Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Lincoln was about to pick up his next letter, from a delegation of Ohio industrial leaders, when the door was opened by Hay.

  “Mr. President? Secretary Stanton requests your presence at the War Department telegraph office immediately, sir.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lincoln assumed it had to have something to do with the fighting then going on around Atlanta. If so, he would want to know the details at once. He stood up from the desk, grabbing his coat and top hat as he walked through the door, and was soon strolling across the White House lawn toward the War Department. Scarcely five minutes passed before he walked through the door of the telegraph office.

  Major Eckert and his clerks were busy as they rapidly tried to transcribe the messages arriving on the telegraph machines. Stanton, looking even more grim than usual, was slowly pacing back and forth across the office, intently studying the telegram in his hands.

  “Well, Mr. Stanton?” Lincoln said upon entering. “You asked for me. Here I am.”

  Without a word, Stanton handed him the telegram that he had been reading.

  Mr. Secretary,

  Two events yesterday have compelled me to commence a withdrawal to the north bank of the Chattahoochee River. Our forces engaged in battle near the town of Fairburn received a severe check, with the Army of the Cumberland repulsed in its attack after an initial success and the Army of the Tennessee defeated by an enemy flank attack. Furthermore, rebel saboteurs destroyed an ammunition train using an infernal device, destroying most of our ammunition reserve as well the railroad bridge over the Chattahoochee and some of the pontoon bridges.

  Our withdrawal over the river commences today and I expect it to be completed soon. I shall keep you informed.

  General Grant

  As he read through the telegram, Lincoln knew it was over. He had pinned all his hopes on Grant being able to defeat the rebels outside Atlanta and then capture the city. It would be the victory, he had urgently prayed, that would restore faith to the Northern people, ensure a Republican victory in the upcoming elections, and lay the groundwork for a restoration of the Union. Those hopes now lay in tatters.

  So often since the beginning of the war, Grant had been Lincoln’s salvation. In the dark opening days of the conflict, following the disasters of Bull Run and Wilson’s Creek, Grant had won his first great victory at Fort Donelson. His capture of the key rebel citadel of Vicksburg in the summer of 1863 had torn out the nail which had held the South’s two halves together. And after the terrible defeat at Chickamauga, it had been Grant’s success at Missionary Ridge which had saved Chattanooga and set the stage for the campaign to seize Atlanta. Each victory had helped Lincoln calm the fears of shaky political allies and discredit the rhetoric of his political enemies, allowing him to continue pushing the war effort forward.

  Grant would not save Lincoln this time.

  The President looked at Stanton. “Well?”

  “It’s a disaster, Mr. President.”

  “But the armies remain intact. They are not routed. It does not seem to be a defeat on the scale of Bull Run, Chickamauga, or Peachtree Creek.”

  “No, but that doesn’t matter. The force near Fairburn is almost out of ammunition, thanks to this rebel sabotage. If Grant continues the battle there, his men may soon be fighting only with bayonets for lack of cartridges and the artillery will become useless for lack of shells. The rebels would cut them to pieces. I don’t want Grant to retreat any more than you do, but I agree with him that there is no alternative.”

  “What is this about rebel sabotage? What happened, exactly?”

  “The details are sketchy,” Stanton said with irritation. He was a man used to having all the information about every situation. “From what we have been able to gather, a team of rebel partisans or scouts, wearing Union uniforms, killed the guards of the ammunition train in question, planted an infernal device among the powder charges, and reversed the train back onto the Western and Atlantic railroad bridge, where it exploded with tremendous force.”

  “My God,” Lincoln exclaimed.

  “Several boxcars of ammunition were lost and the bridge was destroyed. Because the stone pillars collapsed, it will take some time for it to be rebuilt. Needless to say, I am sending orders out to all commanders in the region that the men responsible for this atrocity are to be hunted down like the dogs they are and hanged from the most convenient tree the moment they are in our hands.”

  Lincoln let out a dry, bitter chuckle. Stanton might salve his own disappointment with such bloodlust, but it held no attraction for Lincoln. He hated the fact that his job often involved approving executions of rebel spies, who were brave men serving a cause in which they believed. Lincoln always feared having hypocrisy seep into his mind. After all, had Union soldiers wearing rebel uniforms succeeded in such a clandestine operation against a Southern army, Stanton would have held the men up as heroes and given them medals.

  He wanted to make a joke about this. Throughout his life, Lincoln had used humor to keep despair at bay. This time, no joke came. He walked to the couch and sat down, taking a deep breath. He looked up at Stanton, a pleading look in his eye.

  “Can anything be done?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. President.”

  “What of Schofield and his small army? Surely they may be of assistance?”

  “They have marched hundreds of miles without a break for nearly a month. From what I understand, they are broken down and desperately in need of rest. Both the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Cumberland are used up. They have suffered severe casualties and their morale is at breaking point. The rebel forces, by contrast, will soon be reunited. I cannot see any way for the campaign to be brought to a successful conclusion before the close of the campaign season.”

