Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Two hours after the first troopers of the 8th Michigan established themselves on the south bank, Grant arrived on the north bank, mounted on Cincinnati. There to greet him was McPherson, who had arrived half an hour earlier.

  “Well?” Grant said without preamble.

  “Three regiments are across. The town of Campbellton has been secured.”

  “Any resistance?”

  “There was a force of about twenty or so Georgia militia sleeping in the Masonic Lodge. They were taken prisoner without a shot fired. They hadn’t woken up yet.” McPherson grinned with satisfaction.

  “None got away? You’re sure about that?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  Grant nodded. “Good. I want our friends in Atlanta to be kept in the dark for as long as possible.”

  “They’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “True, but if we’re both lucky and careful, we might have a full day or so to get our troops across and on the road to Atlanta before the enemy knows we’re coming.”

  Grant turned in the saddle and looked behind him. Right on schedule, the men of the 58th Indiana Regiment were scurrying forward, skirting past the edge of the infantry column and dragging with them the enormous number of wooden frames that made up the pontoon bridge. Sherman had told Grant that these were men who could be counted upon without hesitation, as they had rapidly thrown pontoon bridges over every river between Dalton and Atlanta.

  They didn’t disappoint Grant. Within a matter of hours, the pontoon bridge was secured across the Chattahoochee river.

  When the last pontoon was finally in place, bugles blared and drums rumbled in the infantry column that had been patiently waiting. With the fife band at their head playing The Battle Hymn of the Republic, the men of the Army of the Tennessee stepped forward and began marching onto the bridge and over the river. Grant sat in the saddle atop Cincinnati, watching the men move past without his placid expression changing a jot, incessantly smoking one cigar after another.

  McPherson, who had gone off to attend to the various details of the crossing, returned to Grant in the mid-afternoon. His expression was one of an immensely pleased man.

  “All seems to be going well, Sam.”

  Grant grunted. “We need to be going faster. I want at least twenty-five thousand men on the south bank by the time the sun goes down.”

  “I think we should be able to achieve that. And the men will continue to cross all night.”

  “Good. I have just dispatched a courier to General Howard, telling him to bring the bulk of the Army of the Cumberland to Campbellton with all dispatch. He shall first send one of his corps marching northeast, as an additional feint to fool the rebels. This corps will shortly return to Vining’s Station, to prevent any sudden rebel lunge at our railroad.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “If the information we have received from our spies is correct, the last rebel troop train departed from Palmetto the day before yesterday. We shall only have Hardee’s corps to deal with.”

  McPherson grinned. “How very kind of General Johnston to send two-thirds of his army away. I should like to send him a note of thanks.”

  Grant ignored the joke. He had never had much of a sense of humor. “When your army is formed up on the south bank, you shall advance directly eastwards on Atlanta, but detach a force of cavalry to the southeast in order to cut the railroad and prevent Johnston from bringing his men back to the city. If we are lucky, we shall be able to mass sixty or seventy thousand men against Hardee’s single corps, which does not number more than twenty thousand, according to our latest information.”

  “I can accept odds of three-to-one,” McPherson said.

  “Don’t get overconfident. The defenses of Atlanta are very strong. Hardee’s corps has some of the best troops the rebels have in the field. We may have the advantage of numbers, but we still have a difficult task ahead of us.”

  “True enough, sir.”

  Grant said nothing for a time, watching intently as yet another regiment marched onto the bridge and began crossing the river. A few hundred yards downriver, the pioneers were putting into place a second pontoon bridge, which would allow the flow of men and material onto the south bank to be doubled.

  He turned to McPherson. “Have you established a headquarters on the south bank yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and cross over yourself, then? I shall join you at your headquarters this evening.”

  “Very well, sir.” McPherson stiffly saluted, then kicked his horse into a walk and ventured onto the bridge. His color bearer and a few staff officers followed. Grant watched them go, sticking yet another cigar into his mouth and congratulating himself on so skillfully reestablishing the Union presence on the south bank of the Chattahoochee River.

  *****

  September 22, Morning

  “Did you see the New York Times?” Lincoln asked excitedly as Seward entered the room. When the Secretary of State shook his head, the President quickly passed a copy over the table as Seward sat down. He quickly picked it up and perused the front page. Lincoln sat back quietly, a smile on his face, pouring Seward a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Well, this story is first rate,” Seward said after a few minutes. “Raymond is doing a lovely job, as always. He seems to have laid the entire Marble issue before the people in a concise yet comprehensive manner, connecting him with the money provided by the rebel agent Humphries and highlighting his close involvement with the effort to elect McClellan.” Seward glanced at the date. “This is yesterday’s paper?”

  “Yes. The story will be in papers all across the country tomorrow, I would guess.”

  “Our papers. The Democratic ones will either ignore the story altogether or claim Raymond is making the whole thing up.”

