Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Simply by listening to the conversations going on around him, he picked up a good deal of information. The entire Army of the Tennessee was indeed moving to the south bank of the Chattahoochee and preparing for an advance on Atlanta, just as he had feared. He had even heard some of the men saying that the Army of the Cumberland was crossing the river not far off and would be moving on the city from the west as well.

  The more McFadden thought about it, the more fearful he became. It was entirely possible that he, a lowly lieutenant bumped up from the ranks, was the only Southern soldier who knew anything about what was happening. By the time his comrades in the city discovered the truth, it could well be too late.

  There was a sound of approaching horsemen. Through the mass of tree branches, he spotted the flicker of a torch coming nearer. He tensed, willing himself to remain as still as possible. He had waited for hours for the proper prey, a solitary Union horseman. Even with the advantage of surprise, he could not hope to successfully ambush a group of enemy soldiers by himself. But like any army, Grant’s host needed to communicate with itself over long distances during the night and this could only be done by messengers. Presumably some would be travelling alone.

  He heard a man’s voice, which meant that the noise was created by a group rather than an individual. His muscles relaxed, for now he only had to remain still and not steel himself for leaping down off the branch. Minutes later, a squad of a dozen Union cavalrymen passed underneath him, never suspecting for a moment the presence of an enemy.

  He relaxed and resumed his waiting, even as his concern was growing. Dawn would begin to break in the east within a few hours and light would eventually force him to abandon his ambush position. If he could not find a horse to carry him the rest of the way to Atlanta, there would be no way for him to warn his superiors of the approaching Union threat in time to make any difference. Moreover, he would be trapped outside the city when the Yankees began their attack, meaning that he would likely never see Annie again.

  He couldn’t tell how much time had passed after he had seen the squad of Union cavalry when he again heard the sound of an approaching horse and saw the flickering of a torch. His ears told him that the noise was much quieter than it had been before. McFadden stared hard until he saw a solitary figure on a brown horse emerge into his sight below him. The torch the man carried seemed to create a small and vulnerable bubble of pale light around him, tenuously keeping the darkness at bay.

  McFadden waited until the man walked his horse close enough to the overhanging branch, then pounced. He made no shout or yell as he dove down through the air, but the motion and sight of an unexpected attacker caused the Union trooper to cry out in alarm. It was useless, for it took less than a second for McFadden to land on him. The weight and speed of McFadden’s body effortlessly pulled the soldier out of his saddle. The startled horse neighed loudly in confusion. An instant later, McFadden and the Yankee both slammed roughly into the rocky ground, though McFadden’s landing was cushioned by the body of the man he was attacking.

  Silence had been punctuated by a moment of noise and brutal violence, but it came back almost immediately. It was as though a heavy door had slammed itself shut. McFadden picked himself up and quickly examined the enemy soldier. To his satisfaction, he had been knocked senseless. The torch remained lit on the ground and McFadden quickly picked it up in order to prevent it from going out.

  McFadden stood still for a time, allowing his heart to resume a more placid rhythm. He turned toward the horse, which eyed him with some measure of confusion but without hostility. He tightened the saddle and stirrups as best he could, then mounted the horse. Turning to the east, he began leading the horse through the darkness toward Atlanta.

  *****

  September 23, Noon

  “How large a force of cavalry?” Johnston asked, hunched over a map.

  “At least a brigade, sir,” Mackall answered. “I’d say it’s probably screening the advance of a large force of infantry.”

  “And they’ve occupied the town of Roanoke?”

  “Yes, sir. About twenty miles north of our present position.”

  Johnston grunted and looked at the map more closely. Since arriving two days before in the town of Lafayette, he had been striving to memorize the terrain over which he expected the coming battle to be fought. He had carefully deployed his forces to cover the different approaches he thought Grant might take on his approach to Montgomery. Some were lightly fortified and held by relatively small detachments, deployed there only to detect the approach of the enemy before falling back to more defensible strongholds. He had dispatched what little cavalry he had into roving patrols throughout the area. The bulk of Johnston’s forty thousand men were busy fortifying a position northeast of Lafayette itself.

  “I think we’re in a good position,” Mackall said. “Assuming that this cavalry is preceding the main infantry force, Grant is doing exactly what we expected him to do.”

  “I agree. With our main force entrenched here at Lafayette, Grant will either have to attack us head on or attempt to bypass us. If the former, he will have no choice but to throw his men directly against our entrenchments and suffer a bloody repulse. If the latter, he would leave his flank open to a devastating counter attack.”

  Mackall nodded sharply. “In either case, I believe we should emerge the victor. Grant will be left with a defeated and shrunken army of demoralized troops, at the end of a very precarious supply line. Easy prey, in other words.”

  “And with a good road connecting us to the railhead at West Point, we need have no fears for our own supplies.”

  An orderly walked in and extended a paper. “Telegram from General Hardee, sir.”

  Johnston thanked the man and quickly read through the message.

  “What is it?” Mackall asked.