  A wave of nausea swept through Lincoln’s stomach. He suddenly very much wanted to see Seward, whose optimism would hopefully lift him up from the shadow being cast by the news from Georgia. He decided he would send Hay to fetch the Secretary of State the moment he returned to the White House.

  “Do you believe Grant’s withdrawal will succeed?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yes, Mr. President. I doubt Johnston will do anything to interfere. He usually refrains from attacking unless he has had a long time to plan and prepare and his own forces cannot have escaped suffering serious losses themselves in the past two days.”

  The President slowly nodded. “Very well. Please send me updates as you see fit.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Lincoln slowly rose and, with a slowness brought on by despair, began walking back to the White House, now certain he would not be residing there much longer.

  *****

  President Davis was scribbling furiously, a characteristic look of irritation on his face. He was responding to a letter from General Kirby Smith, who commanded all Confederate forces west of the Mississippi River. He was irritated with Smith. The general had attempted to initiate local prisoner exchanges with the Yankees, an act which Davis thought well beyond the limits of Smith’s political authority. Moreover, among the list of officers Smith had nominated for promotion was that of a captain whose father, a minor Georgia politician, had criticized Davis in an editorial published in a Macon newspaper two years earlier. Davis would be damned if the man in question got his promotion. Officers, after all, had to earn their ranks.

  Harrison quietly entered the room and placed a telegram on the President’s desk, leaving without a word. Davis scarcely noticed, so intent was he on his letter to Smith. He spent another ten minutes outlining precisely why the captain was unworthy of promotion before finally setting the letter down and noticing the telegram.

  President Davis,

  The Army of Tennessee has won a decisive victory over the enemy’s combined forces outside the town of Fairburn. On our left, the enemy launched a heavy attack that was repulsed with heavy casualties. On the right, a flank attack by the division of General
Clayton succeeded in routing the enemy and hurling him back. The enemy now appears to be withdrawing toward the Chattahoochee. We are following with caution, while endeavoring to reestablish communication with General Cleburne in Atlanta.

  General Johnston

  His pulse quickened, but he did not move. He read the telegram again, then silently set it down on the desk. He glanced up at the military map on the wall, seeing the red and blue pins indicating the battling armies just southwest of Atlanta. For a moment, he tried to imagine the blood-stained ground, the battle cries of brave and determined men, the sounds of artillery and musket fire. He had seen the worst of war during the conflict with Mexico. He remembered the thrill of victory that had filled his soul after the Battle of Buena Vista in 1847. He wondered how many of the young men and older officers of the Army of Tennessee were feeling the same sensation.

  The implications of the telegram were immense. If Grant had indeed been defeated and was withdrawing to the river, the threat to Atlanta was at an end. Cleburne and Johnston would be able to join forces and the situation would revert to roughly what it had been a month earlier. The Confederates could cry defiance from the defenses of Atlanta, with the Yankees powerless to do anything to trouble them.

  Moreover, news of the defeat had to be even then dancing across the telegraph wires across the North, bringing despair to Republicans and delight to Democrats. This news would be the final nail in the coffin of the Lincoln administration’s chances for victory in the upcoming election. Indeed, it had to be. Even as wily a political operator as Abraham Lincoln would not be able to whitewash the failure of the Union army outside of Atlanta.

  “Mr. Harrison!” Davis bellowed.

  His aide appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  He held up the telegram. “Are you aware of the contents of this?”

  “I am, Mr. President,” Harrison said, unable to suppress a slight grin.

  “Would you be so kind as to summon Secretary Benjamin to the office?”

  Harrison nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  For days, Davis had imagined what his response would be in the event Johnston were defeated. It took him rather by surprise that he had not given the same amount of thought to what he would do in the event of a victory. As the President was musing on this, Benjamin walked through the door.

  “Atlanta?” he asked, taking his seat.

  Davis nodded. “We won.” He pushed the telegram over the desk and the Secretary of State hurriedly read it. As he did, a beaming smile crossed his face.

  “Well, this is first rate.”

  “What shall be our response?”

  Benjamin shrugged. “Publicly, I really see no particular reason for us to do anything. We should simply allow the situation to unfold. The newspapers will report word of this victory with their usual enthusiasm. The people will be delighted. The currency may recover some of its value, but you’d have to talk to Secretary Trenholm about that.”

  Davis nodded, mentally noting the need to summon the Secretary of the Treasury later that day. He waved for Benjamin to continue.

  “Johnston will be hailed as a hero, of course, but there’s nothing to be done about that. The newspapers will ignore Cleburne’s contribution, which is too bad but also unavoidable. Right now, it is important that public sentiment is so positive. We shall be ending the campaign season on a high note and this very fact will dishearten the Northern electorate all the more. Lincoln’s reelection is now an impossibility.”

  “And our European friends?”

  “This victory will certainly raise our credibility in the eyes of the Europeans, but as the Northern election is scarcely a month away, they shall sit on their hands until then.”

  “No matter,” Davis said. “This seals Lincoln’s fate. He will lose in November, and then the Europeans shall surely send their emissaries.”

