Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The door opened and Judah Benjamin entered. “Begging the pardon of you gentlemen. I apologize for being late.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Secretary,” Davis said, waving to the seat across the desk. At the same time, Seddon motioned for the staff officer to depart. As the door closed, Davis was staring across the desk at his two closest advisors. He could not keep himself from glancing over at the map, however, and quickly filled in Benjamin on the reported Yankee cavalry movement.

  “Have you any news from the North?” Davis asked.

  “Nothing unexpected,” Benjamin answered. “Now that the Democrats have finally settled on their ticket, the traditional phase of the election campaign has begun. Rallies, speeches, canvassing for votes in every town and city from Kansas to Maine, and out on the Pacific coast as well. It’s shaping up exactly as we expected, with New England remaining mostly solid for the Republicans, New York emerging as a Democratic stronghold, and the major prizes being Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois.”

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Benjamin,” Davis said. “Suppose that Grant wins a major victory at some point in the next month. What impact would this have on the outcome of the election?”

  “A major one, obviously. It depends on the precise nature of the victory. If Grant simply wins a tactical success over Johnston, something along the lines of Shiloh, it might not make too great a difference. But if he succeeds in capturing Atlanta, or some other prize of similar importance, it would certainly shift the balance decisively back in favor of Lincoln.”

  Davis grunted.

  Benjamin went on. “Furthermore, even if the Union armies do not achieve sufficient success over the next two months to allow Lincoln to win the election, they might achieve victories large enough to persuade McClellan to repudiate the peace plank of the Democratic Party and, upon his taking office, continue the war until victory is won.”

  “I had not considered that,” Seddon said. This didn’t surprise Davis, who had little respect for Seddon’s political instincts.

  “I have considered it, many times and at length,” Davis said. “McClellan is a political weather vane. He will turn in whatever direction public opinion blows him. Any significant setback might be sufficient to persuade McClellan to abandon the peace plan, and he could persuade enough of the Democratic Party to go along with him that it would scarcely matter whether we enter 1865 with Lincoln or McClellan in the White House.”

  Davis removed his spectacles and rubbed his temples, feeling as though his head were about to explode. He glanced up at the map again, worried over the blue pin at Tallapoosa. There were no red pins between it and the vital Confederate cities of Selma and Montgomery. When he put his spectacles back on, he thrust an angry finger in Seddon’s direction.

  “When you send that telegram to Johnston, don’t just ask him if he knows about a Yankee movement to the west. Order him to find out what Grant is up to and to do it immediately. Make sure the communication is framed as an explicit order. Not a request or suggestion, but an unambiguous and unmistakable order.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “Johnston usually doesn’t respond well to such communications,” Benjamin pointed out.

  “Johnston can go to the devil for all I care,” Davis said. “I am the President and he is one of my generals. If he refuses to obey orders, I shall not hesitate to remove him from command. I could order General Hardee to take command. It’s also my understanding that General Longstreet has recovered from his wounds, so he might be an acceptable replacement as well.”

  “Considering the victory he obtained at Peachtree Creek two months ago, public opinion might object to Johnston being removed from command,” Benjamin said.

  “When a man is right, he should care nothing for public opinion. Unlike Lincoln, I do not have to worry about being reelected.”

  *****

  September 12, Afternoon

  “Telegram from the War Department, sir.” Mackall’s voice was apologetic.

  Johnston scoffed disdainfully as he unfolded the piece of paper.

  General Johnston,

  General Taylor informs the War Department of the presence of enemy cavalry in the vicinity of Tallapoosa near the Georgia-Alabama border. The enemy force is estimated to be at least of brigade strength. You are ordered to scout in this direction with your own cavalry and determine whether or not this represents a major movement on the part of the enemy. Please obey these orders immediately and notify the War Department of the results.

  Secretary of War Seddon

  “Has General Jackson said anything about this?” Johnston asked.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Johnston thought for a moment. He recalled General Cheatham’s concerns at the last meeting of the high command that Grant might move southwest toward Alabama rather than attempt to cross the Chattahoochee River and move against Atlanta. Was it possible that this movement of enemy cavalry was the beginning of such an offensive? Or was it a minor raid of no particular significance?

  “General Jackson dispatched a brigade to the north bank of the Chattahoochee downriver, yes?”

  Mackall thought for a moment. “That was decided at the meeting on September 6. I wrote the orders out the following morning, directing that the brigade be positioned near the town of Campbellton. I have no reason to believe they were not carried out. General Jackson is a competent officer, if I may say so.”

  “More so than General Wheeler ever was,” Johnston replied. Mackall looked at him with some surprise and Johnston immediately felt guilty for what he had said. It was best not to speak ill of the dead. Whatever he faults, Wheeler had at least been a brave man.

  Johnston stared down at the map. For the thousandth time, his eyes swept out the immense region between the Union encampment and the vital industrial and population centers of central Alabama. The distance was immense, but the fact that the area between them was practically devoid of Confederate troops was disquieting.

