Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  As he spoke, McFadden became worried. The story had sounded good when he had devised it in his own mind, but as he heard the words coming out of his mouth it seemed increasingly implausible. Nevertheless, the smile on the face of the Yankee officer did not falter. Despite himself, McFadden realized that the man was believing everything he said.

  “Well, I must say. Well done! Well done, indeed!” The colonel extended a hand across the table, which McFadden firmly clasped.

  “Thank you, sir.” He paused a moment. “What will I do now, sir?”

  “Well, we can probably put you on a train and get you back to your regiment in Virginia. Alternatively, you might just start serving with one of our units here in Georgia. Makes no sense to have a good man waste his time travelling for a couple of weeks when there’s going to be plenty of action right here.”

  “Action?”

  “Yes. Probably some serious action, too. Orders are coming in. The entire Army of the Ohio and Army of the Tennessee are moving out the day after tomorrow. Nobody’s knows where. But I reckon that wherever Grant orders us to go, we’ll go.”

  McFadden wondered what the Union army was up to. When he set out to infiltrate the enemy camp, a month had passed with scarcely a shot being fired across the Chattahoochee. Somehow, McFadden had assumed that this inactivity would continue indefinitely, allowing him plenty of time to find and kill Cheeky Joe. But if serious campaigning was about to start again, it would make it much more difficult for him to make his way to the 118th Ohio.

  Moreover, the idea of renewed fighting caused a guilty clenching of McFadden’s stomach. If a battle were coming, his proper place was with his men in the 7th Texas, not on the other side of the river pursuing a personal vendetta of his own. But there was no point in second thoughts now. He was in the Union camp and there was no going back.

  “Well, I guess I might as well join up with one of your regiments, sir.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  McFadden certainly did not want to be put on a train to Virginia. Not only would that have been the end of his quest to find Cheeky Joe, but it would have placed him in an absurd and dangerous situation from which it would have been difficult to extract himself.

  The colonel, clearly wanting to end the interview as quickly as possible in order to move on to more important business, wrote out an order directing McFadden to report to the chief-of-staff of one of his regiments, which turned out to be 15th Illinois. How he would proceed from there, McFadden had no idea.

  *****

  September 8, Noon

  “Take a seat, Mr. Marble. General McClellan will be in to see you shortly.” The butler, whose back appeared so ramrod straight that Marble wondered if he had a wooden plank hidden in his shirt, turned and left the room.

  He glanced around the sitting room, sipping on the glass of wine which had been provided for him. It didn’t surprise Marble that George McClellan’s house was as impressive as it was. In the years before the war, McClellan had made a respectable fortune as a railroad engineer and executive, and the use to which he had put the money was obvious in the fashionable furnishings and decorative artwork that graced the room. Some of the china and silverware on display appeared so stylish that Marble speculated the general had acquired them in France during his pre-war travels.

  Marble had no interest in matters of art and decoration himself, but he did value the light such things threw on the characters of the people who desired to acquire them. Marble had long since determined that McClellan was a vain and silly man, but the additional evidence of the fact provided by the ostentatious display in his house was a welcome confirmation.

  He shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Glancing at a grandfather clock, Marble realized that nearly twenty minutes had passed since the butler had left the room. While he considered himself considerably less vain than most of the powerful people with whom he came into contact, Marble did not like being forced to cool his heels any more than anyone else.

  Finally, after thirty minutes of waiting, George McClellan strode into the living room with the air of a Roman senator. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit far superior to the one Marble himself was wearing. The editor rose from the couch and politely bowed his head to McClellan.

  “Mr. Marble, “ McClellan said with a restrained amount of warmth. “I am delighted to welcome you to my humble home.”

  “And I am delighted to be here, General McClellan.”

  “As you probably know, I have received the official notification from a committee of delegates from the Chicago convention of my nomination as the Democratic Party’s candidate in the upcoming presidential election.”

  “And allow me to offer my personal congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I am very glad to see you. As I said to you when we last met in New York City, I trust your political instincts better than those of most other men, and I would be very interested in hearing your opinion of the present political situation. I would be especially interested in your view regarding what course of action I myself should follow to maximize my chances of winning the election.”

  McClellan gestured to a table and both men sat down. The butler reappeared and refilled Marble’s wine glass, while pouring one for McClellan. Marble found this annoying. Obviously the butler had been in an adjoining room the entire time, and might have refilled his glass at any point during the thirty minutes he had been kept waiting.

  “So,” McClellan said simply. “The convention is over and done with. The platform has been decided upon. We shall soon be coming to the heart of the matter, the election itself.”

  “That’s right,” Marble said. “Little time remains between now and November 8.”

  “We are quickly approaching the time of decisive events,” McClellan grandly added.

  “Let me ask you, General McClellan. Are you in full accord with the platform adopted by the Democratic Party at the Chicago Convention? I speak particularly about the plank calling for an end to military hostilities with the South and the opening of negotiations.”