  “It appears that the Army of the Cumberland has begun a movement of some kind. One of the three enemy corps has set out from the Yankee base at Vining’s Station, moving upriver. As of yesterday, when this telegram was dated, Hardee did not think the enemy had crossed over to the south bank.”

  “Sounds like a feint to me. Grant may be trying to spook us into sending some of our troops back to Atlanta.”

  “Or at least prevent us from bringing any more troops from Atlanta down to our position here.” Johnston read through the message once again. “Hardee does not seem to feel that the matter is very serious. He states at the end that he believes he can deal with any situation that might develop with his own troops.”

  “Nothing to concern us, then,” Mackall said. “We should keep our attention firmly focused on Grant.”

  Johnston nodded. “Get my horse saddled up, William. Yours, too. I want to make a personal inspection of the fortifications.”

  *****

  September 23, Afternoon

  Marble paced back and forth, fretting furiously at his lack of freedom. Most men in the Union treated him with a wary respect, fearful of the power he could wield through the pages of his newspaper. Benjamin Butler, however, was not an easy man to intimidate and he had no compunction whatsoever about tossing Marble into a dank and uncomfortable jail cell. Having now spent more than a week behind bars, he was beginning to suspect he was going mad. The journalist in him was hungry for information about what was happening and the political operative in him despaired at his lack of ability to influence events.

  Even if he couldn’t know what was happening beyond the walls of his cell, he could make some educated guesses. He had no doubt that the information that linked him with money provided by the Confederate government had been immediately handed over to pro-Lincoln newspapers. His close relationship with George McClellan, in turn, would be used as political fodder to promote the reelection of Lincoln.

  Marble was angry and disgusted with himself. It had been his own arrogance and ambition which had caused him to accept Humphries’ money in the first place. In retrospect, he could see that it had been an incredibly foolish thi
ng to do. He might partially blame the debacle on Humphries, for having been captured during his attempt to escape back into rebel-held territory, but he knew that the principal fault lay with himself.

  Just beyond the bars of his cell stood two Union soldiers, each holding a musket with a fixed bayonet. He had tried to engage them in conversation, but the only response they had ever given him was to state that General Butler’s orders prohibited them from speaking to him. Out of boredom, he had attempted to spark their anger by mocking them, alternately insinuating that they were buffoons without intelligence or that their wives were unfaithful. Their only reply had been to blankly stare at him and he had given up the game after several fruitless hours.

  It had only been after three days that Butler had deigned to allow Marble paper and ink. Since then, Marble had been writing furiously, hour after hour. He feared that he would certainly lose his mind if he stopped writing, for he needed to find some activity besides sleep that would occupy his endless time. More importantly, he had to find a way to strike back at his enemies, even if he had to do it from behind bars.

  He heard a clanging sound, and his heart leapt at the smallest break in the monotony. The door to his cell block opened with a grating squeak and two soldiers escorted a well-dressed man into the hall. It was Horatio Seymour.

  “You men wait outside,” Seymour said to the guards.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we have been given strict-“

  “I am the Governor of New York State,” Seymour said forcefully. “I can have your families tossed out of the tenements with a single word. You will wait outside.”

  The men glanced at one another, fear evident on their faces. “We shall have to remain on the other side of the door,” one of them said.

  “Very well. Now, out with you.”

  The guards nodded and quickly stepped out, closing the door behind them.

  “Governor Seymour,” Marble said, bowing his head.

  Seymour didn’t respond right away, standing on the other side of the bars and shaking his head. “Damn you, Marble,” he finally said. “You’ve made a thorough mess of things, I don’t mind saying.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “As bad as it could possibly be!” Seymour’s voice rose to a shout. “Every Republican newspaper in the country is running with the story that the Democratic Party is being directly financed by the rebels! The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, the New York Tribune, and dozens of other papers! They are scarcely talking of anything else! Even some papers which previously supported us are joining in the chorus!”

  Marble’s countenance fell. Although he had assumed that the situation was very much as Seymour described, to have it confirmed so forcefully felt like being punched in the stomach. He sat down on his cot, holding his head in his hands.

  “I thought the money would be useful,” he said. “It was like getting manna from heaven.”

  “Did it never occur to you that the money might be from the rebels? Dear God, Marble, how stupid are you?”

  “I have written a letter explaining my side of the story. I was hoping you could have it delivered to my offices at the New York World so that it could be printed.”

  “What good is that going to do?” Seymour asked.

  “I simply want it on the record that I did not know that Humphries was a Southern agent.”

  Seymour shook his head. “Sorry, Manton. It was all I could do to persuade the high and mighty Butler to be allowed to visit you. Among his conditions was a stipulation that I not deliver any writings from you to anyone outside the jail.”

  Marble instinctively clenched his fists in anger. Butler had given him writings materials only as a sadistic ploy to get his hopes up so that he could dash them down later on. The politician-turned-general was trying to break Marble’s will, but the newspaperman could not figure out why.

  “What is the news from the war?” Marble asked.

