Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  McFadden had no one to whom it would be worth the effort to pen a letter, as he had buried every member of his immediate family two years before. He supposedly had some cousins who lived in Scotland, but he had never met them and knew them only through stories his parents had told him when he had been a boy. McFadden was, as far as he was concerned, utterly alone in the world.

  Private John Balch, who had been reading a newspaper, waved it in McFadden’s general direction.

  “Done with this. You want it, Jim?”

  McFadden nodded and took it. It was a copy of Atlanta Intelligencer. He considered it a good newspaper, despite its tendency to balloon minor successes into great victories and to dismiss serious reverses as trivial setbacks. McFadden’s mind insisted on keeping abreast of the latest war news, though he was not such a fool as to think that whatever he himself did had any great impact on events. Nor did he particularly care which side won the war. He served as a soldier for his own sake, not for the Confederacy’s.

  “Anything interesting going on back east?” Harrison asked, not looking up from his letter.

  “Not really. Lee and Grant are still fighting around Petersburg.”

  “Grant won’t get into Richmond anytime soon, then.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Rumor says that Lee may soon send us some reinforcements.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” McFadden replied. He never trusted rumors, and did not understand why so many of his comrades did. But then, few of them had enjoyed the education his father had given him.

  After twenty minutes of reading, McFadden set the newspaper down and leaned his back against the parapet. He found himself thinking about Captain Collett’s offer a few days before to have him promoted to lieutenant. He wondered if he had made the right choice in turning the captain down. If he had been the man he had been two years before, McFadden was certain he would have jumped at the chance. But he was not that man, and although part of his mind tugged at him to reconsider, he decided that he had made the correct choice.

  Tilting his felt hat forward a bit so as to block the sun from his eyes, he tried to drift off into sleep. Just when he felt blessed unconsciousness beginning to creep up on him, his quest for sleep was thwarted.

  “Everybody up! Attention!” the authoritative voice of Captain Collett bellowed.

  The men of the 7th Texas were on their feet and moving into a single-file line, ready to hear whatever their commander had to say. Collett waited about twenty seconds for everyone to form up.

  “Boys, we’re moving out! It looks like the Yankees are moving to get around our left flank again.”

  The men groaned their collective disappointment. A few muttered curses were heard, damning Sherman and all Yankees to hell. After having occupied the same position for so many days, the idea of marching to a new one struck many as a serious inconvenience.

  “The whole division is moving south to block the Yankee movement. Our marching orders have us moving out in less than an hour and we’ll probably be marching all night, so get something to eat and be prepared to march in thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men of the regiment said as a group. The line immediately broke up as the men scrambled to get ready. McFadden saw to it that the Lone Star Rifles did their work as quickly and efficiently as possible, sparing only a few moments of thought to wonder where the 7th Texas would next find itself.

  *****

  July 3, Evening

  Wearing his finest dress uniform, with a ceremonial sword dangling at his side, Bragg strode into the main dining room of the palatial Richmond house. He had no idea why he had been invited to the party, for he knew that he was distinctly unpopular. Being far from a personable man, his first inclination upon receiving the invitation had been to decline. Bragg did not like parties, with all their silly women and meaningless small talk. More enjoyable by far would have been an evening at home with his wife, who had not been able to attend due to illness.

  But President Davis had hinted strongly that he wanted Bragg to go and so he had come. He did not plan to stay for long, but he had decided to make the best of it while he was there. After all, an evening at the home of George Trenholm, the wealthiest man in the Confederacy, promised the opportunity to enjoy foods that had become virtually unobtainable due to the Yankee blockade.

  Fortunately, it was not an affair that required the guests to sit down together at a table, which would have placed Bragg in the uncomfortable position of having to talk to the same two people for an hour or more. Instead, the guests were milling about the various large rooms, sampling food at their own pleasure from a buffet set up on an immense dinner table. There were slices of roast mutton, oysters, roast chicken in a maple syrup glaze, a sort of gelatin he didn’t recognize, iced fruits of various kinds, and many other foods that looked as lovely as they tasted. He sampled some of the fare, finding it more delicious than any he had tasted in quite some time. The mutton, in particular, was cooked to perfection.

  Slaves dressed in livery silently circulated among the party-goers, carrying plates of champagne flutes. Bragg did not touch any of them, for he had been a teetotaler since his early days in the army, when he had seen alcohol destroy many a promising young officer. He was not about to break his habit now, even if the drink in question was fine French champagne run through the blockade on one of Trenholm’s ships.

  In a corner of the room, a string quartet filled the air with soft music. Around Bragg swirled the cream of Richmond society. There was the Reverend Charles Minnigerode, minister of St. Paul’s Church, to which most of the social elite of the city belonged. There was Congressman William Miles, the most dapper man in the city, successfully charming a younger woman while his wife looked on with mild disapproval. There was Colonel James Chesnut, one of the President’s military aides, along with his annoying wife Mary.

  Bragg carefully looked about at those guests wearing military uniforms, wondering who among them might be his enemies. Most of the officers in and around Richmond were Lee’s men and had not served in the Western Theater, so he did not recognize many of them. He did not think it worth his time to introduce himself to anyone.