  McClellan sighed, the first display of actual emotion Marble had seen since arriving at his house. “I am a soldier. For the first two years of the war, I led armies against the rebels. It pains me greatly to think that the thousands of men who were killed or wounded under my command suffered and died for no good cause.”

  Marble suddenly felt a rush of alarm, though he maintained a composed expression. If the presidential candidate repudiated the party platform, it would make the Democratic Party appear fractured and confused. The Republicans would pounce, expressing to the people the idea that such a disunited and disorganized party had no business attempting to govern the country.

  When McClellan continued, it was greatly to Marble’s relief. “However, I have long since determined that the failure to subdue the Southern rebels is entirely the fault of the incompetence of the Lincoln administration and does not reflect on the valor of the men I commanded in any way. The series of disasters suffered by federal forces in the current campaign season has amply demonstrated the futility of continued efforts to suppress the rebellion by force.”

  “So, you will publicly back the peace plank of the party platform?”

  McClellan nodded. “I shall. Only with the greatest reluctance, but I shall.”

  “Very good,” Marble said, feeling the weight lifted off his shoulders.

  “Now, can you tell me where you think we stand in the various states? I received a comprehensive report on the subject from the convention’s delegation, but I fear they were telling me only the good news. I would like information I can count on, if you please.”

  Marble proceeded for the next fifteen or twenty minutes to give McClellan as honest and comprehensive an account of the situation in the various states as he could. The news was generally good. New York State, with its precious thirty-three electoral votes, was now considered by many observers to be virtually locked down for the Democrats. Prospects also seemed excellent in
the vital states of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Indiana. Combined with McClellan’s own state of New Jersey, these states gave the Democrats an even one hundred electoral votes.

  However, the situation was not entirely positive. Aside from Connecticut, the Democrats had failed to make much headway in strongly abolitionist New England, which meant that thirty-three electoral votes there were almost certain to go to Lincoln. Combined with the votes of his home state of Illinois and a few other states that seemed likely to go Republican, Lincoln could count on between sixty and seventy electoral votes.

  There were troubling signs from the border states of Kentucky, Maryland, and Missouri. Rumor had it that the federal troops occupying those states were making preparations to intervene on election day by barring Democrats from going to the polls. If the Lincoln administration lowered itself to such dirty tricks and threw those states into the Republican column, then the vote total for Lincoln would jump to ninety-nine.

  The outcome in the northwestern states of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Michigan would obviously play a decisive role in the election. Marble had to report to McClellan that information from those states was so sketchy and uncertain that any predictions about them would be would be nothing but guesswork.

  McClellan snorted. “I had been told that I had all those states in the bag.”

  “I feel it my duty as your friend to tell you the unvarnished truth. I would have to say that they could still go either way, as could the election as a whole.”

  “I appreciate your frankness. Now answer me this. With the Confederate victory at Peachtree Creek and the clear disaffection spreading through the cities of the North, as demonstrated by the riots in New York City and elsewhere, why is this even a competition? Should my victory at the polls in November not already be certain?”

  “The victory at Mobile Bay raised hopes of greater military progress before the end of the year, and the defeat of the rebel cavalry raids on our supply lines in Georgia and Tennessee has been portrayed by the Republican press as a tremendous victory. The death of Nathan Bedford Forrest, in particular, has been front page news across the country.” McClellan grunted, and Marble went on. “Furthermore, the news that General Grant has taken personal command of the Union armies outside of Atlanta has caused much of the voting public to expect a big victory in the Western Theater very soon.”

  McClellan laughed with scorn. “Grant is a drunken fool. Whatever successes he has achieved have been due entirely to luck rather than skill, and don’t let anyone deceive you otherwise. I have no doubt that our army outside Atlanta will soon meet with disaster. Were I in command, I would expect to enter Atlanta easily and quickly. I could begin siege operations with mathematical and engineering precision that the rebels would be unable to resist. But with Grant, I anticipate nothing but defeat.”

  Marble said nothing in response. He did not want to appear to be wishing for a Union defeat, as he was a loyal citizen of the United States in his own way. At the same time, he knew that every Confederate victory made the election of McClellan more likely. McClellan’s words suggested that he actually wanted Grant to be defeated and it was best not to encourage such talk. If a reporter sympathetic to the Republicans were to get wind of it, the results could prove damaging for the Democratic Party.

  Besides, loathe him though he might, Marble was not so disdainful as to belittle Grant’s obvious military gifts. The campaign to capture Vicksburg had been a work of genius and his victories around Chattanooga had been nearly as impressive. It was entirely possible that Grant would work his magic once again, defeat the rebel army under Johnston and bring about a major Union victory in the Western Theater. If he did, the complicated political situation which Marble had just explained to McClellan would have to be completely reshuffled.

