Bible. A few men were engaged in gambling over dice or decks of cards. McFadden saw gambling as a rather foolish way to spend one’s time and lose one’s money, but had decided to do nothing to interfere. Had he tried, they would only have done it behind his back.

  He stood up and cupped his hands. “What do you want, Yank?”

  “Got any tobacco?”

  The men raised their heads and looked at McFadden intently. There was only one commodity in short supply in the North which the South happened to have in abundance and that was tobacco. To obtain it, Yankees were known to trade anything and everything. Coffee, in such short supply in the Confederacy, was particularly prized by Southern soldiers. The Army of Tennessee had captured an enormous amount of Yankee coffee during the Battle of Peachtree Creek, but that supply had already become exhausted.

  As much as he wanted coffee, both for himself and for his men, McFadden did not like such contact with the Yankees. Hearing his men shout good-natured insults across the river was one thing, but meeting the enemy and shaking their hands was something else. Moreover, General Johnston had issued strict orders against any fraternization with the enemy. The fact that this directive was routinely ignored did not sit well with McFadden’s conscience, for he believed in following orders.

  At the same time, he understood that his role as an officer of the 7th Texas inescapably required an element of flexibility. If an opportunity were presented for the acquisition of real coffee and he prohibited his men from taking it, they would deeply resent it. It would make it more difficult to run the half of the regiment for which he was responsible. Moreover, he could not deny that he greatly desired a decent cup of coffee.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “We have tobacco! Do you have any coffee?”

  “We have so much coffee that we don’t know what to do with it!”

  The men of the 7th Texas raised a happy cheer. McFadden, however, struggled to decide how to conduct the exchange over the river.

  “How do you want to do it, Yank?” he shouted when the cheering had died down.

  “River’s not too deep here, Reb!” the Northerner shouted back. “You could come over here to drop off your tobacco and pick up your coffee! Or the other way around, if you prefer!”

  He considered this. If he or any of his men went across to the north bank of the river, they could quickly be overwhelmed and captured. After all, he had to consider the possibility that the Yankees were playing a dirty trick in order to take some prisoners for interrogation. He did not think this very likely, but as an officer he had to take into account all possibilities.

  “You started this!” McFadden shouted over the river. “Why don’t you come pay us a visit over here?”

  “Okay!”

  McFadden turned to Montgomery. “Ben, make sure some of our men have their rifles loaded and ready. I don’t expect any trouble, but best to take precautions.”

  Montgomery nodded quickly, ready as always to spring to action at McFadden’s word. McFadden also ordered some of his men to collect whatever tobacco they happened to have, wrapping them into small packets made from folded handkerchiefs tied with string. Glancing across the river, he could see the collection of Union soldiers engaged in similar activities, collecting their coffee.

  For a moment, McFadden’s mind went back to The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith, which his father had made him read when he had decided his mind was mature enough to comprehend it. In a quick flash, notions of supply and demand and the natural and market prices of commodities passed through his mind. The South had tobacco and the North did not because the soil of the South was more conducive to the growing of the weed, whereas the North had coffee and the South did not because, as it was a foreign product not produced in North America, the Union’s control of the seas and blockade of the Confederacy allowed the North to import it and deny the South the ability to do the same. Trading Southern tobacco for Northern coffee was, therefore, the most natural thing in the world.

  McFadden winced slightly when he realized that the tobacco with which they would be trading was the product of slave labor. Unexpectedly, he found himself feeling somewhat guilty on this point. Thinking again of the ideas of Adam Smith, McFadden found it perfectly obvious that a free man working for wages would be more productive than a slave working merely to avoid the sting of the lash. He found himself wondering how prosperous the South might have been had it never created an economy based on human bondage.

  He set those thoughts aside. They were interesting and important, but for the moment he had to focus on the matter at hand.

  “You ready, Reb?” the Yankee called from across the river.

  “Ready!” he shouted back.

  About half a dozen Union soldiers, as naked as the day they were born, strode into the water, holding over their heads their uniforms and the packets McFadden assumed contained the coffee. Oddly, McFadden felt somewhat apprehensive as they crossed the Chattahoochee toward the picket line of the 7th Texas. The men were unarmed and could have been killed within seconds without any difficulty. Still, years of warfare had instilled in McFadden a certain amount of anxiety whenever Yankees were approaching, no matter what the situation.

  A few minutes later, the Yankees clambered up onto the south bank of the river. They set down their coffee and quickly put on their trousers, then their shirts.

  “Top of the morning to you, boys,” the leader of the small group said with a smile.

  “And you are?” McFadden asked without much politeness.

  “Sergeant Charles Wilkinson. 20th Ohio.”

  “Lieutenant James McFadden. 7th Texas. You brought the coffee?”

