Malet was only saying what was obviously true. If the Confederates demanded the return of the slaves who had been freed by the Emancipation Proclamation, they were demanding the impossible.
“At the very least, would Her Majesty’s Government support a call on our part for the United States to pay financial compensation to the owners of the freed slaves for their lost property?”
Malet thought for a moment. “I do not know. On that question, I shall have to consult my superiors.”
Davis was tired and very much wished the discussion were at an end. “How long are you in Richmond, Mr. Malet? I should like to continue this conversation at a later time.”
“I can remain in the city for only three days. But during that time, I am at your service. I am staying at the Spotswood Hotel.”
“Very good. I should like to discuss your proposals in more detail with Mr. Benjamin and meet with you again tomorrow. Perhaps we could hold these discussions over lunch?”
“That would be agreeable, Mr. Davis.”
The three men rose. Davis and Benjamin shook hands with Malet, who bowed his head with a smile and showed himself to the door. The Confederate President and his Secretary of State then sat back down, to begin several hours of intense discussions about the import of the meeting they had just had.
*****
September 6, Evening
Johnston was in the midst of yet another meeting of the high command of the Army of Tennessee. It had already gone on for more than three hours. Johnston removed his glasses and gently rubbed his eyelids, a wave of fatigue sweeping over him. He had not slept much in the past few nights. The simple act of remaining awake almost caused him physical pain, but he had to do it for the good of the army.
They had gone over a hundred different points, ranging from a shortage of rations to the letter being sent across the lines to Grant under a flag of truce asking for an explanation of Forrest’s death. Yet the meeting was only now getting to the more important questions. Johnston forced himself to concentrate on the point then being discussed, though it took great effort. General Stewart was the one doing the talking at the moment.
“Our own lack of cavalry makes it possible that an enemy mounted force might descend on the railroad which leads east to Augusta and render it inoperable before any of our cavalry units have a chance to intervene.” From his tone, it was clear that Stewart considered this possibility a serious danger.
Johnston nodded. The three railroads which snaked out from Atlanta to the east, south, and southwest were the veins and arteries of his army, the only thing which kept his troops fed and supplied. The railroad to Augusta was particularly important, as it connected Atlanta with the Carolinas and Virginia. Sherman’s men had largely wrecked it during their brief occupation of the area in July, but the damage had since been repaired. If Grant launched a powerful cavalry raid against it or either of the other railroads as part of his forthcoming offensive, it would present a very difficult challenge as the Confederate cavalry was now perilously weak.
Hardee spoke up. “According to the accounts of his recent operations in Virginia, Grant dispatched his cavalry under General Sheridan to attack the railroads south of Lee’s army as part of his general offensive against Lee back in May. It is conceivable he might try something similar on this front.”
Johnston glanced up at General William H. Jackson, recently promoted from the temporary to the permanent command of the cavalry of the Army of Tennessee. The look on his face was quite perturbed, and Johnston suddenly felt sympathy for him.
“General Jackson, do you believe you have the strength to both protect the railroads and properly reconnoiter the enemy in order to ascertain his movements?” Johnston asked.
“Frankly, sir, I do not,” Jackson replied without hesitation. “I have but four thousand men both armed and provided with sufficient mounts. To guard the fords over the Chattahoochee, combined with dispatching patrols to the north bank of the river to scout the positions of the enemy, stretches my resources to the breaking point. I cannot spare so much as a single regiment to guard the railroads.”
Johnston frowned, but nodded. He appreciated Jackson’s frankness, a rare quality in an officer only recently promoted to a senior position. Far too often, eager young men anxious to prove themselves to their commanders made promises that they could not keep. This frequently resulted in failed operations and lots of dead soldiers. Wheeler himself had been a case in point. It was refreshing to see that Jackson did not fit into that mold.
“We have positioned all of the Georgia militiamen that we can spare from the defenses of Atlanta to the critical points on the three railroads,” Johnston said. “For the moment, that will have to do.”
Stewart shook his head. “If the enemy cavalry cuts the railroads, our supply lines will be severed. Even a temporary loss of access to food and ammunition could cost us this campaign.”
“I understand your concerns, General Stewart. Rest assured, I fully share them. But the primary mission of our cavalry, reduced in strength as it is, must remain the scouting of the positions and movements of the enemy. We would have a hard enough task defeating Grant under the best of circumstances, but we shall surely fail if we attempt to fight him blind.”
The four commanders nodded agreement. Johnston went on. “When Sherman came, we lured him onto the south bank of the river in order to ambush him as he crossed Peachtree Creek. Grant will not make a similar mistake, for he has Sherman’s example before him. Therefore, I intend to fight him directly on the south bank of the Chattahoochee. The moment our cavalry discover the main crossing point of the enemy, we shall converge on that point with our three corps and destroy whatever forces Grant has managed to place on the south bank of the river. This, I am confident, will cripple Grant’s army to such an extent that he shall be unable to resume operations before the end of the present campaigning season.”
Cheatham cleared his throat deliberately. “Pardon me, sir?”
“General Cheatham?” Johnston said.