  “Oh, they are already doing that,” Lincoln replied. “Raymond wired me this morning, telling me that the New York World has denounced the story as false and is calling for Marble’s immediate release from custody. There have also been some demonstrations on the streets, with Democrats clashing with our people outside the offices of the New York Times.”

  Seward shook his head. “I deplore the possibility of civil unrest as we come closer and closer to the election. The riots in New York over the past two years are deeply unsettling to me. The fact that immense armies roam across the land slaughtering one another is bad enough, but must we have violent death far from the battlefields as well?”

  “Jefferson and Madison did not expect democracy to be quiet and peaceful. We would be naïve if we didn’t agree with them.”

  Seward put the paper back down on the desk. “Yes, well, that is beside the point. I must say, I am very pleased with how things are going. As this story disseminates throughout the country, the people will begin to associate the Democratic Party directly with the rebellion. They start seeing the people who support McClellan as being in league with the same people who are killing their sons, husbands, and brothers in Virginia and Georgia merely to protect their so-called right to own other human beings. It could promote a complete shift in popular opinion back toward our party.”

  “Appealing to patriotism has always been at the forefront of our electoral strategy. With this story resonating throughout the country, our underlying message that the Democratic Party is uncommitted to defending the Union will seem vindicated. Which, if combined with a military success by Grant, should be more than sufficient to ensure our reelection.”

  There was a knock on the door and, before Lincoln could call out to ask who it was, the door opened and Stanton walked in.

  “Ah, Mr. Secretary. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Stanton said as he took his seat. “I have had too much this morning as is.”

  “Any news from the battlefield?” Seward asked.

  “Yes, that’s why I have come. Grant has sent a message by coded telegram, finally giving me a summary of his operational plan.”


  “And?”

  “Grant informs me that the movement toward central Alabama was merely a ruse intended to compel General Johnston to shift most of his army to that state by railroad. Grant’s actual plan, near as I can tell, is to cross to the south side of the Chattahoochee River west of Atlanta and move on the city from that direction.”

  “Is it?” Lincoln said. “Well, I must say that Grant can never be counted on to do the expected. The man’s more wily than a fox.”

  “It would have been better if Grant had told us of his plan before he marched.”

  “I’ve made it clear repeatedly that Grant enjoys my full confidence,” Lincoln said. “He is free to keep his own counsel.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Stanton said.

  “I would think the rebels would still have a formidable force holding Atlanta,” Seward observed. “And I am sure its defenses are strong.”

  “No doubt,” Stanton said. “But Grant has certainly taken that into account. And if he has succeeded in diverting the bulk of the Army of Tennessee to Alabama and thereby concentrated almost the full force of his own army against only a portion of that of the enemy, then his prospects for success will be very great.”

  “You hear that, Seward?” Lincoln said playfully. “I had a feeling that Grant had some scheme afoot. Marching his entire army to Alabama seemed rather unsubtle, in my opinion. But then, I am no military man.”

  “None of us are, Mr. President,” Stanton said. “That is why we have generals.”

  *****

  September 22, Noon

  Cleburne, accompanied by Lieutenant Hanley, barely stopped his horse before he expertly slid off the saddle and onto the ground. A waiting orderly grabbed the reins as Cleburne walked quickly up the steps onto the porch of the Dexter Niles house and stepped inside the door. Hanley followed at a respectful distance.

  When Johnston had delegated the command of the forces remaining in Atlanta to Hardee, it had been decided that the Dexter Niles house would continue to serve as the general headquarters for all Confederate forces in the area. All the couriers were familiar with its location, the roads in its vicinity were adequate and had been improved by the engineers, and the telegraph wires would not need to be restrung anywhere. It had been a sensible decision.

  Hardee glanced up from a map-strewn table as Cleburne walked in. He had a worried expression on his face, but beamed a smile upon the sight of Cleburne.

  “How are you, Patrick?”

  “Very well. Your message sounded urgent.”

  “It was.” Hardee gestured down to the map. “It looks as though the Army of the Cumberland is on the move. Part of it, anyway.”

  “Show me.”

  Hardee’s fingers traced his words. “Hard to make out, actually. It seems as though a strong force of infantry, perhaps the size of a full corps, is marching northeast up the river, toward the fords which the Yankees used to cross the river back in July. A considerable body, maybe two corps, is remaining in its previous position at Vining’s Station.”

  “Can we not send scouts to the north bank to determine the strength and exact direction of this movement?” Cleburne asked.

  Hardee shook his head. “We have insufficient cavalry. Indeed, we are lucky that we have been able to detect this movement at all.”

  Cleburne silently cursed Joseph Wheeler before going on. “Is it possible that this is merely a diversion designed to prevent us from sending additional troops to Alabama? It stands to reason that Grant would want Howard to pin as many of our troops as possible here in their present positions.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But it’s also possible that they are attempting a movement against Atlanta. We have to assume they are, at any rate.”