  “Perhaps. But even if they do not, they shall have no choice once it becomes clear that McClellan will implement a cease-fire.” Benjamin held up the telegram. “The news contained in this piece of paper, Mr. President, ensures the independence of the Confederate States.”

  Davis held up a finger. “If McClellan is willing to negotiate once he’s in office. I’m fairly certain that he will be, but we should take nothing for granted.”

  “Perhaps some sort of display of goodwill on our part would be of some benefit?” Benjamin suggested. “It might help grease the wheels and make it easier for McClellan to initiate negotiations when he comes into office.”

  Davis furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. We have won the victory, have we not? It will now be up to the new administration in Washington to initiate peace talks.”

  “I’m talking of making a symbolic gesture. A sign to the North that we are not the barbarians they seem to think we are.”

  “Like what?”

  Benjamin paused a moment before replying. “You could grant clemency to George Thomas, for instance.”

  Davis drew his head back in surprise. “Spare that traitor? Surely you can’t be serious.”

  “Think about it for a moment, my friend. The newspapers are still clamoring for his head in retaliation for the murder of Nathan Bedford Forrest. Many of our own politicians and generals, Johnston and Lee aside, are forcefully expressing similar judgments. How statesmanlike of you to go against public opinion and be merciful to Thomas, thereby showing the people of the North that you can be diplomatic as well as strong, that you possess compassion as well as vigor. In other words, that you can be the kind of President with whom the new administration can do business.”

  “Now you’re talking like a Yankee,” Davis observed, disappointed.

  “If we are to secure a peace agreement with the United States, we shall have to out-Yankee the Yankees. Better to learn to think like a Yankee now than be forced to do so later, don’t you agree?”

  Davis looked down at the table. “Are we to simply accept Forrest’s murder, then?”

  “Yes,” Benjamin said simply, his smile never wavering. “Truth be told, now that the prospect of peace is before us, we must look to the future. Nathan Bedford Forrest was a useful tool, but he had no place in the country we must now strive to create.” Seeing that Davis was still uncertain, Benjamin went on. “Besides, Mr. President, if we do execute Thomas, we will simply be creating a martyr, a symbol that the Yankees will use against us for all time to portray us as a savage and faithless nation. And Thomas is a Virginian, don’t forget. You and I both know that there yet remain many Southerners who are not fully loyal to the Confederacy. Killing Thomas would push them toward maintaining a loyalty to the United States, whereas sparing him might help conciliate many toward the new order we are creating. It might also have a beneficial effect on the British and French governments, making it politically easier for them to extend diplomatic recognition to us.”

  Davis nodded slowly, brought his fingers up to the sides of his head and slowly massaged his temples. “I will think on it, Judah. I am not saying that I shall do it, but I will think on it.”

  *****

  October 1, Afternoon

  Johnston spurred Fleetfoot to even greater speed. Two dozen Texas cavalrymen surrounded him, the collective sound of so many hooves making a thundering noise. The church spires of central Atlanta were visible in the distance, just a few miles away, as if beckoning him to hurry. He was anxious to enter the city as rapidly as possible, for only then could he honestly tell himself that he had achieved a complete victory and saved the metropolis from capture. Besides, Johnston felt it necessary to confer with Cleburne as quickly as possible. He wanted to know what precisely had happened in Atlanta over the previous week and whether Cleburne’s men were in any shape for continued fighting. He was also anxious to learn the condition of General Hardee and to learn if Cleburne knew anything about the tremendous explosion that had been heard the previous evening.

  He had left Cheatham in command of the forces around Fairb
urn, as he was the senior corps commander. The situation there did not seem to require the presence of the commanding general, as the Yankees were clearly intent on withdrawing over the river. Johnston had given Cheatham orders to observe Grant’s actions and keep him fully informed, but not to attack or otherwise hinder the enemy in his front.

  Mackall rode alongside Johnston, trying to keep up. His horse was not as easy a ride as was Fleetfoot.

  “Are you sure it is wise to return to Atlanta so soon, General?” Mackall asked. “Grant’s forces remain intact.”

  “If anything happens around Fairburn, Cheatham will handle matters. Grant’s forces are clearly pulling back in any event.”

  “They may yet decide to offer battle once again.”

  “And if they do, it will not take long to return to the main force. But I do not think they will. The Yankees are clearly spent.”

  “You think so?”

  Johnston nodded. “I do. They certainly did not fight at Fairburn with their usual tenacity. Most of their attacks seemed to lack energy and force, with the assault on Cheatham’s flank only succeeding, and that temporarily, because they possessed the advantage of surprise. And when our attack struck them, they folded like a house of cards.”

  “The Yankees are tired and dispirited,” Mackall agreed. “From what our prisoners tell us, they had battered away at the defenses of Atlanta for days before being marched south to confront us.”

  “Well, I hope to soon have a firsthand report from Cleburne on that subject.”

  They continued northeast. Johnston noticed that smoke was still rising off in the direction of the Western and Atlantic bridge over the Chattahoochee River, which was where his scouts had said the explosion had taken place the day before. If there were still fires burning in that area, the blast must have been enormous, indeed.