Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Despite the surprise he felt and the anxiety gripping him, Marble refused to be intimidated. He forced himself to smile. “And good evening to you, General Butler. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Do I need an excuse to come see an old friend?”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Sure we are.”

  “One does not normally require an escort of soldiers to come to pay a call on a friend.”

  Butler shrugged. “New York City has become rather dangerous of late, as you may have noticed. Perhaps you’ve heard of the riots that took place recently?” The sarcasm dripped from his mouth like sour syrup.

  “I was here when they happened,” Marble said wearily.

  “Were you?” Butler said with mock concern. “I am surprised. I assumed you had been out of town at the time. When the troops under my command restored order in the city, I couldn’t help but notice that the rioters did not lay a finger on the New York World building, though the offices of the New York Times and New York Tribune went up in flames.”

  “An odd coincidence.”

  “Odd, indeed.”

  Marble thought the game had gone on long enough. “What do you want, General Butler?”

  “To ask you a few questions.”

  “I do not give you permission to enter my home. There are still constitutional rights in the United States, you know.”

  The phony smile on Butler’s face had vanished, replaced by a more grim and implacable expression. “In case you didn’t notice, Marble, New York City is under martial law. President Lincoln has appointed me to command the city in order to prevent any further insurrections against the authority of the legitimate government. Constitutional rights, you say? In New York City, I am the Constitution.”

  Marble felt a chill go down his spine as Butler said these words. Coming from another man, they could be dismissed as simple vanity. Marble knew Butler was of a different type altogether. A politician with the qualities of a chameleon, Butler had been a Democrat when the war broke out, but had gone over to the Republicans the moment it had suited his purposes. He was now among the most radical partisans of Lincoln’s party. He owed his commission as a general to his political connections and his military career had been little short of disastrous, but Butler had still managed to make huge amounts of money when he had served as military governor of occupied New Orleans. Benjamin Butler was always in business for the cause of Benjamin Butler. Neither vanity nor idealism affected his actions, for he was motivated only by his ambition. Finding oneself an enemy of such a man was to find oneself in very dangerous waters.

  “Must be nice to be a dictator,” Marble said.

  Butler ignored the remark entirely. “You have two choices. We can either talk here at your home or I can have these soldiers take you, by force if necessary, to my headquarters and we can talk there.”

  “I have already said that I do not give you permission to enter my home.”

  “Then come with us, if you please.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Call it whatever you want,” Butler said. He glanced toward the troops and jerked his thumb in the direction of a carriage across the street. One of the soldiers politely asked Marble to come with him, and Marble decided against resisting, as it would have been both undignified and useless. As he began walking across the street with Butler at his side and half a dozen soldiers behind him, he heard some of the other soldiers bashing in his front door.

  “I’ll take those bags for you, Mr. Marble,” said one of the soldiers. Without a word, Marble passed them over. He doubted he would see the five thousand dollars returned to him. By all odds, the soldier would happily keep the money for himself, for five thousand dollars would be an astounding fortune to most men. If he didn’t, Marble had no doubt that Butler would arrange for the cash to mysteriously disappear and somehow find its way into his own coffers.

  Marble clambered into the carriage, with Butler taking the seat across from him and two soldiers sitting beside them. With a shout and the snap of a whip, the carriage moved off. As his house faded into the distance, Marble could see the door finally give way to the blows of the soldiers, who dashed inside. No doubt he would return to a home that had been searched from top to bottom and thoroughly ransacked.

  “For what cause is my home being broken into?” Marble demanded.

  Butler stared across the carriage with eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul. “I think you know why your house is being searched perfectly well, Mr. Marble.”

  He shook his head. “No, I assure you I do not. Though I oppose the unconstitutional actions of the Lincoln administration, all my opposition to it has been perfectly legal. The Constitution protects my right to publish whatever criticisms I choose against Lincoln and to seek his defeat through regular political means, does it not?”

  Benjamin said nothing in response, merely staring out the window of the carriage as the city of New York floated by. A less astute man than Marble might have assumed the silence of the political general to be a good sign, but Marble found it threatening.

  After a twenty-minute ride, the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the New York City Hall, which Butler had taken over as his headquarters for the duration of the military occupation of the city. The building, done in the French Renaissance style that had been so popular when it had been built sixty years before, was surrounded by clusters of tents housing Union soldiers. Marble looked out at them with disgust. His beloved New York City was being treated as though it were an enemy metropolis that needed to be held down by military force.

  Some soldiers gathered around the carriage and sharply saluted as Butler got out. Two men gathered on each side of Marble as he exited the carriage and remained by his side as he followed Butler inside the building. A few minutes later, Marble found himself escorted into a small room with a table, illuminated by the pale yellow light of a few oil lamps. He was directed into a chair and Butler sat down across from him. He looked deep into Marble’s eyes.

  “Alexander Humphries,” Butler said simply.

  “I’m sorry?” Marble responded.

