Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  If events in New York and Pennsylvania unfold as we wish them to unfold, your proposal regarding the office of official Printer of the United States will be seen as satisfactory, as will your proposals regarding the various offices in New York City that we discussed. Kind regards.

  George McClellan

  Marble smiled and shook his head, still amazed at the political ineptitude of the former commander of the Army of the Potomac. When Butler had thrown Marble in jail, McClellan had elected never to speak to him again. But when Butler let him out, dangling the possibility of throwing the power of the Butler political machine behind the McClellan candidacy, suddenly Marble was thrust back into favor. Such was the power of the pen Marble wielded through the New York World.

  He was determined that this power should increase. Already, he was quietly negotiating agreements with the owners of the Chicago Times and the Cincinnati Enquirer that would allow him to purchase shares in their respective newspapers. These prospective deals would not give him control of the newspapers, but they would give him sufficient sway over them to exercise a significant amount of influence. He was also laying plans to start a new newspaper in distant San Francisco, giving him a foothold on the Pacific Coast of the United States.

  The future was bright, as far as Marble was concerned. Perhaps, on a certain philosophical level, it was not for the best that the Union was about to be torn apart. Still, whatever form the United States took in the uncertain future, it was clear that Manton Marble would be a major player in it and that was all that really mattered.

  *****

  October 2, Morning

  As Grant rode Cincinnati along the column of troops from the Army of the Tennessee awaiting their turn to cross the pontoon bridge over the Chattahoochee River at Sandtown, he could see defeat in their eyes. Many of these troops were men he had led to victory at Vicksburg, who had once looked upon him as a father figure. But now they refused to cheer him, or even to acknowledge his presence as he rode past. They marched with an uncaring step, exhibiting a disrespectful nonchalance that the officers had attempted to correct without success. In many places, discarded equipment littered the ground as the men sought to lighten their burdens by disposing of items they no longer wanted to carry. According to many regimental commanders, desertions had increased sharply, the number of men claiming to be sick had gone up, and many men were refusing to carry out their basic duties.

  The men had behaved poorly during the Battle of Fairburn. The attacks against fortified rebel positions had not been pressed home, with the men going to ground early and either retreating or staying put until nightfall. When Johnston’s surprise attack had struck Grant’s left flank, the men had run away in unseemly haste. The collapse in morale was evident even during Howard’s momentarily successful attack on the rebel left wing, during which many men had broken ranks to loot the enemy camps.

  It was little consolation to Grant that the withdrawal, at least, was going according to plan. As he had outlined to Howard and McPherson, the Army of the Tennessee would pull back toward the ford at Sandtown while the Army of the Cumberland retired toward the ford at Campbellton. Two pontoon bridges had been constructed at each location, which would hopefully allow the two forces to pull back to the north side of the river in a reasonable amount of time.

  The rebels were shadowing their movements, as if gently nudging the Northerners back toward the river. Although there had been some sharp skirmishes between the forward pickets of the rebel divisions and the rear guard units of Grant’s forces, the rebels did not seem to be preparing a major attack. This was a great relief for Grant, as the condition of his men combined with an acute shortage of ammunition made any serious engagement a potential disaster. Grant only prayed that Joe Johnston remained unaware of just how vulnerable the Union forces truly were. If the rebel commander knew that the Northerners had only enough ammunition for a single day’s heavy fighting, he might throw off his characteristic caution and mount a major offensive. The result could be a disaster comparable to Peachtree Creek.

  If Grant had any second thoughts about deciding to withdraw over the river, they had been terminated when his scouts had reported more trains arriving in Fairburn from the south, bringing the final elements of the Army of Tennessee that had been deployed to Alabama to protect against his phantom thrust toward that state. All told, the rebel army probably numbered between thirty-five and forty thousand men, equal if not superior to the number of Union troops in the field. Their spirits were high and their ammunition plentiful.

  Grant knew when he was outmatched. If he stayed south of the river, he risked the destruction of both the Army of the Cumberland and the Army of the Tennessee.

  He expected both of his armies to complete the crossing of the river during the night. When it was finished, the pontoon bridges would be destroyed to prevent the rebel forces from crossing over themselves, though Grant highly doubted that they would attempt to do so. Johnston, having beaten Grant and secured Atlanta, would not make any effort at seizing the initiative. Why should he? Having achieved his own objectives, Johnston would need only to wait until the Northern election and the arrival of winter ended the war altogether. One dependability of Joe Johnston was that he would always carefully conserve the lives of his soldiers. Risking them all in an offensive move north of the river would make no sense.

  Once his forces had completed their withdrawal over the river, Grant would have the cavalry patrol the river around Campbellton and Sandtown, while the main body returned to the camps at Smyrna, Marietta and Acworth to rest and refit. He expected that Johnston would shift the two corps of the Army of Tennessee back to Atlanta, while leaving sufficient forces to keep an eye on the river crossing as well. Then, both armies would rest and recover from the trauma of the last few weeks.

