Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Johnston sent off one of the escort to locate General Hardee, then stood his horse off to the side of the road to wait. Regiments from Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee and Florida passed by him within the space of twenty minutes. The regiments continually cheered him as they passed, and he had to repeatedly doff his hat in return. He didn’t enjoy doing this, as he was very sensitive about his baldness, but the men deserved a proper acknowledgement of his respect and admiration.

  Hardee approached, followed by a single staff officer and his corps standard bearer. He had the look of a man who was tired but quite pleased with himself.

  “Good morning, General Hardee.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “How are things up front?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Nothing much happening. The Yankees aren’t budging from their trenches, but they aren’t making any effort to push us back, either.”

  Johnston nodded. “My guess is that McPherson and Schofield are still covering the withdrawal of the Army of the Cumberland across the river. That’s what our scouts have been telling us, at any rate.”

  “It’s been five days now. Surely the Army of the Cumberland has completed its retreat, or nearly so. I think we may expect McPherson and Schofield to pull back this evening.”

  “You think Sherman intends to pull all his forces back to the north side?” Johnston asked.

  Hardee hesitated a moment before answering. This didn’t surprise Johnston. During the long retreat from Dalton, Johnston had relied much more on the advice of Hood than that of Hardee, a decision he now bitterly regretted. He had resolved to seek Hardee’s opinion more often and his corps commander was obviously somewhat unused to this sort of treatment.

  “He might,” Hardee said. “If I were Sherman, I would try to maintain a lodgment on the south side of the Chattahoochee, reform the Army of the Cumberland on the north side, and return to the offensive when it was again ready for combat.”

  “Possibly,” Johnston said. “If that does turn out to be Sherman’s intention, what course of action do you think we should follow?”

  Hardee’s eyebrows went up, but he was clearly gratified to be asked. “I think we should endeavor to drive McPherson and Schofield into the river. We have about fifty thousand men to their forty thousand. Their left flank is refused, but still vulnerable. Destroying the enemy bridgehead on the south bank would eliminate any possibility of the Yankees taking Atlanta.”

  Johnston considered this for a few moments, before shaking his head. “Your logic is sound, but such an attack would necessarily entail great loss of life and might well fail. No, it’s too great a risk.”

  Hardee nodded. “Very well, sir.”

  “I see no reason to change our present course. We can continue to harass them with skirmishers and artillery for the time being. If Sherman does intend to remain on the south bank, we can block any attempt by him to resume the offensive. If he intends to withdraw to the north bank completely, we can be ready to exploit any opportunity for an attack which might present itself.”

  Hardee grunted.

  “You disagree?” Johnston asked. “Please speak freely, General Hardee. I value your opinion highly.”

  “Very well,” Hardee said. “I would fear entering into something of a stalemate with the enemy. As time passes, more and more of the divisions of the Army of the Cumberland will recover from the mauling they got at Peachtree Creek.”

  “I agree, but I do not see how we can again strike at the enemy with any probability of success. I do not fancy launching our boys in a frontal attack against the prepared defenses of McPherson and Schofield.”

  “Neither do I. Nevertheless, it is my conviction that we must force the enemy to react to our movements, rather than await the movement of the enemy.”

  Johnston wondered if Hardee’s words were an implied criticism of his strategy during the long retreat south from Dalton. If so, he did not much mind. He was glad that Hardee felt more comfortable expressing his opinion. Besides, the strategy of withdrawal that so many people had strongly criticized had eventually led to the victory at Peachtree Creek. As far as Johnston was concerned, that success was answer enough to his critics.

  A courier rode up to the two generals. “Telegram from President Davis, sir.”

  General Johnston,

  I have received your request that General Forrest be sent to attack the enemy railroad in Tennessee. It seems to me that such an operation would have a greater chance of success if it were combined with an attack on the enemy railroad in north Georgia, to be undertaken by a force detached from the cavalry of your own army. What think you of this proposal?

  President Davis

  Johnston laughed softly, then passed the paper over to Hardee.

  “You want my opinion on this?” Hardee asked after he finished reading.

  “By all means.”

  “We have more than enough cavalry with this army to screen our movements and scout out the positions of the enemy. Sending a few thousand troopers against the Western and Atlantic Railroad would not seriously impede our operations.”

  “In the absence of these men, Sherman might send his own cavalry to attack our rail connections with Macon or Augusta.”

  “Possibly, but I would reckon it is more likely that he would send them off in pursuit of whatever force we have sent against the railroad. And if Forrest is on the loose in Tennessee at the same time, he will have to dispatch cavalry to that quarter as well.”

  Johnston nodded, even as another thought entered his mind. Wheeler had betrayed him no less than Hood. Dispatching Wheeler with a force of cavalry against Sherman’s supply lines might not only be an effective military maneuver, but would free him of another subversive within his own ranks.

  He turned in his saddle. “General Mackall?” he called. The chief-of-staff immediately clicked his horse into a walk and approached his commander.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Return to our headquarters and send a message to General Wheeler. I wish to speak with him tomorrow morning.”