  If Grant was undertaking an operation to capture Montgomery and Selma, Johnston would be forced to go to their defense. The obvious counter would be to shift his own forces from Atlanta to Montgomery using the railroad which linked the two cities, as his troops could move by train far faster than the Union troops could move by marching. However, this would require him to know the precise nature of Grant’s movement, so that he could issue the orders for his forces to move to Alabama in time for them to arrive.

  If Grant were somehow able to steal a march on him, as he had done to Pemberton during the Vicksburg Campaign and to Lee in the early stages of the Petersburg Campaign, Union forces could be halfway to Montgomery before Johnston had time to react. If that happened, then even the fastest rail movement in military history might prove insufficient as it would have begun too late.

  “Send a message to General Jackson,” Johnston said. “Ask him to send a reconnaissance force northward from Campbellton to scout out the area between Smyrna and Tallapoosa if at all possible. A regiment should suffice.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  There was something in Mackall’s tone that caught Johnston’s attention. “You disagree, William?”

  “Not at all, sir. It is just that the communication from Richmond expressly orders us to conduct such a reconnaissance. We are merely inquiring of Jackson whether or not it is possible.”

  “True, but despite what Richmond may want, the operations of the Army of Tennessee shall be dictated by reality. I shall follow the order to the best of my ability, but in the end, we can only do what is possible. If I received an order from President Davis to launch an attack on New York City tomorrow afternoon, would the people criticize me for not attempting to follow it?”

  Mackall laughed. “Considering the intelligence of the man we are forced to acknowledge as our president, I should not be all that surprised if we received such an order from Richmond. I do hope that our next President at least has some substance inside his h
ead.”

  “Odd that you should mention that.” Johnston paused a moment before continuing. “When I attended the banquet in Atlanta a few weeks ago, Senator Wigfall and others suggested that I run for president when Davis’ term is up in 1867.”

  “Really?” Mackall asked, his eyebrows shooting up and his voice slightly excited. “What did you tell them?”

  “That I had absolutely no interest in politics and that such talk was silly.”

  Mackall thought for a moment. “Well, if you ever do turn your mind toward political office after the war is over, rest assured that you would have my full support.”

  Johnston shook his head. “I am but a simple soldier.”

  “Best not to let such talk get too much attention,” Mackall suggested. “If word reaches Davis that people are beginning to speak of you as his potential successor, it will increase his distrust of you even further.”

  Johnston shrugged. “The Confederate Constitution gives the President only a single six-year term. Davis is out after the 1867 election no matter what happens.”

  “True, but I highly doubt that he would want you to be his successor.”

  Johnston threw his head back and laughed. He was about to make a humorous response when a staff officer entered the room and handed Johnston two messages. He immediately began reading the first one.

  General Johnston,

  I commend to you the bearer of this letter, Mr. John Maxwell, who brings with him an ingenious torpedo device. Using a clock mechanism that he has devised, the device can be set to explode after an interval of twenty minutes has elapsed. He has already used the device in a successful operation against the Union supply base at City Point in Virginia, where he destroyed a large vessel bearing a great quantity of artillery and small arms ammunition.

  As security has been increased at City Point due to his actions, he inquired whether his services might be useful in the Western Theater. Hence, my letter of introduction.

  Colonel Josiah Gorgas

  Chief of Ordnance

  “Where is this man?” Johnston inquired of the messenger.

  “I believe the name of the hotel where he is staying is written on the back of the letter, sir.”

  He flipped it over and saw the address. Johnston frowned. The idea of using time bombs to attack the enemy covertly seemed dishonorable to him. The danger to innocents would also be extreme. He decided not to bother with the matter and dropped the letter on the table. One of his staff officers would file it away presently, he was sure.

  He opened the second message and began reading. As he did so, his face went white.

  “What is it?” Mackall asked.

  “It’s from General Jackson,” Johnston said with alarm. “He says that the brigade he has posted in Campbellton is under attack by a strong force of enemy cavalry.”

  Mackall tensed. “How strong a force?”

  Johnston’s eyes darted as he read through the entire message. “It doesn’t say, but we can only assume one of superior strength. Not only that, but Jackson says that some of his scouts observing the fords over the Chattahoochee report seeing enemy infantry marching southwest along the north bank of the river and that another force of Union horsemen have occupied the town of Riverton.”

  “My God,” Mackall said, somewhat breathlessly. He quickly fluttered through a pile of maps on the table before him, found what he was looking for, and did some quick calculations. “Riverton is several miles farther downriver than Campbellton,” he observed.

  “The enemy force which has occupied the town must have circled around our troops at Campbellton, then.”

  “What does this mean? Enemy cavalry at Tallapoosa, a hundred miles to the west? A combined Union force of infantry and cavalry moving down the Chattahoochee River?”

  “Grant could conceivably be preparing to cross the Chattahoochee River at Campbellton or Riverton, or perhaps both, in order to approach Atlanta from the west.”

  “That approach would make it difficult for him to keep his forces supplied. It’s much farther from the railroad head at Vining’s Station than the crossing points to the north.”

  “Yes, but crossing to the south and approaching from the west would allow him to avoid the obstacle of Peachtree Creek.”

  “True.”

