Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Wouldn’t count on that just yet. He held us up for two weeks on Kennesaw Mountain. Would have given him plenty of time to build another line of defense north of the river. Maybe more than one.”

  Sherman shook his head. “No, no, no. I’ve got the measure of the man by now. Been chasing him all over north Georgia for damn near two months. He and I were exchanging fire with each other outside Vicksburg last year, too. No, Johnston will be focused on getting his army over the river as quick as he can. He doesn’t like fighting with his back to a river. Look at the way he scurried out of Cassville, just north of the Etowah River. That was the strongest defensive position I’ve ever seen in my life, but Uncle Joe abandoned it, just like that.”

  Thomas nodded, acknowledging Sherman’s point. He had also been perplexed by Johnston’s abandonment of the Cassville position, back in the early days of the campaign. But the wily Southern general rarely did what was expected.

  They heard the sound of cannon fire from somewhere up ahead of them. Straining their ears, they listened for the telltale sound of musketry, which might have indicated that the advance elements of the army had encountered a new Confederate line. Try as they might, though, they didn’t hear anything, and shortly afterward the sound of cannon fire ceased. Thomas sent one of his staff officers forward to investigate.

  Sherman spoke quickly. “George, I’m willing to bet just about any amount of money that Uncle Joe is pulling to the south side of the river. I want you to push your men on forward as quick as you can, to try and catch them while they’re crossing. If you move fast, we might be able to get ourselves a large batch of prisoners.”

  “I will push on quickly, Cump. But we shouldn’t be reckless. If we advance too rapidly, our lead units could receive a bloody nose if, in fact, Johnston intends to fight on this side of the river.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course,” Sherman said quickly. “Very well, very well. You, of course, know best what should be done. But I tell you, George, that Johnston is not going to fight us on this side of the river. I tell you that the whole damn Army of Tennessee is, at this very moment, while we sit here talking, crossing over to the south side in a great hurry.”

  The sound of cannon fire was suddenly heard again, much more rapidly this time. The sounds of the detonations had a different pitch, a sort of metallic ringing as opposed to the low bass booming sound caused by Union cannon fire. The seasoned ears of Sherman and Thomas recognized it as coming from Southern artillery, whose inferior powder caused it to make a distinctively different noise when fired.

  “If the rebels are deploying artillery, it may indicate that they intend to fight on the north side of the river,” Thomas suggested.

  Sherman shook his head. “No, no, George. We will find no substantial body of rebels this side of the Chattahoochee. Not on this side of the Chattahoochee, we won’t.”

  As if in response to Sherman’s words, there was a sudden increase in the volume of fire. They heard the sound of sustained musketry and the level was such that it had to be coming from a large engagement. They listened quietly for a few minutes.

  “A rear guard action, perhaps?” Sherman asked.

  “Or our men coming up on a new enemy position.”

  “Let’s go forward and see,” Sherman said, kicking his horse into a trot. Thomas followed, and the cloud of staff officers and cavalry escorts trailed behind them like a swarm of bees.

  As they moved down the road toward the front line, the typical refuse of battle was moving in the other direction. Wounded men who still possessed the ability to walk were heading back in search of the nearest field hospitals, clutching bloodstained bandages to their heads or arms. The more seriously wounded were being carried back on stretchers by medical orderlies. To Thomas’s irritation, many of the men passing them seemed unhurt. Their explanations that they had become separated from their unit or been sent back to fetch ammunition seemed less than convincing.

  Amidst the confused and often hurt white men scurrying to the rear, an out-of-place black man emerged. He glanced about in confusion and it was immediately clear that he had no idea where he was or what was happening.

  “You there!” Sherman said, pointing. “What brings you to this area?” There were no black regiments in Sherman’s army and very few black laborers, so it seemed likely that the negro had come from the local area or from the Confederate lines.

  The black man looked up. “I’d rather be just about anywhere else, sure enough. Southern cavalry came through the neighborhood of my master’s plantation two weeks ago and ordered all us negroes into the wagon. Spent the last week on the banks of this here river, shoveling dirt and moving logs. Hard enough work without bullets flying all over the place.”

  Sherman looked at Thomas. “What the hell did he say?”

  Thomas smiled, realizing that Sherman had not understood a word the slave had spoken because he couldn’t decipher the man’s accent. Thomas, a Virginian and longtime slave owner himself, had understood him perfectly and quickly translated for Sherman.

  “For what purpose were you doing this construction work?” Sherman asked.

  “They didn’t tell us, sir. Building lots of little forts, seems like.” Again, Thomas relied to Sherman what the man had said.

  “On the north or south side of the river?” Sherman asked.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in confusion and he did not immediately answer.

  “On this side of the river or the other side, boy?” Thomas demanded.

  “This side, sure enough.”

  “Can you describe them, boy?” Sherman asked. “What kind of forts?”

  “Dozens of them. Each big enough for a hundred men, I reckon. Stretched out all along the bank of the river, like a big half moon.”

  “It appears that Johnston is, indeed, making his stand on the north bank, General Sherman,” Thomas said.

  “General Sherman?” the slave asked, his eyes sparkling. “Being you General Sherman?”

