“I’ve got a dozen men with me,” Dunlop said, shouting to make himself heard over the din of the fighting. “Why don’t we rush those Yankees together? We can push them out and then fire down onto them from the top of the rampart!”
McFadden nodded again. Dunlop waved for his men to come up. Together with McFadden’s band, around thirty-five Confederate soldiers now huddled together near the center of the battery, loading their rifles quickly. McFadden had long since run out of ammunition for his revolver, so he tightly gripped the hilt of his saber, the only weapon he now had. Dunlop glanced up and down the cluster of men. There was no time to lose, for if they didn’t move soon they would become an obvious target of Union riflemen.
“All right, men!” Dunlop shouted. He pointed his sword toward the gun port. “Charge!”
With a shout, the Southern troops dashed forward, running up the ramp as quickly as they could. The shout attracted attention and almost immediately men began to fall as Union troops redirected their fire into the charging mass of men. McFadden ran with them, waving his sword in the hopes of getting more Confederate soldiers to join the charge. Dashing up the ramp was tiring for leg muscles that were already exhausted from endless hours of combat, but the sheer nervous energy he felt coursing through his body, magnified by his constant fear of death, was enough to keep him going.
Within a minute, despite losing a third of their number, they were in among the Union troops at the gun port. There was a sudden explosion of gunfire as the attackers discharged their weapons, but there was then no time to reload. Major Dunlop was killed instantly by a Federal officer who shot him at point blank range with his pistol, though the Yankee was immediately skewered by a bayonet.
McFadden swung his sword, slashing through the uniform coat of one Yankee near the right shoulder and seeing a thin splatter of blood fly through the air. The man cried out in pain and covered the wound with his left hand. Considering him disabled, McFadden paid him no further attention, instead ramming his saber up to the hilt into the belly of a big, hulking bearded Yankee. Even as he heard the man scream in pain and terror, McFadden realized his mistake, for the man instinctively grabbed the blade with all his might to prevent it from being twisted inside his body and McFadden was unable to pull it out.
As he struggled to extricate his saber, McFadden caught a momentary glimpse through the gun port of the ground outside Battery Bate. Through the dim light cast by the fire of the burning woodwork, he could see a veritable ocean of blue-coated uniforms, like an immense army of insects, crowding its way forward toward the battery. All along the rampart, ladders had been raised and Northern troops were scrambling up to get inside. There were probably more Union soldiers trying to get inside Battery Bate than there were Confederate soldiers in all of Atlanta.
His heart sank. Against such numbers, there was no hope of holding the city.
McFadden finally was able to withdraw his sword after placing his foot on the man’s chest and pushing as hard as he could. But while he was doing this, the Yankee whose shoulder he had earlier slashed had recovered and picked his musket back up. His face a mask of rage, he swung the heavy wooden butt of his weapon as a club down on McFadden’s head. Everything went black.
*****
“Shall I have Major Eckert bring some coffee, Mr. President?” Stanton asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Lincoln replied. “It is going to be a long night and as I doubt I will be able to sleep some coffee would be appreciated.”
Stanton nodded at Major Eckert, who quietly rose from his desk and walked out the door to get the requested coffee. Lincoln, who had been pacing back and forth across the length of the telegraph office, finally stopped and sat down on the couch, still intently reading the paper in his hand.
“What does Grant say?” Seward asked. He had come over from the State Department to get the latest war news.
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Lincoln replied. “They are still attacking Atlanta.”
“Any word on the casualties?” Stanton asked.
“Grant says that their losses since the fighting began have reached twenty thousand.”
“Twenty thousand?” Seward exclaimed in astonishment. “Dear God!”
Stanton grunted. “It’s been four days of constant fighting around Atlanta. Heavy casualties are to be expected. Remember, Grant lost seventeen thousand men in the Battle of the Wilderness, which only lasted two days.”
“Most of the troops in the army outside Atlanta come from the western states,” Seward said gravely. “Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan.”
“Yes,” Stanton replied. “What of it?”
“Well, I doubt that our electoral prospects there will be much enhanced by thousands of families receiving a telegram informing them that their sons were killed.”
Stanton’s face curled into anger. “Those men are out there fighting and dying for the Union and all you can think of is the political angle? You should be ashamed of yourself, William!”
Seward returned a fierce expression. “And if we lose the election, then all the suffering and dying that has gone on for the last four years will have been for nothing!”
“Calm down, gentlemen,” Lincoln said. “We will not be helping anyone, much less helping our nation, by losing our tempers.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Seward said, sounding genuinely apologetic. Stanton, for his part, went back to reading the telegram in his hand without a word.
“It is no matter, William,” Lincoln said reassuringly. “All our tempers are frayed, what with the uncertainty over Atlanta and all this trouble with Butler.”
Stanton grunted at the sound of the man’s name. “This business about Manton Marble and his allegedly illegal arrest is sweeping over the country like the tide coming in. So is the news that Butler has switched sides and gone back over to the Democrats. It makes our administration look weak and incompetent. Worse, it makes us look like fools.”