  “We sure did,” Wilkinson answered, apparently unconcerned with McFadden’s attitude.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty pounds, give or take.”

  McFadden nodded. “We’ll give you twenty packets of our tobacco for it, then.”

  The Yankee’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait a minute, there, Texas. How much tobacco is in each of these packets you’re talking about?”

  He pointed down to the ground, where the packets had been stacked. “See for yourself.”

  Like a starving man suddenly offered an immense amount of food, the Yankee soldier eagerly clawed at the packets of tobacco, unfolding them and carefully examining their contents. McFadden grimaced, disgusted by the sight of such unrestrained avarice. He could not say that he felt any differently as he watched his own men carefully examine the contents of the coffee pouches. His own taste buds could already sense the delightfully bitter and sharp sensation of the coffee.

  McFadden and Wilkinson haggled over prices for the ne
xt fifteen minutes. Wilkinson was of the opinion that the amount of coffee they had brought across the river was worth about the same as the tobacco the Confederates were offering. McFadden actually agreed with this, but tried to wrangle a better deal from the Northerners. At last agreeing, the two men shook hands and their respective comrades raised a cheer, each contemplating the enjoyment of their newly-acquired commodity.

  Pearson proposed a dram of whiskey to celebrate the deal. Despite his irritation that the ever-annoying private made the suggestion without consulting him, McFadden agreed. The Yankees might be enemies, but they were men. Besides, if he extended a demonstration of goodwill toward his foes, perhaps they might return the favor later on. For all they knew, their two regiments could be facing one another across the river for several more days.

  Pleasant conversation between the erstwhile enemies ensued, the six Yankees trading stories with twenty or so Confederates while all but three teetotalers enjoyed their whiskey. The two sides reminisced about fighting one another in the memorable Battle of Raymond during the Vicksburg Campaign the previous May. McFadden was struck by how they discussed the desperate and bloody engagement as though the 7th Texas and the 20th Ohio had been opposing teams in a sporting match. Some of the men also talked of what they had done at home before the war or exchanged stories about their wives and children.

  McFadden, watching all this from a distance, found it so absurd as to be almost laughable. Aside from their accents, the Ohio men seemed little different from the Texans. They were all just men caught up in a war they had no part in starting, trying to do their duty and hoping to live to see their homes again.

  He would not have thought this way a few months earlier, he realized. Back then, he could only see the Yankees as the men who had tortured and killed his brother in the New Mexican desert. Now Annie Turnbow and her family had come into his life, allowing him to see beyond his old hatreds. It was not a whole people who had killed his brother, but a single man.

  He didn’t want to think about Cheeky Joe, but the incident during the Yankee evacuation of the south riverbank could not be shaken from his mind. Without consciously thinking about it, he acted.

  “Wilkinson?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  He struggled to keep his voice at a tone of friendly conversation, concealing his purpose. “Do you Yankees have regiments of the same state in each brigade, like us?”

  Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “All the regiments in our brigade are from Texas. Lots of the other brigades in the army are made up entirely of regiments from the same state. Same in Lee’s army. Is that the way you do it?”

  “Oh, I see. Sometimes, but not always. We used to be in a brigade that only had other Ohio regiments. Now we’re in a brigade with regiments from Illinois, Michigan, and Wisconsin. Why do you ask?”

  “I have a friend in the 118th Ohio,” he said cautiously. “Were you ever brigaded with them?”

  Wilkinson shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

  Another Yankee soldier, overhearing the conversation, gestured toward one of his comrades, who was trying to lit a hurriedly-rolled cigar. “Patrick’s brother-in-law is in the 118th, I think. Isn’t he, Patrick?”

  “He sure is,” Patrick responded. “A rotten scoundrel, if you ask me. Only good thing he ever did was to take my good-for-nothing sister off the family’s hands. Bastard owes me ten dollars. Better try to get him to pay up again soon.”

  “Is the regiment nearby?” McFadden asked. “I’d like to get a message to my friend, if I can.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “An officer named Joe.” It was honestly all the information McFadden had.

  Patrick looked confused. “Probably lots of officers named Joe.”

  “He has a big scar across his check, like this.” McFadden drew a line with his finger across his face.

  “Oh, him,” Patrick said emphatically. “That fellow’s a crazy one, sure as hell. Only seen him a couple of times. And when I say crazy, I mean crazy. I think lots of the soldiers in the 118th are scared of him.”

  McFadden felt himself tense. What he had seen on the river had not been his imagination. It had been his enemy, present and in the flesh. The man who had tortured and killed his brother, who had tortured him and left him for dead, was perhaps less than a mile from the very ground on which he was standing. The thought of his proximity put McFadden on edge, as if Cheeky Joe would materialize out of the river at any moment.