  “I am, indeed.”

  A wide and delighted smile crossed the black man’s face. “Been hearing lots about you down at the plantation, sir. Mighty glad to meet you, sir, I am. Though I doubt if my old master would like it.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “You head on up the road that way,” Sherman said, pointing north. “You’re a free man now. Old Abe’s Emancipation Proclamation says so. Maybe try to find a job as a cook for one of my regiments or something.”

  “Will do it, General Sherman. Will do it and be glad! My old master is with some Georgia regiment or other. If you find him, do me the favor of shooting him in the belly.”

  Sherman laughed. “I will do so.”

  With a spring in his step, the liberated slave walked away to the north, while the Union party kicked their horses and continued south.

  “You might have suggested he head north to enlist in one of the new black infantry regiments,” Thomas suggested.

  Sherman frowned. “I don’t much like the idea of enlisting blacks in the army. I doubt they will make good soldiers, nor do I think our regular troops like serving alongside them.”

  Thomas already knew Sherman’s opinion on the subject, but out of boredom he decided to press the point. “President Lincoln and General Grant are enthusiastic. Our black troops fought well at Fort Wagner, by all accounts. Other places, too.”

  Sherman grunted.

  Thomas pressed. “A black man can stop a bullet just as good as a white man.”

  “Yes, and a sandbag stops a bullet better than either. But can a black man improvise roads, do skirmishing and picket duty, or organize flank movements like a white man? I say no.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Blacks defeated Napoleon’s finest soldiers during the insurrection in Haiti back in the day, did they not? And their basic human desire to be free certainly gives them a motivation to fight that our white soldiers do not possess.”

  For just a moment, Thomas remembered being a frightened teenager in Virginia more than thirty years be
fore, frantically snapping at the reins of the carriage carrying his family away from their farm as it was being ransacked by Nat Turner and his band of rebellious slaves. More than fifty whites had been killed, including women and children, and Thomas himself had barely escaped with his life. His fellow Southerners might entertain ideas about contented slaves dutifully wishing to obey their masters, but Thomas knew that this was a delusion. He felt the familiar tug on his soul, feeling in his heart that the blacks of the South should be free but knowing that holding that belief had wrenched him away from his family and everything he had once held dear.

  Sherman waved his hand dismissively. From long experience, Thomas knew that the conversation was over. The sound of artillery and musket fire grew louder as they continued ever farther south. At last they came upon the forward headquarters of General Oliver Howard, who was commanding the lead corps pressing against the Confederates. The headquarters was situated next to what appeared to be an abandoned tavern.

  “Howard!” Sherman called out upon seeing him. “What’s the situation?” Sherman and Thomas quickly dismounted and jogged up to the table Howard had set up and on which he had placed his maps.

  “The enemy are firmly entrenched ahead of us. We cannot continue to push forward unless we wish to mount a major attack.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Howard! The enemy is laughing at you! I tell you now that there is no sizable enemy force on this side of the Chattahoochee. You ought to push right down the road.”

  No sooner were the words out of Sherman’s mouth than a Confederate artillery shell screamed through the air and slammed into the tavern’s chimney, which instantly disintegrated. Sherman, Thomas, and Howard dove for cover as stray bricks and a large cloud of dark dust swept over them.

  Thomas, slightly dazed, pulled himself up from the ground. His ears rang. Looking down, he saw quickly that he was unhurt and said a silent prayer of thanks. He had not received so much as a scratch since the war had begun, but he felt that everyone’s luck was bound to run out sooner or later.

  Sherman and Howard were also unharmed. Howard helped the supreme commander to his feet.

  “Yes, well,” Sherman said as he dusted himself off. “Perhaps you’re right, Howard. It appears our enemies are there after all.”

  *****

  July 4, Afternoon

  Cleburne reined in and dismounted next to the large tent that contained the headquarters of Hardee’s corps. A sergeant took his horse’s reins and he strolled into the tent, glancing around for his commander. He found Hardee hunched over a table, marking off the locations of known Federal units on a map.

  “You wanted to see me, General?” he asked.

  Hardee glanced up. “Yes, Pat. Thanks for coming. Just give me a minute here. Trying to trace out what the Yankees are doing.”

  “I assume you got my recent dispatch. They’re only mounting minor probing attacks on my front, trying to establish the strength of our position.”

  “It’s the same story all along the line. They won’t attack such a strong position head on. Not after the lesson they learned at Kennesaw Mountain, anyway. So we’re secure on the north bank of the river for the time being. Now, why don’t we take a walk outside?”

  The two men strolled out of the tent and wandered to a point where they could not be overheard by the men in the tent. He noticed that Hardee seemed slightly apprehensive and quickly guessed the reason why.

  Hardee let out a sharp breath. “I have spoken twice with General Johnston about which division commander should be promoted to permanent command of Polk’s corps. Tomorrow morning he will announce that the command has been given to General Alexander Stewart.”

  Cleburne took a deep breath. “Well, General Stewart is a fine officer.”

  “Rest assured, my friend, that I strongly recommended you for the position. But Johnston thought it best to promote Stewart.”