“Perhaps we are fools,” Lincoln said, laughing softly. “Perhaps I was foolish when I set out from Springfield after winning the election four years ago, thinking that I could somehow persuade our Southern friends to come to their senses. Perhaps I was foolish to think we could bring them back into the fold through strength of arms.” Lincoln paused for a moment and chuckled bitterly. “Perhaps I was a fool for thinking I should ever try to be anything more than a small-town lawyer in a rustic Illinois town.”
Major Eckert returned with a tray of coffee, prompting Lincoln to stop talking. It was one thing to speak so personally in front of his two Cabinet secretaries, whom he counted among his personal friends. It was quite another to do so in front of a staff officer.
Seward’s eyes lit up for a moment. “Have you considered the possibility of using the Democrats’ own trick against them?”
“What do you mean?” Lincoln asked.
“Whatever the means, they pulled Butler out of our orbit and into their own. This robbed us of the powerful political instrument of the Marble scandal as well as Butler’s own extensive political network. Could we, perhaps, choose a similar target amongst the Democratic Party and offer them a sufficient inducement to abandon McClellan and come over to our side?”
“I’ve already parceled out every position in every post office and customs house in the nation. We even approached Governor Joel Parker of New Jersey about becoming Minister to Russia if he would switch parties, though that was no use. There are simply too many chickens and not enough chicken feed.”
“You have one gold nugget now, Mr. President,” Seward said. “You must choose a new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”
Lincoln considered this. He had been wondering what to do about the vacancy ever since he had heard about the demise of Chief Justice Taney. The man who held the office of Chief Justice was only a few steps below the level of the President in terms of prestige. To make it even more enticing, the office of Chief Justice was a lifetime appointment.
Moreover, it was an office t
hat Lincoln could now offer to anyone he wished on a silver platter. The Senate was still controlled by the Republican Party and, barring any difficulties with Charles Sumner and a few others, could be trusted to go along with whatever choice he saw fit to make.
“I don’t much like the way this conversation is going,” Stanton said warily. “Are you suggesting we offer some prominent Democrat the position of Chief Justice in order to get him to switch sides?”
“If it can help us win the election, it might be worth the cost,” Seward said.
“And just who do you have in mind as the fish who would snap at this bait?”
“Governor Seymour, perhaps?” Seward said. “His defection to our cause would likely give us New York and its thirty-three electoral votes. Or perhaps Congressman Voorhees? He could potentially bring Indiana into our column.”
“Have you lost your mind, Seward?” Stanton demanded, his voice rising. “You would hand over the supreme judicial power in our nation to such villains as Seymour or Voorhees? Damn Copperheads! Queen Victoria might as well ask the Devil to become the next Archbishop of Canterbury!”
Lincoln listened only slightly as Seward and Stanton embarked upon one of their habitual arguments. He actually agreed with Stanton. It would be an unforgivable crime to turn over such power to a person like Horatio Seymour or Daniel Voorhees, more so because the Chief Justice was effectively impervious to recall or impeachment. Moreover, Lincoln knew that he would be excoriated as the most corrupt politician in American history the moment the deal became public.
There was another consideration. If the worst happened and McClellan won the upcoming election, Lincoln would technically remain in office until the official handover of power took place on March 4. Between the election and the inauguration, Lincoln would therefore still have the power to appoint the new Chief Justice. If McClellan won the Presidency, it was likely that the Democrats would also gain control of the House of Representatives, leaving the Republicans with only the Senate.
Lincoln began to imagine what a McClellan presidency would be like. The former general would owe his election to the Copperheads within the Democratic Party. Allowing the South to go its own way would be only the beginning of the disasters visited upon the nation by a McClellan administration. Efforts to pass the 13th Amendment abolishing slavery would be abandoned and forgotten. Corruption of the Tammany Hall variety would infect the federal government at every level. Lincoln’s stomach turned as he imagined Copperhead Democrats or Tammany Hall thugs representing the United States before Queen Victoria in London or Czar Alexander II in St. Petersburg. The United States would become the laughingstock of Europe.
To combat such a measureless disaster, Lincoln had to maintain the option, after the election results were known, of appointing a Radical Republican who could be counted upon to oppose McClellan on every measure with such energy as to keep alive the fire of abolitionism and Union that would otherwise perish from the face of the Earth. It would be the most effective manner of thwarting the ambitions of the Democratic Party. Since the appointment would be for life, Lincoln could count on the man fighting the good fight for many years to come.
“This discussion is at an end,” Lincoln said, calmly but firmly. “I have decided to make no decision on who shall replace Chief Justice Taney until after the election.”
Seward and Stanton stopped yelling at one another long enough to hear what Lincoln said.
“Are you sure?” Seward asked. “If we were to offer the position to Seymour we might-“
“I have made my decision, William,” Lincoln said, in such a tone as to entertain no argument. “There shall be no more discussion of the issue of the Chief Justice position. Not in my presence, anyway. And let me be very clear when I say that this is a decision that I shall make in my own good time. When I require your advice on the matter, I shall ask you. Not before.”