  Grant had not read the newspapers that had been sent down from the North. He had not wanted to. In any event, he knew what the headlines would say. All the blame for the failure to capture Atlanta or defeat the Army of Tennessee, and the thirty thousand casualties they had sustained, would be laid squarely on his own shoulders. Grant was used to harsh treatment from the press, having been denounced for the high casualties at Shiloh and the failures of his early efforts to capture Vicksburg. Those setbacks had later been made right. This time, however, there would be no chance for redemption.

  Lincoln would share the blame, too. If his defeat in the upcoming election had appeared very likely a week earlier, it was now all but certain.

  As he watched his defeated troops march past, none of them meeting his gaze, Grant’s face remained expressionless, but his heart was filled with a great sadness. Four years earlier, just before the winter of secession had torn the country apart, Grant had been resigned to living an obscure life as a penniless failure. The coming of the war had somehow lifted him. Rejoining the army, he had risen steadily through his victories at Fort Donelson, Vicksburg, and Missionary Ridge. At the height of his glory, there was even talk about his becoming President of the United States when the war was over.

  Just as it had raised him up, the war had now driven him down. He would, indeed, live out his days as a failure. At least before the war he had been obscure and unknown, his disappointments evident only to his family and friends. Now, his failure was so vast that it would be remembered in the history books for all time to come. Grant would be known to the world as the man whose failings had resulted in the destruction of the American Union.

  He did not know what he would do when the war ended. Perhaps he would write a book about his experiences in the great conflict. It might be of interest to future historians and, more importantly, provide some measure of financial stability for his family. Other than that, he supposed he would simply stay out of the limelight as much possible, ignore the disparagement of his name that would float about everywhere, and just fade away.

  He put the thought out of his mind, reaching instead for another cigar. For the time being, he had to see that the river crossing wa
s completed successfully.

  *****

  October 4, Afternoon

  McFadden stumbled more than walked through the door of the building. Every step caused a painful and uncomfortable numbness in his limbs. He had lost track of exactly how much punishment his body had endured over the past few weeks. He had been grazed by a Yankee bullet at the Battle of East Point, been knocked senseless by a clubbed musket during the fighting in the Blood Bucket, and reduced to total exhaustion by an almost complete lack of sleep.

  That had all been endured before the train had exploded. His last clear memory had been running away from the train as fast as he could. He remembered hearing the immense sound of the detonation and momentarily feeling the shockwave of the blast, but the memory had a vague and ethereal quality to it, rather like one struggling to recall the contents of a dream.

  His next conscious memory had been waking up in the woods near the tree line by the tracks of the Western and Atlantic Railroad. It had been sometime during the night. He had no idea how he had gotten there, nor did he know how long he had been unconscious. The grass along the track was scorched by fire, so he theorized that someone had pulled his body out of the path of the flames, but he could not be certain. There had been debris all over the place, fires burning in the woods, as well as the scattered bodies of many Union soldiers.

  McFadden’s memory of the rest of the night and the next day was blurry and uncertain. The verse from Corinthians about looking through a glass darkly came to his mind as he struggled to remember exactly what he had done. He recalled trying to find Private Pearson but being unsuccessful after several hours of searching. Perhaps he had collapsed and fallen unconscious again, maybe even more than once. It was hard to say. He eventually gave up the search for Pearson as futile and lay down to sleep in the woods, without a blanket or shelter of any kind.

  He had been awoken the next morning by the sound of marching men. Only somewhat revived, he had realized that the Union troops around Atlanta were marching back toward the Chattahoochee River, though he did not know why. He had no longer cared. Having accomplished the mission given to him by Cleburne, McFadden considered his duty done. He did not know what he wanted to do next, only that he wanted nothing to do with the war any longer.

  Getting back to Atlanta seemed like the logical thing, though he hadn’t considered what he would do when he got there. He remained in the woods, still in his Union uniform, staying under cover and enduring the hunger as best he could. Eventually, the Yankee forces completed their withdrawal from the area, leaving the path back to Atlanta open. Then, it had been a relatively easy matter of discarding his Union uniform and simply walking back to the city. He had to move slowly, however, as his entire body ached.

  McFadden had passed back into the Confederate lines without difficulty. He had encountered a Confederate patrol a mile outside of the defenses and told its commander that he was an escaped prisoner, which seemed to satisfy the man. As he passed through the fortifications, he noticed that they were rapidly filling up with additional soldiers, which could only mean that one or both of the other two corps of the Army of Tennessee which had gone to Alabama with Johnston had returned to the city. From what he could tell, the Confederates had defeated Grant and won the campaign.

  McFadden scarcely cared. He did not bother to report his return to Cleburne. Perhaps he would do so later, but perhaps not. All he cared about right now was finding a place to rest, both physically and spiritually.

  This was why he had come to the Central Presbyterian Church of Atlanta.

  The church, like almost everything else in Atlanta, was simultaneously new and heavily damaged. The building had only been constructed four years earlier, not long after the existing Presbyterian congregation in Atlanta had split in two. The separation had been caused by some arcane dispute which had made no sense to McFadden when Robert Turnbow had tried to explain it to him. The church had been nothing fancy to begin with. It had been struck repeatedly by Union shellfire, but if any fires had broken out they had been quickly extinguished. All the windows had been shattered and, as he stumbled inside, McFadden could see that the floor was covered in broken glass and pieces of the shattered wooden beams.