“Sir, should we not consider the possibility that the blue-belly bastards won’t even cross over to the south bank of the Chattahoochee?”
Johnston’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that Grant shall not attack us?”
“No, the bastard’s going to come after us, sure as hell. But Grant has a history of doing the unexpected. We’re assuming that he will take a direct approach in an attempt to defeat our army and capture Atlanta. What if he actually intends something entirely different?”
“Such as what?” Johnston asked. He valued Cheatham’s intelligence, despite the man’s uncouth manners and tendency to drink.
“If you’ll permit me?” Cheatham said, gesturing down to the table. Johnston nodded, and Cheatham shuffled through the maps until he found one which covered the whole western theater of the war, from eastern Georgia to the Mississippi River. He traced his finger along the Chattahoochee River.
“We stand between Grant and Atlanta,” Cheatham said. “Suppose instead he moves southwest, keeping to the north bank of the Chattahoochee, bypassing us altogether and heading off toward Alabama?”
Johnston looked down at the map. “To what end?”
Cheatham’s fingers thumped down on the map in central Alabama. “The capture of Montgomery and Selma,” he replied with conviction.
Johnston grunted, thinking the idea over. Montgomery had huge symbolic importance to the Confederacy, as it had been the site of the convention in 1861 at which the seceded states had written their constitution and formed the Confederate government. If any place could be said to be the birthplace of the Confederacy, it was Montgomery. Furthermore, it had emerged over the course of the war as a critical transportation link and production center of war material.
The city of Selma was, if anything, an even greater prize. Aside from Atlanta and Richmond, no city was as important as Selma to keeping the Confederacy’s war industry going. Selma’s iron foundry was one of the largest
in the South, turning out hundreds of cannon, iron plating for warships, and other critically-needed war material. Rifles and pistols were also manufactured there in great numbers and it was one of the Confederacy’s centers for gunpowder production.
After quietly thinking for perhaps two minutes, Johnston slowly began to shake his head. “No, it’s too great a distance. The distance from the Union camp at Vining’s Station to Montgomery is a hundred and fifty miles, give or take. The roads are not that good, and they’d have to carry their supplies with them by wagon train. A logistical impossibility, I’d think.”
“Grant did something similar during the Vicksburg Campaign, didn’t he? Moving his whole damn army across the river south of the city, abandoning his supply line in order to move faster?”
Johnston drew back a moment, remembering those confusing days in the spring of 1863. He recalled the frantic telegrams he had dispatched to General Pemberton, asking him for Grant’s location and direction. Grant’s men had marched so far so quickly that he had never really been able to keep track of where the Union forces were. In a matter of weeks, Grant’s army had marched nearly a hundred miles, defeated the Southerners in five battles, driven Johnston himself out of the state capital of Jackson, and besieged Vicksburg.
Johnston’s role in the Vicksburg Campaign had been more supervisory than active, but he would never forget the psychological shock he had experienced when Grant had caught the Confederates flat-footed. As the memory coursed through his mind, he wondered if perhaps Cheatham was correct and that Grant might indeed do something as unexpected as march toward Alabama.
“Grant commands nearly one hundred thousand men,” Hardee said. “There would not be enough wagons in the entire Union to carry sufficient supplies for such a large force.”
“We must never underestimate the logistical capacity of our enemies,” Johnston found himself saying. The more he thought about Cheatham’s theory, the more plausible it seemed. “Besides, Grant would obviously not take his entire force with him. He would have to leave a large force in its present position in order to prevent us from attacking northwards toward Chattanooga.”
“I am troubled,” Jackson said. “As I mentioned earlier, my troops are already stretched thin merely maintaining watch over the river fords. If a major portion of the enemy force were to detach itself and march southwest along the north bank of the river, it might march for several days without being detected.”
In his mind, Johnston cursed Jefferson Davis yet again. By forcing him to send Wheeler off on his idiotic raid into northern Georgia, the President had indirectly destroyed half of the army’s cavalry. Had Johnston been allowed to make his own decision in the matter, Wheeler would not have been sent on his fool’s errand and the Army of Tennessee would now not be worrying about detecting the movements of the enemy army.
“I am sorry to add to your burdens, General Jackson,” Johnston said apologetically. “I’m afraid we have no choice. You shall have to dispatch one of your brigades to the southwest and post it on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River. There it shall remain, sending back word to us at once if it detects any movement of the enemy in that direction.”
“You are aware, sir, that this will leave me with fewer men to monitor the fords.”
“Yes, I am. But as I said, we have no choice.”
Johnston intended for the meeting to end at this point, but Cheatham cleared his throat again.
“Respectfully, sir, there is another matter I wish to discuss.”
“Very well,” Johnston said, knowing what the subject was likely to be.
“I don’t like saying this, since it concerns a brother officer, but some of my subordinates have expressed reservations about continuing to serve alongside General Cleburne.”
Johnston glanced at Hardee, seeing the clouds of anger cross his face. Cheatham also looked over at his fellow corps commander, clearly uncomfortable with raising the subject in his presence.