  McClellan was still talking. “Besides, the so-called victory at Mobile Bay and the successes against the rebel cavalry are of small import to the overall course of the war. Were it not for the fact that the Union is desperate for good news, they should not even merit a mention in the newspapers.”

  Marble smiled. McClellan was the greatest master of self-deception that the editor of the New York World had ever encountered. Such men were easily manipulated, which is why McClellan would make the perfect President of the United States as far as Marble was concerned.

  “I agree with you that these recent successes of Union arms are only temporary and minor,” Marble said. “With such foolish leaders at the head of our affairs, it is clear that the war cannot be brought to a successful conclusion.”

  “I hope to be the one to provide the leadership this country needs. And if the mistakes made by Lincoln, Stanton, Seward and all those other incompetent puppies in Washington have made it impossible to restore the Union as it was, then I shall endeavor to secure peace with honor and bring the bloodshed to an end.”

  “I am honored to be a part of the effort to secure the presidency for such a distinguished person as yourself, General McClellan,” Marble said, using the most ingratiating tone he could muster. “Rest assured that your candidacy enjoys the full backing of the New York World and that the support of the newspaper shall continue after you have arrived in the White House.”

  “I do hope it shall be within my power to amply reward you for your generous support. Pray tell, assuming that we are victorious at the polls in November, are there any kindnesses within my power that I might extend to you?”

  Marble’s heartbeat quickened. A crucial step in his own road to power was about to be made. “Your generosity does great credit to your character, General McClellan. But as I said, I am but a humble citizen doing what I think is right for the good of the country.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” McClellan said, taking another sip of wine. “But I insist. Your support has been crucial to bringing me this far on the road to the White House. If I win, as I think I shall, I will owe you a great deal.”

  Marble pulled out the letter he had written during his rail journey to Chicago a week and a half before and, without a word, passed it over to McClellan. His face suddenly becoming apprehensive, McClellan took it and read through its contents. It took him a few minutes.

  “A steep price, Mr. Marble.” McClellan’s tone was now much less friendly.

  “A fair price, I should say.”

  “You want final say in who fills half of the federal offices in New York City?”

  “Considering the benefit the support of the New York World shall give to your candidacy, not only in New York State but throughout the Union, it seems reasonable, I should think.”

  “Governor Seymour may disagree. He has already approached me about who should be promised certain offices.”

  “Do you think I would have put this question in writing without Governor Seymour’s permission?”

  McClellan grunted, then went on. “Which begs the question. Why do you need my answer in writing?”

  “There are some influential figures who remain on the fence regarding the choice between you and Lincoln. If I can go back to New York City with your signature on that piece of paper, my credibility with them shall be much improved. Unless I have it, I will be seen as making promises on which I may not be able to deliver.”

  McClellan grunted again and was silent for several minutes. He stared at Marble as though he were attempting to see through him, but Marble knew that his own impassive expression was a suit of armor through which no man could see. Eventually, after nearly two full minutes of silence, McClellan picked up a pen from the table and calmly signed his name to the bottom of the paper. Without a word, he passed it back over to Marble. The editor took it with a smile, folded it up, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Marble said.

  “What now?” McClellan’s voice was rapidly losing its previous serenity.

  “I should like to have a say in who shall fill the position of official Printer of the United States.”

  “And who would you like in that pos
t?”

  Marble smiled. “Me,” he said simply. “With a considerably increased salary, I should think. And an understanding that I shall continue as the editor of the New York World while holding the position, the main duties of which I shall turn over to a subordinate.”

  “Your steep price keeps getting steeper, Mr. Marble.”

  “Even the steepest price is worth paying for the biggest of prizes, General McClellan.”

  McClellan was silent again for a minute. Then, he slowly nodded.

  *****

  September 9, Morning

  The morning air was fresh and considerably cooler than had been the case of late. This made Grant very happy. He was about to ask his men to commence what would surely be a long and difficult march that would likely culminate in a very bloody and grueling battle. Such a physically demanding task would be much easier to accomplish in the autumn than it would have been during the brutal summer they had all just endured.

  As Grant rode Cincinnati down the long column of infantry arrayed in marching order, in a large field set amidst enormous clusters of pine trees, the thousands of faces from regiment after regiment looked up at him with expectation in their eyes. They were all doubtless wondering where his orders would take them, and instinctively scanned his face for any conceivable clues as to their destination.

  The men whose ranks he trotted past, trailed only by a single aide and a flag bearer, belonged to Schofield’s Army of the Ohio, who would be leading the advance. Grant knew that calling the force an “army” was being generous in the extreme, as it consisted only of a single corps of infantry plus two cavalry divisions. Its total strength, following the reinforcements which Grant had allocated to it, was about twenty-five thousand men. But its small size made it more nimble than many other comparable forces, and that meant it was ideal for the mission he had in mind for it.