  Half a dozen people were inside, one man, one boy, and four women. They were busily cleaning up the floor of the church, and looked up at McFadden when he entered.

  “Can I help you, soldier?” the man asked.

  McFadden looked at the man in confusion. The authority with which he had spoken suggested to McFadden that he was the minister. But having entered the church, McFadden had no idea what he wanted to do or even why he had come. There had not seemed any better place to go. As far as he could tell, the 7th Texas had been destroyed, so he had no regimental camp to which to return. Indeed, he did not even know who his immediate superior was at this point.

  The minister looked at McFadden sympathetically. “What’s your name, son?”

  “James McFadden,” he answered simply, feeling like a schoolboy.

  “I’m John Rogers. I’m the minister of this church.”

  McFadden nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen you preach.”

  “You look like you have had a rough time of things, James.”

  Despite himself, McFadden almost laughed. “If you only knew, Reverend.”

  Rodgers nodded. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  McFadden considered this. “Could I possibly have some time to myself here?” He paused before continuing, uncertain if he were using the right words. “I’d like to have some time alone with God.”

  Rodgers nodded and, without another word, motioned for the other people to leave the church. As McFadden walked slowly up to the altar, he heard the door close behind him, leaving him alone.

  He didn’t kneel down. It wasn’t in his character to get down on his knees, even when he wanted to talk to God. Nor, staring at the crucifix, did it occur to him to actually speak. As his father had told him countless times when he was growing up, God knows what goes on inside a man’s head. Simply by thinking, he had said, we are effectively talking to God.

  He wanted to ask God why he had suffered so much. Why had his brother had to die such a miserable death? Why did his family have to be butchered? Why had McFadden been allowed to continue living when so many of his comrades, men he had counted as friends, had been slaughtered on a dozen different battlefields? And why had Annie and her parents, who had briefly brought light back into his life, been killed by the guns of the Yankees? Why had the war come in the first place?

  McFadden waited for an answer. God said nothing in response.

  He frowned, feeling foolish. What had he expected, after all? His father might have raised him as the devout son of a Presbyterian minister, but the bloody years of war had cured him of whatever sentimental attachment to the church had remained. Had he seriously thought that a burning bush was going to appear? Or that an angel would descend through the ceiling to answer his questions?

  He was about to turn away in disgust, but a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He sat down in one of the pews. His wounds, the battering his head had taken, and simple lack of sleep were finally catching up with him. The anxiety caused by combat and the mission to destroy the bridge had provided him with sufficient nervous energy to keep him going until this moment. Now that he was safe, the fighting over, and his mission accomplished, his body cried out for rest.

  McFadden fell asleep seconds after sitting down on the pew, his chin resting on his chest. He had not slept long before he was awoken when a hand tightly touched his shoulder.

  “James?” a voice said hesitantly.

  He came awake in an instant, pushing himself up from the pew and spinning around to look at the source of the voice. Standing before him, alive and apparently unharmed, was Annie Turnbow. He had not heard her come in. It was as though she had simply materialized out of nothing.

  “Annie?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “It cannot be.”


  Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “What? What do you mean?”

  “You’re dead!”

  “Dead?”

  “I saw you,” he said, almost angrily. “I saw your body. Burned. Burned up in your house!”

  “The house?” she asked. “It was struck by a Union shell. It caught fire and burned down.”

  “But there were bodies!” he protested. “Three burned bodies in the house!”

  “My parents,” she said sadly. “They were trapped inside. A friend of my father, too. Those were been the bodies you saw.” She spoke with a deep sadness. McFadden knew the depths of such sadness better than anyone.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said simply, even as his mind raced to make sense of it all. Annie had been alive this entire time?

  “What happened to Jupiter and Mattie?” he asked.

  “They abandoned me and ran away to the Yankees.”

  “Where have you been?” he asked. He wanted to take her into his arms, yet he hesitated. Part of him wondered if she were some sort of phantom who would vanish from his sight the moment he took a step toward her.

  “The house was gone. I’ve stayed here at the church since then. Lots of people sleep here during the night.” She arched her head slightly. “I thought that’s why you came.”

  “No,” he stammered. “I thought you were dead. I thought you died in the fire.”

  “Why did you come here, then?”

  “I-“ he stammered. He glanced at the altar, where the crucifix still stood quietly, as though watching them. “I don’t really know.”

  She smiled hesitantly. “I do.”

  He smiled back.

  “Well, I am very happy to see you alive,” she said, cautiously taking a step forward. “I heard that your brigade was in the worst of the fighting around East Point and on the southern defenses. They said nearly all the Texans were killed.”

  McFadden was jolted by the thought that not only had Annie been alive all this time, but that she had been worried about him. During their all-too-brief time together, it had been difficult to fully grasp that Annie might actually feel love for him. Indeed, he couldn’t fathom why she would even look on him as anything other than a barbarian. He had let her into his life and shared with her many of his secrets. She had seen the depth of his rage, but she alone had also seen something in him that could be redeemed, something of which he himself had been unaware until he had met her.