  “Ah, General Bragg!” a voice said.

  He turned and saw a man in a fine civilian suit and bearing a warm smile approaching him, a glass of champagne in his hand. It took him a moment to realize that the man was George Trenholm, the host of the party.

  “Good evening, Mr. Trenholm,” Bragg said, shaking his proffered hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” Trenholm said. “I apologize for sending the invitation on such short notice, but I only decided to organize this gathering last week.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. You have a fine house, sir.”

  “Thank you, General. I am rather proud of it myself. Can I interest you in a glass of champagne?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Trenholm nodded slightly, studying Bragg. He reminded Bragg of a trial lawyer analyzing a witness. No doubt he was even then realizing that Braxton Bragg was an uninteresting fellow and determining not to invite him to the next party.

  “I hear tell that there may be a shakeup in the high command of our army in Georgia,” Trenholm said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh? What sort of shakeup?”

  “Rumor has it that you and President Davis are planning on removing General Johnston and placing either General Hardee or General Hood in his place. Any truth to it?”

  The mention of William Hardee’s name instantly made Bragg grimace. During Bragg’s tenure as commander of the Army of Tennessee, Hardee had constantly undermined him. Bragg knew for a fact that that Hardee had counseled President Davis to relieve him of command after the failure of the campaign in Kentucky and the stalemated battle at Murfreesboro. Bragg only wished that the Union shell which had recently killed General Leonidas Polk, another enemy, had killed Hardee at the same time. Of all the generals in the Army of Tennessee, only the cavalry comman
der Joseph Wheeler held Bragg’s trust.

  “It’s not my place to speak about rumors,” Bragg said. “Nevertheless, it should be obvious that we are not pleased with Johnston’s performance in the field.”

  “Oh?”

  “He has retreated nearly a hundred miles in the last two months, abandoning territory of great importance to the war effort. The ironworks of Rome, one of our principal producers of artillery, have been lost to us. The ground of northern Georgia is well-suited to the tactical defense, yet Johnston has repeatedly surrendered a number of extremely strong positions and made no effort to defeat the enemy’s flanking movements. A change in strategy in the Western theater must be made. If Johnston himself will not make it, we may have to find someone who will.”

  He realized that he was saying too much, having let his anger at the mention of Hardee get the better of him. He resolved to speak no more on the matter.

  Trenholm nodded, sipping his champagne. “Well, I am sure that you and President Davis will make the right decision when the time comes.”

  “Of course.”

  “There is another rumor making rounds about the city. Some wags are saying that Secretary of the Treasury Memminger is to leave office soon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Memminger is about to resign, or be forced out, depending on who’s telling the story.”

  Bragg shrugged. The identity of the man who held the portfolio of Treasury Secretary was no concern of his. He had met Memminger on a few occasions, but had never spoken more than half a dozen words to him at any time.

  “If you do not feel it to be inappropriate, you may inform the President that I myself am more than willing to do my patriotic duty at any time he may see fit to call upon me.”

  “Of course. Your fleet of blockade runners has been extremely useful in helping keep our armies supplied with weapons and equipment.”

  “Thank you, General Bragg. But if there is any further service I can render my country, I want you to know that I stand ready.”

  At once, Bragg understood why he had been invited to the party. Trenholm knew that Bragg held the ear of the President. If rumors really were swirling that Memminger was on his way out, Trenholm wanted the job and hoped that Bragg would intercede with the President on his behalf. It was perfectly obvious to Bragg that Trenholm would use the position to line his own pocket whenever possible, but if he could bring some order to the troubled public finances of the Confederacy while doing so, he was probably as good a man as any.

  “I will let him know, Mr. Trenholm.”

  Trenholm smiled. “Very good. Before you depart, I should like you to have a basket of French soaps and perfume to take home to your wife, who I understand could not join us on account of illness. Just ask the doorman on your way out.”

  “Thank you. She will be very happy to receive such a gift.”

  Bragg forced his mouth into a smile. Trenholm nodded and moved on to the next guest. Bragg went back to the table, taking for himself a slice of the roast chicken and some of the iced fruits. He intended to leave within the next few minutes but wanted to have just a little bit more of the delectable food before going.

  He was aware that people were casting side glances in his direction and he thought he heard disparaging comments about him in the whispered conversations of some of the women. Two men he didn’t recognize, neither in uniform, were engaged in an animated conversation. The gist of it seemed to be that Joseph Johnston was a great commander, second in the Confederacy only to Robert E. Lee himself. Bragg was tempted to break into the conversation and tell the two men that they had no idea what they were talking about, but decided against it. He wanted to avoid doing anything that might find its way into the Richmond papers.

  It was time to leave. Finishing the last of his food and placing the plate on the tray carried by the nearest house slave, Bragg turned and began walking toward the door.

  “Well, there goes the biggest buffoon of all!” a loud voice exclaimed.

  Bragg stopped in his tracks and turned to face whoever had said such words. He was shocked by the sight of Richard Hawes, a frail-looking man in his late sixties, whom he had not seen in nearly two years. He was, as far as the Confederacy was concerned, the Governor of Kentucky. But he had been living in exile in Virginia ever since the Army of Tennessee had been driven out of Kentucky after the Battle of Perryville in the fall of 1862.