  “Do you know the name Alexander Humphries?”

  “No,” Marble said. He hoped he sounded convincing, but things were suddenly becoming clear to him. He hadn’t bothered asking Humphries any details about where he had obtained the money he had given him to support McClellan’s campaign, nor had he asked him for whom he worked. As far as Marble was concerned, it was best simply not to know such things.

  “No?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s odd,” Butler said. “According to our information, you rode with him on a train from New York City to Kingston just three weeks ago.”

  “If I did, I was not aware of it. I do not know who this Humphries person is or what on Earth caused you to connect him to me.”

  Butler leaned forward and spoke with a more direct tone. “Listen here, Marble. You are about to learn just how big a mistake it was to even speak to Humphries, much less do what he asked of you. And I know what happened, Marble. Humphries has been arrested.”

  Marble’s heart rate increased sharply and he could feel sweat beginning to form on his forehead. With a horror that he prayed was not apparent on his face, he suddenly realized that the second carpetbag contained not only the remaining five thousand dollars, but the itemized list of how he had spent the other twenty thousand, which he had prepared for Humphries in order to prove that the money was being spent according to his instructions. That bag was certainly being gone through by one of Butler’s men at that very moment.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marble said, his mind racing. If Butler was telling the truth and Humphries had confessed everything, the game might well be up. But Marble had run enough stories about criminal investigations to know how interrogations worked and he sensed that Butler might well be bluffing. Besides which, Marble could at least honestly say that he did not know wh
o Humphries was. “Just who is this Humphries fellow you’re talking about?”

  Butler scoffed a bit, either as an act or as an intentional display of contempt. “Alexander Humphries is a rebel agent, Mr. Marble. He entered the United States several months ago, having run the blockade at Wilmington on a British ship. He had been entrusted with a large amount of money from the rebel government in order to finance efforts to ensure the defeat of President Lincoln in the upcoming election. You took money from this man, didn’t you, Mr. Marble?”

  “No!” Marble said, now sounding desperate. Had he known Humphries had been a Confederate agent, he probably would not have touched the money with a ten-foot pole. But then, Marble couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind a few times. Though not a religious man, Marble suddenly found himself earnestly praying that the soldier who had earlier taken his carpetbags had stolen the five thousand dollars for himself, as the money and the list in the bag with it could now become serious evidence against him.

  His prayers were not answered. A moment later a soldier came in with the carpetbag. He laid it down on the table between Butler and Marble, taking out the five thousand dollars in greenbacks and the itemized list Marble had prepared and setting them before Butler. Butler picked up the cash and the letter, looking at them intently as the soldier spoke quietly in his ear. After a few moments, Butler looked back over at Marble.

  “The evidence lies here before us, Marble. Humphries gave you twenty-five thousand dollars. You have already dispensed with twenty thousand, as specified here in this list you so kindly have provided. Five thousand remains. Do you deny it?”

  Marble said nothing as his mind raced to find a way out of his dilemma.

  “Do you deny it?” Butler asked again, his voice raising.

  Marble remained silent.

  Butler frowned and shook his head. “You need say nothing. This evidence, combined with the testimony of Humphries, is more than enough to convict you. You shall be placed under arrest and confined until an investigation is complete. Needless to say, if it is demonstrated that you knowingly took funds from a rebel agent in order to influence the course of the election, a court might easily find you guilty of giving aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States.”

  Marble felt a terrifying tightening in his stomach, for he knew what punishment the law provided in cases of treason. Butler’s lips curled into a sneer as he ordered a soldier to take Marble to his cell.

  *****

  September 16, Afternoon

  Davis enjoyed his late afternoon rides. They were his only real opportunity to have any time to himself. During his rides, Davis could reflect on the situation facing the Confederacy without being pressured by his wife, or Judah Benjamin, or another member of the Cabinet, or some random person he happened to pass by on the street.

  He did not ride out alone. As always, Colonel William Browne, one of his most trusted aides, followed at a respectful distance, armed with two pistols and a saber. Davis had not given him permission to follow him and had, in fact, been mildly annoyed when he had first seen Browne trailing him several months before. Still, with regular threats to his life arriving by mail and the Executive Mansion itself having narrowly avoided destruction by arson a few months earlier, Davis had to admit that Browne’s precaution made sense. After a few excursions, the Confederate President had essentially forgotten Browne was there. He might as well have been a shadow.

  Davis would have preferred to ride out into the countryside east of Richmond, as he found the air fresher and the countryside more pleasant there. But circumstances had long since forced him to confine his rides to the area west of the city. The steady rumble of Union artillery off to the east, a sound which had scarcely diminished since it had first been heard back in June, bore grim testimony as to the reason why. But even if he could not be completely alone and could not ride exactly where he pleased, Davis was still determined to relish his afternoon horseback rides.