  Cleburne thought quickly, his eyes never wavering from the map. “But if they seriously intend to cross the river to threaten the city, why would they move to the north? Crossing there would force them to come up against Peachtree Creek again before they attack the city. Considering their previous experience with that little rivulet, I imagine that they would wish to avoid it.”

  Hardee grinned. “Nevertheless, I shall instruct General Walker to keep a close watch on the fords to the north.”

  “Are you going to notify General Johnston?” Cleburne asked.

  “Of course, but I shall not present the situation as serious. Johnston has enough on his mind worrying about Grant. If this turns out to be merely a feint designed to keep us from sending additional troops to Alabama, I would hate to have distracted him. Besides, I am optimistic that we can repulse any attack by the enemy with our own resources, without having to call for help from elsewhere.”

  Another thought crossed Cleburne’s mind. “Is it possible that the Army of the Cumberland might also be moving troops southwest, toward the fords of Sandtown or Campbellton? This move to the north might be a diversion intended to deceive us rather than General Johnston. And our lack of cavalry would make any such move hard to detect.”

  Hardee stared down at the map and thought for a minute. “No, that cannot be. The entire Army of the Cumberland numbers only about thirty-five thousand men, near as we can tell. The troops moving northeast number at least fifteen thousand men. That would leave far too few for them to attempt a simultaneous movement in the other direction.”

  Cleburne nodded. “Yes, they lack the strength to attempt to catch us in a pincer movement. If they attempted to attack the city from both the north and west, we could concentrate all our force against only a part of the enemy army and crush them before the other could come to its assistance.”

  “Quite so. Howard’s not a great general, but nobody would be that stupid.”

  “What do you want my division to do?”

  “Leave one brigade in place at East Point to watch things to the southwest and move the other two into Atlanta to serve as the reserve. From the city, they can be dispatched immediately to the point of greatest danger.”

  Cleburne nodded again. Although no Union troops were reported anywhere to the west or south of Atlanta, leaving a single brigade to guard those approaches seemed like a reasonable precaution.

  “Sir?” a staff officer tepidly asked.

  “What is it?” Hardee replied.

  “A man by the name of John Maxwell wishes to speak to you. He says that he provided General Johnston with a letter of introduction from Colonel Gorgas of the Ordnance Bureau about a-“ the man fumbled with the pronunciation- “a horological torpedo that he has invented.”

  “What the hell is a horological torpedo?” Hardee snapped.

  “Some sort of infernal device with a clock.”

  Hardee shook his head abruptly. “I have no time for nonsense, Lieutenant. Tell this man that I shall see him just as soon as I can but that I am presently very busy. In the meantime, he should go back to his lodgings.”

  Cleburne grinned. “Time is not something we are likely to have much of in the coming days, by the looks of it.” He had no idea how right he was.

  *****

  September 22, Night

  McFadden thought that he had chosen a good spot. The tree branch upon which he was now perched was thick and sturdy enough to bear his weight, almost like a smaller, secondary trunk that the tree had thrust out to its side. This allowed him to hover directly over the path beneath him. It could not have reasonably been called a road, but was just some old and godforsaken trail. It had probably been carved out of the woods by the feet of generations of Cherokee Indians, who had ruled the region for centuries before they had been driven out by white settlers thirty years before.

  He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to move as little as possible. The branch onto which he clung was thickly covered with smaller, leafy branches, giving him a reasonable amount of cover. But even without it, McFadden felt perfectly safe. The darkness of the night combined with the blue uniform he was wearing made him effectively invisible. Moreover, as he had learned from observing the Yankees who had occasionally passed beneath him, peop
le seldom looked up.

  He had not seen all that many Yankees, though. He had gradually moved toward the southern, right flank of the great Northern army that was assembling on the south bank of the Chattahoochee River, miles away from the great concentration that was taking place at Campbellton. Occasional squads of enemy cavalry had passed beneath him from time to time over the past two hours, guided by torch-wielding horsemen, but he had not yet seen what he had been waiting for.

  It had taken McFadden nearly two days to catch up to the Army of the Tennessee. True to what the drunken Unionist Tennessee major had said, it had indeed halted its march to the southwest, turned around, and begun a countermarch back to the northeast. McFadden had passed by countless regiments moving up the river road, always keeping up his pretense of being a messenger. It was a thin pretense, he knew, but the sight of an ordinary-looking man in a Union uniform had continued to attract no attention in the midst of a giant Union army.

  McFadden had expected that crossing to the south side of the Chattahoochee would be his most difficult task. When armies crossed bridges, a legion of staff officers was usually present overseeing the operation and security was commonly much higher as well. He had considered waiting until nightfall and swimming over the Chattahoochee before deciding that this would lose him too much time. But despite his fears, getting over the bridge had proven surprisingly easy. Unable to come up with a better plan, he had simply walked behind the column of the nearest regiment, a Wisconsin unit, when it had marched across one of the bridges. Nobody had thought his presence worthy of note and, as soon as he was on the south bank, he had continued on his way.