  “Rumors are flying that Grant has launched a big offensive against Johnston. Considering the trouble you have gotten the Democratic Party in, if Grant wins a big battle against the rebels, we have as much chance of winning the White House as Satan has of being elected Pope.”

  “Is there any chance you might bring me some newspapers? The lack of news is one of the worst things about being in here.”

  “Butler says that you are to have no newspapers.”

  “Why not?” Marble said loudly. “Is he trying to torture me or something?”

  “I don’t know. But you know what, Marble? I don’t really care. Our party’s election chances are in ruins and your actions are a major reason why. I find it odd to agree with Benjamin Butler about anything, but as far as I’m concerned, the more unpleasant things are for you, the happier I am.”

  Marble’s heart sank. His dreams were crumbling into dust before his eyes. He had come within a hairsbreadth of serious political power, a foundation on which he could build a big future for himself. Now his closest political allies had turned against him and he faced the very real prospect of being hauled before a firing squad for treason. Even if he eventually got out of jail and somehow managed to get out of the Andrew Humphries imbroglio, his political ambitions were effectively over. He would be lucky if he could somehow remain in the newspaper business. After all, both the Republicans and the Democrats would do their best to prevent the circulation of the New York World.

  “If you have nothing but bad news for me, why did you visit?” Marble asked.

  “To tell you that we’re going to lose the election and that it’s your fault. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pick up the pieces from the political party you have broken.”

  *****

  September 23, Evening

  “Sir? A lieutenant is here to see you. He says it is most urgent.”

  Cleburne looked up at the words of Lieutenant Hanley. “Who is he?”

  “Lieutenant McFadden of the 7th Texas, sir.”

  Cleburne thought for a moment. “Isn’t that the man who captured General Thomas at Peachtree Creek?”

  “I believe he is, sir.”

  “Very well. Send him in.” Presumably McFadden was delivering a message from Granbury. He wondered what could be so urgent.

  McFadden entered a moment later. Cleburne saw that he was exhausted and covered in dust, concluding that he had just ridden on a horse for a very long time. Perhaps the matter was important after all.

  He saluted. “General Cleburne.”

  Cleburne saluted back. “Well, what’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

  “The Yankees have crossed the river, sir,” McFadden said quickly.

  Cleburne’s eyes narrowed. For a mere lieutenant, this McFadden fellow had a certain assurance about him that Cleburne had rarely seen elsewhere. “Crossed the river?”

  “Yes, sir. And in great force. It’s the Army of the Cumberland and the Army of the Tennessee, sir.”

  Cleburne shook his head. “That cannot be. The Army of the Tennessee is over a hundred miles away, on the Alabama border.”

  “Believe me, sir. It’s less than fifteen miles away, approaching the city from the west alongside the Sandtown Road.”

  “That cannot be,” Cleburne repeated dumbly. He thought for a moment. The Army of the Cumberland, as far as he knew, was on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River, with two corps positioned around Vining’s Station and one corps marching northeast. The Army of the Tennessee was marching with Grant into Alabama. At least, that’s what it was supposed to be doing.

  But the look on McFadden’s face was certain. He recalled briefly looking over the man’s previous record before confirming his promotion to lieutenant. He had found nothing to suggest incompetence. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “You have seen them yourself?” Cleburne asked.

  “I have, sir, yes. I was in the Yankee camp myself just a few days ago. They crossed the river at Campbellton three days ago and have been building up their forces since. They are now on the road to Atlanta a
nd are approaching quickly. As I said, they are only fifteen miles from East Point.”

  “You were in the Yankee camp?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Under orders?”

  There was a momentary pause. “No, sir.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  McFadden’s tone became irritated. “I’d be happy to explain, sir. But it is a long story and there is very little time.”

  Other generals might have been angered to have a mere lieutenant speak to them in such a manner, but Cleburne took no offense. Without thinking, he looked away to the west. There was no telltale cloud of dust that one would expect to be created by a large column of marching soldiers. But then, it had rained a bit in recent days, which might have prevented much dust from being kicked up at all.

  He shook his head. What McFadden was saying seemed impossible. Still, the movement of the single corps of the Army of the Cumberland to the northeast had made little sense when Hardee had first told him about it. If what McFadden was correct and the Yankees had crossed the river far to the southwest of Atlanta, then the movement could have been a feint designed to distract Confederate attention away from the point of real danger.

  McFadden was adamant that the Army of the Tennessee was part of the Union force already on the south side of the river. Could Grant have hoodwinked Johnston? Might the perceived threat to Alabama be nothing more than a deception, designed to pull away the bulk of the Confederate army defending Atlanta?

  “Lieutenant Hanley?”

  “Sir?”

  “Send a message to General Hardee, informing him of a possible sighting of a large Union infantry force on the south side of the Chattahoochee to the southwest of the city, on the Sandtown Road.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get Red Pepper saddled up. I’m going to investigate this myself. And get McFadden a horse, too. His is probably too worn out.” Cleburne turned back to McFadden. “A long story, you say?”