  As he deeply inhaled and exhaled the Virginia air, increasingly crisp and cool as autumn gathered strength, Davis tried to think about anything other than military or political matters. The purpose of these rides, after all, was to allow him to relax and to clear his mind. But he found the task impossible. When he tried to focus on an interesting-looking plant or bird, his mind would immediately wander off into thoughts of how difficult it was to supply food to Lee’s men or how frustrating it was to go for days without any communication from Johnston in Atlanta.

  Even if he were able to force thoughts of military matters out of his mind, any momentary sense of calm was disrupted by concerns over politics. While he still hoped and expected McClellan to defeat Lincoln in the upcoming election, Davis worried over the state of flux into which the politics of the North had descended. The Battle of Peachtree Creek was now two months in the past and the Union could point to victories at Mobile Bay and elsewhere in the intervening time. The continued unrest in New York City and other Northern urban centers boded ill for the Republican ticket, but Davis worried that they might also give Lincoln an excuse to employ the army to ensure his reelection under the guise of maintaining public order.

  Davis tried to shake these thoughts away and enjoy his ride, but just when he had succeeded in getting his body to relax somewhat, he heard a rider approach. The man kicked his horse into a greater speed when he spotted Davis, then quickly reined in alongside him. He wore the uniform of a Confederate major.

  “Mr. President, I beg your pardon, but Secretary Seddon wishes for you to come to Mechanic’s Hall with all speed. He says it is most urgent.”

  “Has there been some disaster?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  Davis sighed heavily. “Very well, Major.”

  Accompanied by Colonel Browne and the messenger, Davis kicked his horse into a canter and headed back toward Richmond. He wondered what it was that Seddon wanted. The Secretary of War was not normally in the habit of interrupting his afternoon rides, so whatever it was had to be important. Davis felt a sharp sense of anxiety, but told himself that the news he was about to receive might just as easily be good news as bad.

  The three men entered the outskirts of Richmond and slowed to a trot. As they gradually approached the city center, citizens out on the streets glanced up at the anxious expression on the face of their President. Davis had no doubt that the look on his face would become the fodder for endless rumors in the bar of Spottswood Hotel that evening, but he would not have cared even had he been able to do anything about it.

  Eventually, Davis reined in before Mechanic’s Hall. A sentry dashed forward to claim the honor of holding the President’s horse and Davis walked inside. A few minutes later, he was being ushered into Seddon’s office.

  “What is it?” Davis asked, not wasting time with pleasantries.

  “I’ve just received a telegram from General Johnston. It seems that the rumors about Grant advancing toward Montgomery and Selma have been proven correct. Johnston informs me that he is entraining the corps of Cheatham and Stewart for Alabama, and leaving Hardee behind in Atlanta to act as a garrison.”

  Seddon held up the paper, which Davis snatched from his hand as he sat down in the chair across from the Secretary of War. He spent a few minutes reading through it.

  “Johnston felt justified in taking this course of action without receiving permission from the War Department?”

  “His message was written more as a notification than a request for permission, Mr. President.”

  Davis shook his head. “I think the esteemed commander of the Army of Tennessee needs to be reminded that I am the President of the Confederacy, not him.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Has Johnston coordinated his movement with General Taylor? Montgomery and Selma fall within his department, after all.”

  “If he has, he says nothing about it.”

  Davis grunted, then read through the telegram once again. As much as he was irritated at Johnston taking such a
momentous decision without consulting with him first, Davis had to admit that the man’s judgment was correct. With Grant marching toward the industrial centers of Alabama, it was imperative for Confederate troops to get there first. With virtually all his infantry long since sent to the Army of Tennessee and much of his cavalry destroyed in the unsuccessful raid that had led to Forrest’s death, it was quite clear that General Taylor lacked the necessary strength to protect Montgomery and Selma from Grant’s offensive. Indeed, his forces were stretched thin as it was merely to protect the city of Mobile from a possible Union amphibious attack. If Grant’s advance was to be opposed, it would have to be done by the troops of the Army of Tennessee.

  “Mr. President?” Seddon said.

  The words shook Davis out of his thoughts, and he realized he had not spoken for an awkwardly long time.

  “I apologize.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. President.”

  “It seems to me that Johnston has made the correct decision from a purely military point of view. But it is entirely unacceptable that he did so without referring the matter to the War Department first.”

  “I agree, Mr. President. Entirely unacceptable.”

  “Please send a telegram to General Johnston immediately. Say that we understand the purpose of his movement toward Alabama and believe it to be the correct decision, but demand an explanation for why he did not request permission from the government before embarking upon such a large-scale movement of troops.”

  Seddon nodded sharply. “I will do so at once, Mr. President.”

  “Good,” Davis said, his mind already turning elsewhere. He felt a sudden need for the counsel of Judah Benjamin.

  A few minutes later, Davis walked out the front door of Mechanic’s Hall. He didn’t bother to mount his horse, as the executive offices were only a few hundred yards down the road. Less than ten minutes after leaving the office of his Secretary of War, the Confederate President walked into the office of his Secretary of State.