Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  McFadden nodded.

  “Well, you can tell me on the way.”

  *****

  Davis sat alone in his office, furiously scribbling. There was simply too much to do and too many messages to write. In his mind, he went over the list of items he had to take care of before he went home for the evening. Blockade runners were ignoring the government requirement to reserve half their cargo space for military supplies, so Davis had to write an order to have it looked into. Some idiots in Congress were attempting to pass a ridiculous bill requiring the government to provide newspapers to the soldiers free of charge, so Davis had to dispatch a message to friendly legislators to quash the useless distraction. There had been complaints from Richmond citizens that the men of the local provost marshal were hoarding food, so Davis had to ask that it be investigated.

  These and a thousand other worries weighed on his mind. He remembered reading how a man found guilty of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials had been executed by having a large wooden board laid over his prostrate body, which had then been slowly covered with stones until the immense weight crushed the life out of him. Davis knew exactly how that man must have felt.

  Although the fury which had initially greeted the news of Cleburne’s emancipation proposal had died down somewhat, it still dominated the newspaper headlines across the South. From what Davis had been told, it was also the main topic of conversation in the bars and hotel lobbies of Richmond. General Cooper had concluded his investigation, but no proper course of action had been agreed upon before Johnston had begun moving most of the army to the southwest to counter Grant’s movement.

  The coming battle in the West also weighed heavily on the President’s mind. He stopped writing for a moment and glanced up at the military map. From Johnston’s latest report, the bulk of the Army of Tennessee had taken up position on good ground several miles northeast of Lafayette. Firmly entrenched there, they would be in a perfect position to block Grant’s movement toward Montgomery and Selma. The most recent telegram, which had arrived just that afternoon, reported that lead units of the Army of the Ohio had been identified about ten miles to the north, with the Army of the Tennessee presumably nearby as well. The battle was expected to begin at any time.

  Meanwhile, Hardee’s corps was hunkered down in Atlanta, keeping a wary eye on the Army of the Cumberland just over the river. Davis was pleased that Hardee and Cleburne were away from what would soon become the center of the action. With so much controversy swirling around them, Davis was happy that their names would likely not appear in the papers anytime soon.

  Military news on the other fronts was good. Confused fighting continued in the northern Shenandoah Valley, but Jubal Early remained undefeated. Lee had recently inflicted a heavy defeat on a large Union force which had been attempting to cut his railroads south of Petersburg. In distant Arkansas, the withdrawal of some Union divisions had enabled General Kirby Smith to push back the Yankee forces in several parts of the state, reoccupying valuable agricultural land. Sterling Price was preparing a large-scale cavalry raid into Missouri.

  Militarily, then, the situation appeared promising. The Confederacy would be able to hold its own for a few more months. So long as the Democrats emerged triumphant in the upcoming elections in the North, all would be well.

  There was a knock on the door and Secretary Benjamin entered the room. His habitual smile was nowhere in evidence as he quietly took a seat.

  “What’s wrong?” Davis asked.

  Benjamin shook his head. “Trouble up north.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “I guess I can’t even try to sugarcoat it.” Benjamin spent the next several minutes describing the scandal surrounding Manton Marble, word of which had reached him via a Baltimore newspaper smuggled through the lines.

  Davis frowned as Benjamin finished the story. “So, Lincoln and his cronies have found themselves a political stick with which to beat the Democrats?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. And a pretty good one, too. It is my fault, Mr. President. I judged Humphries to be a careful and cautious man. Clearly, he was anything but.”

  Davis took a deep breath. “How bad could this be, Judah?”

  “Bad, Mr. President. Potentially very bad. While I do not think it will be enough to swing New York State back into the Republican column, it could certainly shake things up in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana. If Lincoln wins one or two of those states, and if these stories of using military forces to control the vote in the border states are true, it could change the political equation completely.”

  “It might be enough to give Lincoln the electoral votes he needs to secure reelection, in other words.”

  “That’s about the size of it, Mr. President.”

  Davis shook his head. “It all comes down to Grant, then, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s looking increasingly like that. If Johnston can beat Grant, it will surely swing public opinion in the North against Lincoln and against the war once again. But with this scandal having exploded in the face of the Democrats, the people might be tempted to cast their votes for Lincoln if they can at least look to a meaningful victory.”

  The Confederate President said nothing in reply, placing his fist under his chin and staring up at the military map for a long time. After awhile, he looked back at Benjamin.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes, though hopefully a minor matter. It concerns George Thomas.”

  Davis grunted. He preferred not to think about the traitor Thomas. For Davis, the man’s betrayal was all the worse for the fact that he had fought side-by-side with Thomas at the Battle of Buena Vista during the Mexican War. Davis had also secured Thomas his appointment as a major in the 2nd Cavalry Regiment in the mid-1850s. Davis regarded Thomas’s decision to remain loyal to the Union as not only dishonorable on moral grounds but also as a violation of personal loyalty to him.

  “Well, what about Thomas?”

  “You have not yet responded to his request to be executed by firing squad rather than hanging.”

  “I know. I have had rather more important things on my mind.”