  “But perhaps Cheatham was correct. Perhaps Grant has given up on the idea of capturing Atlanta and is attempting to shift his main effort to Alabama.” Johnston stared intently at the maps, wishing that they could simply whisper to him the answer to the riddle.

  “Maybe,” Mackall said. “We have no solid information on the strength of the enemy infantry to which Jackson refers.”

  “No,” Johnston said indignantly. “And without sufficient cavalry, there is really no way for us to find out.” He clenched his teeth in bitterness, silently cursing Davis and Wheeler for their stupidity.

  For the next twenty minutes, Johnston and Mackall pored over their maps, reread reports which estimated the size and strength of the Union cavalry force, and dispatched riders to all senior commanders asking for any information which they might be able to provide.

  “William, issue orders for Cheatham’s corps to march to Campbellton at once. Prepare plans to have Stewart and Hardee move to the region as well, if that becomes necessary. If Grant is intending to cross the river there, I want our troops to be in position to contest the crossing. Cheatham can hold Grant off long enough for the other two corps to arrive, perhaps allowing us to concentrate our entire force and defeat Grant in detail.”

  “You are willing to leave Atlanta undefended?”

  “No. If it does prove necessary for Stewart and Hardee to go to Campbellton, I want one division left behind in the city as a precaution, along with the Georgia militia.”

  “Very well. Which division?”

  Johnston thought for just a moment. “Cleburne,” he said simply.

  Mackall’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing. Johnston knew it was a decision likely to cause comment, as it would mean going into battle without his finest division commander. But protecting Atlanta would be a serious responsibility and Johnston trusted Cleburne more than he trusted the commanders of any of his other divisions. It also was a sound idea to keep Cleburne and Walker as far apart as possible.

  Another messenger arrived and Mackall read the note. The color left his face, and he glanced up at Johnston with an expression that told the commanding general he was about to receive very bad news.

  “Tell me,” Johnston said.

  “I am sorry, sir, but it appears that the brigade Jackson stationed at Campbellton has been destroyed. He reports that most of the men appear to have been taken prisoner, although some managed to regain the south bank of the Chattahoochee.”

  Johnston’s eyes widened in shock. When the day had begun, Johnston had already been so short of cavalry that every horseman had been precious. If the brigade at Campbellton had been destroyed, it made an already difficult situation nothing short of disastrous.

  “If the force which Grant has sent southwest along the river is strong enough to defeat a brigade of cavalry so quickly, it can only be the advance guard of a very large force of infantry.”

  “They could either be trying to cross at Campbellton or they could be headed downriver toward Alabama.”

  Johnston shook his head sharply. “We have to assume that they’re trying to cross the river. Add Stewart’s corps to the movement toward Campbellton, tell Hardee to get all of his boys ready to move as well, and inform Hardee that Cleburne will remain behind to ensure that Atlanta remains garrisoned.”

  “Of course, sir.” Mackall immediately took up pen and ink and began writing out the orders.

  As his chief-of-staff labored quickly, Johnston stared down at the map. His fingers brushed over the small town of Palmetto, about twenty-five miles southwest of Atlanta. It was a fairly nondescript place, but it sat on the Atlanta & West Point Railroad, which linked Atlanta with Montgomery. Just a few miles south of
Campbellton, it would make a useful gathering place for the divisions of Cheatham and Stewart if it became necessary to send them to Alabama by train.

  “William, I want sufficient rolling stock dispatched to Palmetto to provide for the quick transportation of Cheatham’s and Stewart’s troops if it becomes necessary.”

  Mackall looked at the map, saw immediately what his commander was thinking, and nodded quickly before going back to writing. As the sun began disappearing over the western horizon, the headquarters of the Army of Tennessee became alive with activity. Staff officers bent over maps with rulers, calculating distances and marching times. A steady stream of orders flowed from Mackall’s pen, quickly being handed to messengers who dashed off on horseback.

  Leaving nothing to chance, Mackall ordered a copy made of each order and had these duplicates separately delivered by a different rider in case some accident befell the first. Johnston approved of this. Having been an obsessive student of military history since his days at West Point, he knew better than most how simple miscommunications could derail even the best plans. He had discovered the truth of this to his cost at the Battle of Seven Pines two years before, when his carefully planned attack on the Army of the Potomac had gone awry simply because his commanders had not understood their orders.

  The memory made Johnston tense. Clearly, Grant’s big move had begun. If he kept his wits about him, as he had done leading up to Peachtree Creek, he could achieve a great victory and perhaps win the war for the Confederacy. But if he failed, as he had at Seven Pines, his name might go down in history as the man who brought defeat upon the South.

  Chapter Fourteen

  September 13, Noon

  The sound of thousands of marching men was something that couldn’t really be imagined by a person who hadn’t heard it. To Grant, sitting astride Cincinnati with a cigar stuffed between his teeth, it sounded as though a giant from some tale of Greek mythology was chewing up a mountain he had eaten for dinner. The sight was astonishing to behold, too. Sixty thousand blue-coated warriors, a gathering of humanity larger than any but a handful of cities in North America, were moving steadily southwest in vast columns running parallel to one another. As Grant looked across the countless regiments that filled his field of vision, he was reminded of the waves of the ocean.