  He talked more with the soldier named Patrick, finding out which brigade and division the 118th was serving in. The Yankee did not know exactly where they were posted, although he had the impression that they were southwest down the river. McFadden filed this information away in his mind, wondering how he might make use of it later.

  James McFadden did not intend to let Cheeky Joe get away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  September 4, Noon

  Emerging from the front door of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, President Davis inhaled deeply, relishing the first rush of cool air which heralded the return of autumn to Richmond. He might have smiled, but there was a large multitude of people crowded around him and he therefore maintained the stony and serious expression for which he was well known. He had to shake the hands of several men before he could begin to descend the steps of the church.

  “Mr. President, you should hang Pat Cleburne and Bill Hardee,” one man said earnestly as he shook his hand for rather too long. “The last thing we need are a bunch of damn abolitionists commanding our troops!”

  “I have understood you quite clearly, my friend,” Davis said in reply. The man smiled and departed, clearly thinking that the President’s ambiguous words constituted agreement.

  “A beautiful day,” Varina said, her arm in his as they began walking down the steps.

  “Indeed, my love,” Davis replied. “I have greatly enjoyed the autumns we have spent together here in Virginia. The crispness of the Virginia air this time of year is to be preferred over the humidity of Mississippi.”

  “Must you go to work today?” she asked. “It’s Sunday, Jeff. Exodus 31:15 comes to mind.”

  “Others have the luxury of observing the Sabbath day, but the obligations of a chief executive allow me no escape. In fact, I can see the Secretary of State is waiting for me.”

  At the bottom of the steps, Judah Benjamin stood quietly in a reserved black suit. Davis noted immediately that his perpetual smile did not grace his face and momentarily feared that his closest advisor had some sort of bad news to impart. Davis then relaxed, recalling that he had seen a sour expression on Benjamin’s face on many Sundays in the past. As a Jew, Benjamin was isolated from his fellows as they filed into the various churches throughout Richmond. For a naturally vivacious personality who craved the company of others, this was not easy for Benjamin to endure. More to the point, it hammered home his status as a member of a distrusted minority far more than could even the most vile anti-Semitic screed.

  Benjamin’s eyes lit up when he saw the Davises approach and the smile quickly reformed on his face. “Mr. President!” he said happily. “Did you enjoy church?”

  “We did, indeed, my friend.”

  “And Mrs. Davis. Are you taking good care of your husband and preventing him from causing too much trouble?”

  Varina smiled, her natural affection for Benjamin easily shining through. “I am doing my very best, Judah.”

  “I am afraid that I shall have to borrow your husband for the afternoon, as he and I have much business to discuss. As a matter of fact, we have a special friend to meet. I do hope that you shall not hold this against me.”

  “No, not at all,” Varina said resignedly.

  “Very well.” Benjamin motioned to a carriage which had been waiting on the side of the street.

  “I will see you when I return home, my dear,” Davis said to Varina, tenderly kissing her cheek. This caused a flurry of whispers amo
ng the crowd of people still gathered around the door of St. Paul’s, as such public displays of affection were certainly uncharacteristic of the President. He made a mental note to be careful about such actions in the future.

  “Try not to be too late,” Varina said, holding his hand briefly before letting go and turning toward her own carriage.

  A minute later, Davis and Benjamin were sitting opposite one another as the driver clicked his horses into motion. Benjamin directed him to take them to the Executive Office building.

  “Who is this special friend of whom you speak?” Davis asked.

  “A prospective friend, I should say. But first, have a look at these.” He pulled a bundle of newspapers out and handed them to the President. “Yankee papers,” he said. “Four days old. One from Washington, one from New York, one from Baltimore. They have much detail about what transpired at the Democratic National Convention and should make for some interesting reading.”

  “Can you give me a summary?”

  “Well, you already know that they did what we expected them to do and nominated McClellan as their presidential candidate. These papers also confirm the rumors that Congressman George Pendleton will be McClellan’s running mate.”

  “And he’s an outspoken proponent of a cease-fire, yes?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. McClellan has been evasive on the question of a cease-fire, as he must be in order to attract the votes of moderates. But Pendleton has favored a termination of the war since the earliest days. By nominating him as the vice presidential candidate, the Democratic Party is sending out a clear message.”

  Davis nodded and motioned for Benjamin to continue.

  “The really important information we have obtained from the papers concerns the Democratic party platform. Here, let me read it to you.” Benjamin unfolded one of the newspapers. “Most of the platform is a rehashing of the attacks on Lincoln’s unconstitutional usurpations of power. Suspension of habeas corpus, closing down newspapers, that sort of thing. One plank specifically condemns the Lincoln administration for the death of Clement Vallandigham, though it stops short of using the word `murder’.”