  Mackall’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but the expression on Johnston’s face told him that all would be made clear in the near future. “Of course, sir.” He saluted, turned his horse, and was soon trotting away to the south.

  Johnston turned back to Hardee. “I wish you a good day. Please report to me any unusual movements by the enemy, or anything else you consider important.” He extended his hand, which Hardee took in a firm grip. The two men then saluted. Trailed by his entourage of staff officers and escorts, Johnston turned and headed southwest, as we wished to investigate the situation along Stewart’s lines as well.

  *****

  July 25, Afternoon

  Sherman had transferred his headquarters to the north bank of the Chattahoochee River, moving himself and his staff into a moderately sized house near Vining’s Station. Although the river now separated him from the enemy army, he could still hear the occasional booming of Confederate artillery. He sat alone in a quiet room, staring down at a telegram just received from General Grant.

  General Sherman,

  Be advised that the Sixth Corps has been ordered to move by railroad from the vicinity of Washington City to Chattanooga, where it shall come under your command. When it arrives, it shall add more than ten thousand men to your forces. This should go some way to replenishing your strength.

  General Grant

  Sherman nodded slowly. He knew little of the formations serving in Virginia, but everything he had heard about the Sixth Corps was positive. The previous year, after the rebel victory at Chickamauga, reinforcements had been sent to Tennessee from Virginia, taking about two weeks to arrive. Logically, the timetable should be more or less the same this time around. Sherman didn’t immediately know what he would do with the Sixth Corps when it arrived, but he could think on that question later.

  Aside from the telegram from Grant, the pile of papers on his desk included reports on everything from the state of the Army of
the Cumberland to the security of his line of supply back to Louisville. He hadn’t read them yet, for try as he might, he couldn’t make himself read them. He feared that if he read the bad news it would somehow become magnified and morph into something even worse.

  He stared down at the map. What was left of the Army of the Cumberland had completed its crossing to the north bank of the Chattahoochee. Sherman had issued orders that McPherson’s Army of the Tennessee was to go next. The Army of the Ohio under General Schofield would serve as the rear guard, holding the line of entrenchments until the last man of McPherson’s force was across before retreating themselves.

  He knew he was handing Schofield a very dangerous mission. For at least a day, the fifteen thousand men of his small army would have to maintain their lines against nearly four times that number of Southern soldiers. Even with the strongest entrenchments, those odds were not good. Sherman could only hope to deceive Johnston long enough to extract Schofield under cover of darkness. The critical objective was to get all his troops onto the north bank of the Chattahoochee as quickly as possible. If that required the sacrifice of Schofield and his fifteen thousand men, so be it. After all, it would be a smaller number than had been lost at Peachtree Creek.

  Suddenly, Sherman could hear an angry voice arguing with one of his staff officers on the other side of the door. A moment later, the door violently shot open and Joseph Hooker stormed into the room, his face a mask of anger.

  “What do you mean by this?” Hooker demanded, waving a paper in Sherman’s face.

  Sherman didn’t rise from his chair and appeared entirely unconcerned. “I assume that what you have there is the order I have issued this morning appointing General Oliver Howard to command the Army of the Cumberland and returning you to command of Twentieth Corps.”

  “This is unacceptable, Sherman! Unacceptable! I am the senior corps commander in the Army of the Cumberland and I am entitled to the command of the army!”

  Sherman knew that Hooker personally despised Howard. One could argue that he had good reason. Howard had been a corps commander in the Army of the Potomac when Hooker had commanded it. It had been Howard’s corps that had been surprised and routed by Stonewall Jackson’s famous flank attack at Chancellorsville, leading to Hooker’s defeat and humiliation.

  “I understand your concerns, General Hooker. But I am required to make decisions based on what is in the best interest of the war effort and I believe that the Army of the Cumberland is best served with General Howard at its head.”

  “But my commission as a major general predates that of General Howard by six-and-a-half months!”

  Sherman found this statement ridiculous. Hooker was probably the only general in the army who knew by precisely how many months he outranked all those below him. Before he could stop himself, Sherman laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  Hooker’s face turned a fiery crimson. “How dare you laugh at me!” Unsettled staff officers were watching from the open door, nervous that the altercation might descend to violence at any moment.

  Sherman regained his composure and stopped laughing. “I apologize, General Hooker. But my orders stand.”

  “Are my services in rescuing the Army of the Cumberland from total destruction to be ignored?”

  “I thank you for your efforts, as does the entire army. But as I said, my orders stand.”

  For a long minute, there was total silence. Sherman remained seated, while Hooker continued to glare down at him in fury. Then, the corps commander ostentatiously stood bolt upright. “General Sherman, I request to be relieved from duty with this army. Honor and self-respect alike require me to leave an army in which rank and service are ignored.”