  Cleburne’s voice was not angry, but pained. “Does it not matter that I outrank Stewart? My commission as major general predates his by six months, if I recall correctly.”

  “You are right, of course. I reminded Johnston of this fact. I can only say that you have my sympathy. I think the decisive factor is that Stewart is a West Point graduate and you are not. I acknowledge that this is unfair. I also want to stress, though it should go without saying, that General Johnston has nothing but the highest respect for your command abilities.”

  Cleburne let out a deep sigh. “I shall say nothing. I shall make no protest. I hope never to be counted among the hotheads who populate this army.”

  Hardee laughed. “That’s good, by God. We have quite a sufficiency of them as it is.”

  “But William, may I speak to you simply as a friend for a moment?”

  “You were the best man at my wedding, for pity’s sake. Of course you may speak to me as a friend.”

  Cleburne pursed his lips. “I find this a bitter pill to swallow. My combat record should speak for itself. Shiloh, Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga. My division held its part of the line at Missionary Ridge when the rest of the army fell apart. We covered the retreat by holding off the whole Yankee army at Ringgold Gap. Do not mistake me for bragging, but surely the achievements of my division demonstrate my fitness for corps command.”

  “Truth, indeed. No division commander in this army can come close to matching your achievements. You have added many laurels during the present campaign, too.”

  “Then why do I remain a mere division commander when other men are appointed over my head?”

  “I can only say honestly that I do not know.”

  He paused a moment before continuing. “Does the fact that I am an Irishman have anything to do with it?”

  Hardee didn’t respond for several seconds, mulling it over. “I cannot say for certain, Pat. But I would be lying if I said I was sure it wasn’t so. Your foreign origin has never been an issue with me, or any other officer to whom I have spoken about it. But how men in Richmond feel about it, I cannot say.”

  Cleburne’s only response was a grunt.

  Hardee went on. “If I may now be the one to speak frankly, my friend, I think the memorandum you wrote in January may be partly responsible for the fact that you have not yet been given corps command.”

  Cleburne’s eyebrows went up. “You think so?”

  “Well, when an outstanding division commander of enormous reputation calls for the emancipation of slavery and the enlistment of freed Negroes into the army, it certainly raises a great many questions in Richmond. Disturbing questions, if I may say so.”

  Cleburne pursed his lips and shook his head. “Damn that bastard Walker,” he said under his breath.

  “I know,” Hardee said. “I was not aware that he sent a copy of your memorandum to President Davis, much less the scathing commentary he saw fit to attach to it.”

  “And I thought he was going to challenge me to a duel.”

  Hardee laughed softly. “I am glad he did not. I should not have liked having two of my division commanders shooting at one another rather than the Yankees.”

  Cleburne ignored the joke. “I was frankly glad he sent the memorandum to Richmond. Best way to get it in the hands of President Davis, after all. I felt it was my duty to state the facts as I see them clearly, irrespective of any result to myself.”

  “I can understand. Remember that I voiced support for your proposal at that meeting. But the authorities in Richmond considered it extremely dangerous, and maybe this is why you have remained a division commander. It may be that it was only your outstanding combat record that kept you from being transferred to some backwater in the Trans-Mississippi.”

  Cleburne shook his head again. “Well, I won’t take it back. I stand by every word. I meant it then and I still mean it now. I shall keep my mouth shut about it, just as General Johnston ordered me to do, but a man cannot change his opinions when they are honestly held.”

  Hardee slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps that’s why you aren’t
yet a corps commander, Pat. You just have too much damn integrity!”

  Despite himself, Cleburne smiled. A few moments later, he was accepting Hardee’s offer of some freshly cooked pork and some tobacco for his pipe.

  Chapter Three

  July 4, Afternoon

  The man on the stage came at last to the end of his speech, summoning up the most booming voice he could muster.

  “And so, my friends, let me conclude by telling you that, on this Independence Day, we want the Constitution as it is and the Union as it was!”

  The Great Hall of Cooper Union, in the very heart of New York City, erupted in cheers and applause. General George McClellan couldn’t help but smile. He usually tried to maintain a serious expression, but the reaction of the crowd was more than enough to pierce through his veneer and touch his vanity.

  Some in the crowd were chanting. “Little Mac! Little Mac!” His nickname might have been a play on his height, just under five feet and four inches, but it had been given to him by his devoted soldiers entirely out of affection.

  He waved farewell and moved to leave the stage, just as a brass band began bellowing forth patriotic tunes. As he walked down the steps off of the platform, several dozen people swarmed up to shake his hand. He didn’t know any of them, but was beginning to learn the politician’s trade of asking a few searching questions that would enable a brief conversation to take place. The next day, hopefully, they would all be telling their friends that George McClellan was a fine man who would make an excellent president.

  The crowd in the hall gradually quieted down and began filtering outside. After about ten endless minutes, McClellan was finally able to extract himself from the crush of well-wishers and walk over to the man to whom he actually wanted to speak. Throughout the speech and the subsequent mayhem, Manton Marble, editor of the viciously anti-Lincoln, pro-Democrat newspaper New York World, had been patiently waiting.

  “Well, how do you think it went?” McClellan asked.