  Bragg instantly recalled the farce that had accompanied the inauguration of Governor Hawes that October. Under Bragg’s command, the Army of Tennessee had occupied Frankfort, the capital of Kentucky, and had taken over a vast swath of the state. Bragg had been determined to put a genuine state administration in place, so that taxation and conscription could be undertaken on behalf of the Confederacy. He had expected large numbers of Kentuckians to join his army as soon as it had entered the state, but up to that point he had received a surprisingly small number of recruits. Getting a solid Confederate administration up and running had been imperative.

  He himself had introduced Governor Hawes inside the Kentucky State Capitol as a pro-Confederate crowd had wildly applauded. Outside, the booming of cannon fire was heard, causing the audience to cheer even more loudly, for they had assumed the artillery was part of the inaugural celebration. In fact, the guns had belonged to the Yankees, who had outmaneuvered Bragg’s forces and were commencing their counter offensive. The newly-installed Confederate state government had been forced to rapidly withdraw from Frankfort, making both Governor Hawes and General Bragg look ridiculous.

  “There’s the man, ladies and gentlemen!” Hawes said, pointing. It was immediately obvious that he had had far too much to drink. “There’s the man! There’s the man who lost us Kentucky!”

  All over the room, people stopped talking to watch the unfolding confrontation. The string quartet abruptly stopped playing and the room was silent except for the words of the exiled Kentucky governor.

  “Hope you’re proud of yourself, Bragg. You lost Kentucky when you didn’t listen to your generals after Perryville. You lost Tennessee when you didn’t listen to your generals after Murfreesboro. You lost your chance to destroy the Yankee army when you didn’t listen to your generals after Chickamauga. I hope you’re proud of yourself! I know I would be!” Hawes then downed the contents of his champagne flute in one gulp.

  Colonel Chesnut walked up and took Hawes’ elbow. “Governor, perhaps you’d like to try some of the lemon pound cake? It has a lovely custard sauce.”

  Hawes clumsily freed his arm from Chesnut and pointed accusingly at Bragg. “Sherman is at the gates of Atlanta and Grant is at the gates of Richmond, but if it hadn’t been for this miserable incompetent we would have won the war two years ago!”

  “You’re drunk, Governor,” Bragg said calmly.

  “Of course I’m drunk!” Hawes said. “I’m damn drunk! I have nothing to do but drink! I was run out of my own state because you were unwilling to fight for it!”

  Bragg remembered the criticism that had poured down upon him following his withdrawal from Kentucky. Despite the fact that the Battle of Perryville had been a tactical victory for the Army of Tennessee and with his army still roughly equal in strength to the opposing Yankees, Bragg had elected to retreat back to Tennessee. Inwardly, he burned with regret at having made the wrong decision, but he would sooner die than acknowledge his failure publicly.

  “The fault did not lie with me,” Bragg said, trying to sound calm but raising his voice for others to hear. “If General Polk had obeyed my orders to attack the enemy when the army was deployed near Bardstown-“

  Hawes cut him off. “Oh, always someone else’s fault, isn’t it, Bragg?” he mocked. “Always someone else’s fault!”

  “You do not understand what you are talking about, Governor,” Bragg said. “You lack an understanding of military matters.”

  “I know what I see with my own eyes! I know what I read in the papers! You led the Army of Tennessee to one disaster after anot
her. Thank God that General Johnston was able to pick up the pieces after Missionary Ridge. That’s all I have to say about it. He’s ten times the commander you were, by God!”

  Bragg turned on his heels and walked toward the front door without another word. He did his best to maintain a straight face even as anger swirled within him with the force of a hurricane. He ignored the slave who offered him the basket of French soaps and perfumes Trenholm had earlier told him about. He stormed through the door and out onto the street, determined to go home as quickly as possible. As he exited, he heard the violin music begin again and heard many of the party-goers start to laugh. He had no doubt that the laughter was at his expense.

  *****

  July 4, Morning

  General Thomas sat on his horse by the side of the road, watching as his divisions marched past. It was oppressively hot, but Thomas thought the men appeared to be in good spirits. All the regimental bands were playing patriotic tunes in observance of Independence Day, with the men happily singing along.

  The entire Army of the Cumberland was on the move, its columns slowly grinding forward like enormous snakes along the roads and trails that ran between Kennesaw Mountain and the Chattahoochee River. Sherman’s two subsidiary armies, the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohio, hovered on the flanks of Thomas’s force, also pushing forward toward the river. Over one hundred thousand Union soldiers were moving southeast, trying to learn whether their rebel foes were dug in on the north side of the Chattahoochee or had scurried off to the south bank.

  He heard the thunder of hooves approaching from behind and turned to see General Sherman, along with some staff officers and an escort of cavalry. As usual, Sherman had a cigar in his mouth. He slowed his horse to a walk and reined in alongside Thomas.

  “Morning, George,” Sherman said pleasantly.

  “Cump,” Thomas replied, using Sherman’s nickname.

  “Looks like Uncle Joe is heading to the south side of the Chattahoochee.”