By their silence, the two cabinet secretaries acknowledged their understanding.
The telegraph machine began clicking again, and Lincoln waited impatiently for one of the clerks to transcribe the message.
*****
September 28, Morning
The eastern horizon had only just begun to glow, but already the Confederate soldiers around Palmetto were awake. Johnston had ordered them up at four o’clock and had instructed all commanders to make sure they had breakfast. They were likely to be doing a good deal of marching and fighting this day and the army commander wanted to make sure that at least they did so on a full stomach.
Johnston looked out over the enormous bivouac from his headquarters tent. Thousands of campfires twinkled in the pre-dawn twilight as the men cooked the last of their rations. There was an uneasy rustling, for the men could sense that they were on the verge of another battle. From the moment of their arrival in Palmetto, the sound of fighting twenty miles to the north had been clearly audible. Now, at long last, the Army of Tennessee was ready to go to the rescue of their embattled comrades.
By now, the rumors had flowed through the camps like countless messages over a vast number of telegraph wires. The men doubtless knew that Grant had initially outwitted Johnston and sent them all on a wild goose chase into Alabama. From what Johnston could tell, however, they still had confidence in him. The regiments still cheered him as he rode by. The trust he had earned during the long retreat from Dalton that had culminated in the great victory at Peachtree Creek had been sufficient to survive the fiasco. Still, Johnston had spent a lifetime as a soldier and he knew that the men might not be so charitable if he failed them a second time.
As the sun began to rise, the camps gradually filled with the sounds of beating drums and blaring bugles. The men stuffed the remnants of their food into their mouths and began to prepare themselves for the coming battle. Regiments lined up to be inspected by the captains and majors. Commissary officers struggled to complete the distribution of ammunition. The cavalry double checked the condition of their horses, while the artillerymen ensured that their batteries were ready for battle.
Mackall strode up beside him.
“Reports from the cavalry, sir,” he said.
“Well?”
“Fighting raged along the southern portion of the Atlanta defenses all through the night. It apparently only tapered off a few hours ago.”
Johnston nodded. It confirmed what his own ears had been telling him. He wondered whether the silence now prevailing to the north meant that the great attack had been repulsed or that Atlanta had fallen to the Yankees. He said a silent prayer that it was the former.
“Is Walthall’s division all up yet?”
“Not all of it, sir,” Mackall said, not bothering to hide the fact behind an apologetic tone. “There was a minor derailment at Newnan that has delayed the last two brigades. Only Cantey’s brigade is here.”
“How long?”
“With a little luck, the other two brigades will arrive here sometime around noon.”
Johnston chuckled. “A little luck, eh? I think we’re going to need a lot of luck if we are to relieve Atlanta.”
He did some mental calculations. All three divisions of Cheatham’s corps were on hand, but only a single division and one additional brigade of Stewart’s corps had managed to arrive. All told, it amounted to perhaps twenty-five thousand men. Assuming the two other brigades of Walthall’s division arrived on schedule, their total strength would rise to about thirty thousand by midday.
“We could wait,” Mackall said, reading his chief’s mind. “We could delay our march north until those final two brigades arrive.”
Johnston considered this. Was the addition of five thousand additional men worth the price of a few hours’ delay? He quickly decided that it was not. They had to begin moving north toward Atlanta sooner rather than later. Conceivably, Grant had broken off the attack on Atlanta in order to move south to confront the Confederate force assembled at Palmetto. Any delay in moving north would allow the Yankees to select the ground on which the battle would be
fought. Johnston, with the eye of an engineer, knew the critical importance of being able to choose the battlefield.
Going forward without those extra five thousand men would be significant, as he was sure to be outnumbered in the coming battle. From what information they had gathered, Grant had arrived outside Atlanta with between sixty and seventy thousand men. No doubt, they had suffered heavy casualties in the Battle of East Point and their attack on Atlanta, but exactly how heavy was impossible to determine. They would also have to leave a covering force outside Atlanta or, if the city had already fallen, a garrison to secure the place and watch the prisoners.
Johnston assumed that the force Grant would bring to bear would number around forty-five thousand men. He was going to be outnumbered significantly even if he waited for the two delayed brigades. The best policy was to move north to select the battlefield and hope that the two brigades would be able to reinforce the main body in time to play a role in the upcoming battle.
There was something else that Johnston had to consider. Having already fought against the defenders of Atlanta for several days, the Union forces were likely to be quite shaken. He would never discount the courage and steadiness of the veterans of the Army of the Cumberland or the Army of the Tennessee, whom he knew were formidable warriors. Still, attacking fortified positions was the most mentally straining action a soldier could be asked to perform and the men under Grant’s command had been doing it for several days. His own men, by contrast, were fired up with the urgency to go to the aid of their comrades trapped in Atlanta.
Johnston had been a soldier long enough to know that matters of morale often meant the difference between victory or defeat. He recalled one of his West Point instructors repeating to him one of Napoleon’s most important military maxims: an army’s effectiveness depends on its size, training, experience and morale, but morale is worth more than the other three put together.
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