“General Cooper has not yet issued any report on his findings,” Johnston said, as though this fact were somehow relevant. “Tell your division commanders that they are expected to do their duty and accord General Cleburne all the respect to which he is entitled by his rank and his status as a brother officer.”
“I shall do so, sir. But my brigade and division commanders are, as you know, a rather hot-headed bunch.”
“You do not need to remind me of that, General Cheatham,” Johnston said sourly. If anyone knew how hot-headed Confederate army officers could be, it was Johnston.
“Which of your commanders has spoken ill of General Cleburne?” Hardee asked, a little too forcefully. Rather to Johnston’s surprise, Cheatham answered immediately.
“General Patton Anderson has made his feelings clear more than anybody else. But all of my brigade and division commanders have stated at least some desire to avoid serving alongside Cleburne.”
“So the men under your command are informing us that they shall refuse to follow orders?” Hardee asked. He looked over at Johnston. “Are they not therefore guilty of gross insubordination?”
Johnston knew that Hardee was right, but he did not want to say so. Among Hardee’s own division commanders, William Walker had long despised Cleburne and William Bate was probably of the same mind. If anger against Cleburne was now rising in Cheatham’s corps, the generals among Stewart’s corps were likely to follow suit. After all, Johnston recalled that Stewart himself had been greatly angered by Cleburne’s proposal when it had been made.
“Every one of you must make it perfectly clear to all officers in your corps that they are expected to follow their orders without question,” Johnston said.
“I will do my best, sir,” Cheatham said.
“As shall I,” Stewart chimed in. Neither man had spoken with as much enthusiasm as Johnston would have preferred.
Johnston knew he was walking on extremely delicate ground. On the one hand, he did not want to lose the services of Cleburne. Not only was he the best division commander in the Army of Tennessee, but the soldiers of his unit were so loyal to him that they might well become mutinous if their beloved leader were dismissed. On the other hand, if the rest of the brigade and division commanders of the army were reluctant to continue serving with Cleburne, and this attitude filtered down the ranks to their men, what could Johnston do other than relieve Cleburne? As outstanding an officer as Cleburne was, it would probably be better to lose the services of a single division commander than have all of the others in a potentially rebellious mood.
Johnston had been inwardly outraged by Walker’s insult to Cleburne a few days before, but had not felt able to do anything aside from ordering him to apologize and then ordering Cleburne to accept the apology. He might have placed Walker under arrest for clearly attempting to provoke a confrontation, but this would have made the situation worse. Walker, although not as talented as Cleburne, was a gifted combat leader and Johnston did not feel he could afford to lose him, either. Arresting Walker would also have created resentment among many of the other officers and men as well.
He felt as though he were walking a tightrope. If he could keep his balance, he might be able to save Cleburne and keep the officer corps of the Army of Tennessee more focused on fighting the Yankees than eating themselves alive.
For a moment, Johnston found himself feeling intensely jealous of Robert E. Lee, his old friend and occasional professional rival. Lee’s commanders in the Army of Northern Virginian were every bit as hot-headed and arrogant as those of the Army of Tennessee, yet Lee somehow managed to pour oil over the turbulent waters of his own command and keep personal tensions from boiling over. To himself, and in unguarded moments with Lydia, Johnston could admit that he was not nearly as talented as Lee in this regard.
The meeting broke up shortly afterward. Watching his corps commanders mount their horses and ride off to their respective commands, Johnston felt distinctly troubled. He did not know what Grant intended to do. More forbiddingly, whatever Grant
was going to do, Johnston did not know if the Army of Tennessee would have sufficient trust in itself to be able to stop him.
*****
September 6, Night
McFadden stepped carefully out of the water and onto the northern bank of the Chattahoochee River. Dropping his pack onto the ground, he used one of the two shirts he had brought to dry himself off, then began putting his uniform on. The coat he threw on over his shirt was not Confederate gray, but Union blue.
He had been apprehensive while crossing the river. Confederate troops on the southern bank might have fired on him, assuming that he was a deserter going over to the Yankees. The enemy, by contrast, might have done the same out of fear that he was the vanguard of a raid across the river. But he had chosen a spot he thought was devoid of pickets. As far as he could tell, no one on either side had observed his crossing.
McFadden picked his pack up and begin to walk. He had left his weapons behind, for they did not fit into the plan he had spent many long hours putting together. He admitted to himself that it did not have a good chance of success, but it was the best he had been able to come up with. Even the slight possibility of being able to find Cheeky Joe and avenge the death of his brother was worth the risk.
He had elected to play the part of a Union prisoner who had escaped from the infamous prison camp at Andersonville and made his way up to the Chattahoochee in order to reach the Union lines. The idea that a man in a Union uniform could walk over a hundred miles through hostile territory would obviously strike many as unlikely. He had considered pretending to be a man captured in the recent fighting around Atlanta, who would have had a much shorter distance to cover. But that would have required his false identity to be from one of the nearby Union regiments and his ruse might easily have been discovered. The only way it would work, McFadden had decided, would be to portray a soldier from one of the Union regiments fighting in the Eastern Theater, and that would require him to say he had come from Andersonville.
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