  “Secretary Seddon informs me that he has received letters from General Johnston and General Lee asking you to show clemency to Thomas. Johnston, for one, says that he personally assured Thomas that he would be well treated when they met on the evening of his capture.”

  “I don’t particularly care what Johnston says to anyone,” Davis replied. “I am the President of the Confederate States, not Johnston.” He decided not to comment on the fact that Lee was weighing in on the issue. He had followed Lee’s advice in maintaining Johnston at the head of the Army of Tennessee and he was beginning to wonder if that had been entirely wise.

  Davis shook his head. “I’m more concerned about other things right now. Thomas must be executed, but there is nothing that demands he be executed right away. I will read these letters of Johnston and Lee when I have the time, but I am simply too hard-pressed right now.”

  “That’s hard on Thomas,” Benjamin said softly. “Is it not a bit cruel to keep him in suspense?”

  “Perhaps so, but I am not overly concerned with how that traitor feels.”

  *****

  September 23, Night

  The pale white light of the waning moon illuminated the open ground southwest of Atlanta. McFadden thought that he, Cleburne and Lieutenant Hanley looked like wraithlike ghosts as they rode silently down the Sandtown Road. For an hour or so, having left the lights of the city and the campfires of the encampments behind, McFadden had the strange feeling that the three of them were the only human beings in existence.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you were in the Union camp?” Cleburne asked.

  “I was not attempting to desert, if that’s what worries you, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so. Had you been a deserter, you obviously would not have returned to the army. So, why were you there?”

  McFadden paused a moment bef
ore replying. “I had to kill a man.”

  Cleburne turned in his saddle and stared at McFadden for a moment. Hanley, riding out in front, simply stared ahead. McFadden was not sure whether he was even listening to their conversation, but it made no difference one way or the other.

  “You had to kill a man? There’s plenty of killing going on these days, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “A specific man, sir. A man who killed my brother and who tried to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  McFadden told his story. Throughout the retelling, Cleburne was silent as he listened intently to what McFadden was saying.

  “It was then that I found out what the Union army was doing,” McFadden concluded.

  “And you came back to warn us?” Cleburne asked. It was the first time he spoken in nearly twenty minutes.

  “I did, sir, yes.”

  “You abandoned your quest for vengeance in order to do your duty, then?”

  McFadden nodded.

  “As you know, McFadden, going absent from your regiment without permission is a serious offense. Under the laws of war, I could have you shot. But, if your information turns out to be correct, we shall say no more about it. Agreed?”

  McFadden nodded. “Agreed, sir.” He decided not to ask what would happen if his information turned out to be incorrect.

  They rode on in silence for another hour. McFadden was exhausted, being kept awake only by an intense nervous energy. He was not sure what time it was, but it had to be a few hours past midnight. The moon had risen, its light being defused through the trees off to the north. In the distance, the Chattahoochee River shone like a thin sliver of mercury.

  After a long time, Lieutenant Hanley pulled his horse to a stop. McFadden and Cleburne halted on either side of him.

  “There, sir,” Hanley said quietly, pointing down the road.

  McFadden saw what looked like a long, dark snake in the distance. There seemed to be hundreds of glittering points of white light within it. As Cleburne raised his field telescope and scanned the column, McFadden realized the points of light were bits of metal in the tack and bridles of large numbers of horses.

  “Yankee cavalry,” Cleburne said calmly.

  “A brigade?” Hanley asked.

  “Looks like it. The infantry will be close behind, if what McFadden says is true.”

  “It is, sir,” McFadden said.

  “I believe you, Lieutenant. I have the evidence of my own eyes.”

  “We should get back, sir,” Hanley said. “We must assemble the division and alert General Hardee.”

  “I agree,” Cleburne said, snapping shut his telescope. “Let’s go.”

  Cleburne turned his horse and kicked it into a trot, followed by McFadden and Hanley. McFadden was happy to begin back toward their own lines, for three men armed with revolvers would have been easy prey for even a squad of Yankee cavalrymen armed with carbines.

  “Would it not be wise for us to go faster, sir?” McFadden suggested.

  Cleburne shook his head. “Our mounts are tired. They’ve been walking all night. Besides, it’s probably best not to make too much noise.”

  McFadden nodded, embarrassed at having made such a silly suggestion.

  There was a sudden sound of thundering hooves. The three Southerners jerked their heads toward the sound and saw two dozen Union horsemen several hundred yards away, but approaching at a gallop, heading directly for them.

  “We’ve been spotted, sir!” Hanley said with alarm.

  “Looks like you’re right again, McFadden!” Cleburne said anxiously. “We’ve got to make a dash for it!”

  The three Southerners kicked their horses into a gallop as quickly as possible. McFadden watched as Cleburne and Hanley both pulled their revolvers from their holsters, but he hesitated to do so himself. Adept neither at firing a pistol nor at riding a horse, he feared that he might lose control of his mount while attempting to do both at the same time. He had scarcely ever galloped on a horse before. At such a speed, he might be thrown from the animal at any moment.

  “Halt!” distant voices shouted. “Halt, you rebel bastards!”