  Sherman wanted to laugh again, but successfully restrained himself. Hooker clearly expected him to back down and submit to his elevation to permanent command of the army. But if Hooker thought that Sherman somehow considered him irreplaceable, he was mistaken. To the contrary, the vain and arrogant soldier had just provided Sherman with enough rope with which to hang him.

  “Very well, General Hooker. Your request is accepted. Please turn over your corps to the senior divisional commander. I wish you a safe journey northwards, sir.”

  Hooker’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The idea that Sherman would actually accept his request to be relieved had clearly not occurred to him. Sherman, inwardly delighted at this turn of events, simply picked up a report on the current status of the Western and Atlantic Railroad and started reading. Hooker stood there silently for nearly a minute, glaring down at Sherman, until he looked up again.

  “Was there something else, General Hooker?”

  “I promise you, Sherman. You will pay dearly for this.”

  “Nothing else, then? Very well. Good day to you.”

  Without another word, Hooker turned and walked out of the tent.

  For the first time since the full extent of the disaster at Peachtree Creek had been made clear to him, Sherman smiled. What he couldn’t have known was that he had set in motion another chain of events that he would soon come to bitterly regret.

  *****

  “Present arms!” McFadden shouted.

  The men raised their Enfield rifles so that they were held directly in front of their bodies.

  “Shoulder arms!” he ordered.

  The men now positioned their weapons so that they were resting on their left shoulder and held by their left hand, while their right arm went back to their sides.

  “Order arms!”

  The men now clasped the butt of their muskets with their right hand, then just below the barrel with their left, lowering their weapons until the butt was just a few inches over the ground.

  Drilling the men had proven to be an unexpectedly odd experience for McFadden. As a private and then as a noncommissioned officer, he had gone through drill countless thousands of times. With his recent promotion to lieutenant, however, he was actually the one barking out the orders and watching as the men obeyed.

  The five companies he was drilling collectively numbered less than fifty men. Though this amounted to half of the 7th Texas, it was less than what a single decent company would have mustered at the beginning of the war. Such had been the ravages of disease and battle.

  He moved the men from a line of battle into a marching column and back again, shouting the orders as though he had been conducting drill since the beginning of the war. He found that it was rather easy for him to step into the shoes of an officer, simply speaking aloud what he had been telling himself in his own head all along. The troops themselves had done drill so many times since they had joined the regiment that they now did it with flawless precision and in perfect order. It was not unlike willing one’s own hand or foot to do a certain thing and simply seeing it happen.

  Cleburne’s division, on account of the heavy casualties it had sustained, had been withdrawn from the front line for a few days of resting and refitting. They had been marched to the east side of the city, away from both the fighting and the stench of the Peachtree Creek battlefield. McFadden was delighted with this, as it allowed him to adjust to his new position as an officer without simultaneously dealing with the stress of combat. From what the rumor mill said, there was a good deal of sharp skirmishing up north, but no serious fighting. McFadden and his fellow Texans assumed they would be sent into the fray soon enough.

  “Who the hell is that?” Pearson asked.

  “Quiet in the ranks!” McFadden shouted angrily. Whether he was a sergeant or a lieutenant, McFadden was convinced that Private Pearson would always be the bane of his existence.

  But he could see that the eyes of the men in the ranks were fixated on something behind him. He turned to see what it was and received the surprise of his life when he saw a wagon coming up the road. Annie Turnbow was sitting in the front, with the male slave McFadden had encountered at the Turnbow home sitting beside her and holding the reins. Being led behind the wagon was the fattest cow that McFadden had seen in some time.
He could hear the cackling of chickens in the back. There were also some crates containing leafy vegetables.

  There was a sudden stir in the ranks and several of the men licked their lips. For a moment, McFadden mistook their reaction as being due to the sight of Annie herself and was about to berate them for their lack of respect. He mentally kicked himself when he realized that their response was being caused by the close proximity of fresh beef and poultry. For men who had had nothing but barely edible cornmeal for the past several weeks, such priceless treasure was certain to be far more interesting than even the most beautiful woman.

  The slave pulled the horses to a halt and Annie stood up, looking at him uncertainly.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Miss Turnbow?” His heart leapt to see her, but he was unwilling to show any emotion in front of his men. It would have been unbecoming his status as an officer, but he had never been one to put his humanity on display in any event. He immediately realized the mistake he had made simply by saying her name. No doubt rumors of his visit to Atlanta would have spread throughout the entire regiment, spurred on by the talk of his own men who had seen him rescue Annie and her father in the first place.

  “I have brought the food my father promised.”

  The men gave a hearty cheer at her words, which took her by surprise and caused her to smile. She was obviously not used to being a public hero.

  McFadden turned back. “I said quiet in the ranks! One more sound out of you and I’ll send this wagon to the nearest Georgia regiment!”

  Such a deadly threat silenced the men instantly. Major Collett stormed out of his tent, where he had been working on his Peachtree Creek report for General Granbury, and marched sternly over to McFadden.

  “What is going on here, Lieutenant?” he demanded.