  Shots rang out, but McFadden did not hear the sharp buzz which would have indicated the bullets were passing near them. Cleburne and Hanley both fired their pistols in the general direction of the Yankee horsemen and McFadden was impressed by their ability to shoot and ride simultaneously. He doubted that either the general or the staff officer would hit anything. Most likely they were simply shooting to cause the Union troopers to hesitate in their pursuit.

  “Draw your weapon, McFadden!” Cleburne shouted. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Keeping a tight grip on the reins with his left hand, McFadden struggled to pull his revolver out of his holster with his right. After a minute of struggle, during which several shots rang past his head, he finally succeeded. Pulling the cock back, he fired off a single round toward the cluster of Union horsemen. Nothing happened. He fired the remaining five shots in quick succession. To his amazement, one of the troopers let out a cry of pain and fell off his horse.

  “Good shot!” Cleburne shouted with a smile.

  The Union horsemen slowed and veered away. For just a moment, McFadden wondered if perhaps it was because he had hit one of them, but he quickly dismissed that idea as absurd. Most likely, the troopers had orders not to venture too far away from the main column. A few of the Yankees raised their carbines and fired off a few parting shots as they turned away from the Confederates.

  Lieutenant Hanley gasped and clutched at his throat, dropping his revolver. McFadden heard a sick gurgling sound which he instantly realized was Hanley trying desperately to breath.

  “Stephen!” Cleburne shouted. He reined in alongside Hanley’s horse, grabbing its bridle. They continued to ride a few hundred yards, as Hanley struggled to maintain his grip on the reins. Cleburne led Hanley’s horse into a small copse of trees. McFadden followed, looking back for any sign that the Union cavalry was still following. He could see them off in the distance, still moving in the other direction.

  “McFadden! Help me get him down!”

  Cleburne slid off his horse and wrapped his arms around Hanley as he collapsed out of the saddle. McFadden, less agile, took a few seconds to get down off his horse. He rushed to help Cleburne lay Hanley down onto the ground.

  Hanley looked up at Cleburne, a pleading and terrified look in his eyes. McFadden had seen the look before on many battlefields and he was certain Cleburne had as well. Blood was pouring out of the young man’s mouth. The general grasped his hand firmly and placed his other hand behind Hanley’s head. Hanley tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was a sort of watery rasping.

  “We cannot stay, sir!” McFadden protested, hurriedly reloading his Colt Navy revolver and looking around. “There’s nothing we can do for him! The Yankees could be back at any moment!”

  Cleburne looked up at McFadden, his face momentarily a mask of rage. But he calmed instantly as the import of McFadden’s words sunk in. He looked back down at Hanley. Life was seeping out of him quickly.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Cleburne said. “I’m sorry.”

  Hanley died within two minutes. McFadden continued to scan the area, expecting to see more Union troopers arrive at any time. However, he knew he had to give Cleburne at least a few moments. Cleburne stood slowly and looked down at Hanley’s body, sadly shaking his head.

  “We can’t take him back,” Cleburne said. “It would slow us down too much. We must return to our lines at once in order to take the necessary measures to meet the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you Episcopalian, by any chance?”

  “No, sir. Presbyterian.”

  Cleburne nodded. “Of course. Scotsman. An Episcopalian and a Presbyterian can say a prayer together, I should think,” Cleburne said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They bowed their heads and spent a minute praying over the still body
of Lieutenant Stephen Hanley. Then, they sadly mounted their horses and rode back to the east, toward Atlanta.

  Chapter Sixteen

  September 24, Morning

  Johnston walked Fleetfoot along the portion of the fortified line held by Loring’s Division. The men cheered him as they saw him ride past, but his eyes remained fixed on the Union infantry several hundred yards away, drawn up in a battle line opposite their defenses.

  His men had used their time well, constructing an immensely strong fortified position. For miles in both directions, the countryside blistered with parapets, trenches, abatis, and palisades. Strong redoubts butted out from the main line, each containing a battery of artillery and a regiment of infantry, posted to deliver a devastating cross fire at any Yankee troops unwise enough to launch a direct attack.

  Stewart’s corps held the left and Cheatham’s corps held the right. The line itself was four divisions in length, with one division in reserve and the sixth division protecting the road back to the railhead at West Point. It was, to Johnston’s eyes, one of the strongest fortified positions he had ever held.

  “They’re making no move to attack, sir,” Mackall said, riding close behind.

  “They did not expect to find us here,” Johnston replied. “Right now, General Grant is trying to recover from the surprise we have just sprung on him.”

  “It won’t take him long. Grant is not shy about attacking strongly fortified positions, you know. You read the newspaper accounts about his attack on Lee at Cold Harbor, I assume?”

  “Very carefully. It is possible, though, that the beating he received there has persuaded him not to attempt such an attack again. Suicide holds little appeal for most soldiers, I should think.”

  “Well, if he does attack us here, we shall give him a proper bloody nose.”

  “Yes,” Johnston said with a smile. “And if he attempts to move around either of our flanks, we have sufficient reserves to catch him with a counter attack.”