Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “I have no more desire to die than anyone else, General Forrest. But I know what happened to the garrison at Fort Pillow. If I am to die, I would rather go down fighting than being slaughtered like an animal. I’m sure my men feel the same way.”

  Forrest generally considered white officers in command of black troops to be little better than pond scum, but he had to admit that Major Foster was a brave man.

  “There are no terms to discuss, Major. Either you surrender immediately and unconditionally, or my gunners will resume firing. If I do resume my attack, no mercy will be shown to you or your men. I’ll give you five minutes to make up your mind.”

  The five minutes must have seemed endless to Major Foster. Forrest simply sat on his horse and gazed down at the shattered blockhouse.

  Forrest took out his pocket watch, checked the time, and put it back. “Time’s up. What’s it going to be?”

  “You leave me little choice, General Forrest. I therefore surrender my command.”

  Forrest smiled. “Major Strange, take down the names of all white officers and men for proper processing.”

  “And my colored soldiers?” Foster asked anxiously.

  “For now, I’ll put them to work tearing up the railroad south of town.”

  “If they are to be considered prisoners of war, then the commonly accepted rules of warfare prohibit their being used for unpaid manual labor.”

  Forrest laughed at that. “Almost all of them are escaped slaves and have no right to be considered genuine prisoners of war. You’re lucky I don’t simply give my men permission to kill them.”

  Forrest honestly didn’t know what he would do with the soldiers. He couldn’t simply have them killed in cold blood, because the blockhouse had willingly surrendered before being stormed. Ordinarily, he would detail an escort to take them south and try to locate their owners so that they could be returned to the plantations. They were, after all, valuable property. But Forrest didn’t want to weaken his raiding party. Had they been white soldiers, he would simply have paroled them, releasing them by having them sign a pledge not to take up arms against the Confederacy. However, to do that with black prisoners would be an acknowledgment that they were on equal footing with white troops and that was an idea to which Forrest could never subscribe.

  Forrest, along with Major Strange and Major Foster, walked down to the blockhouse, where Foster announced the surrender to his men. A few minutes later, a line of Confederate troops had formed up outside, their guns at the ready as they glowered menacingly at the black soldiers as they walked out in a single-file line. Unsurprisingly, the prisoners looked somewhat bewildered and many were frightened that they would be shot down at any moment. Others, however, looked more angry than anything else. Perhaps they had disagreed with Foster’s decision to surrender.

  A few of the Confederates pilfered the blockhouse, but there was nothing of any value inside. The black troops were made to remove their shoes and turn out their pockets for any valuables. Then, with angry voices, the Confederate guard ordered them to march off to the south, where they would soon be put to work destroying the railroad tracks.

  After the blockhouse had been cleared, Forrest rode to the bridge over the Duck River. The waterway wasn’t huge, but it was certainly big enough to be a formidable natural barrier. Once the bridge was gone, it wouldn’t be quick or easy for Yankee engineers to build a replacement. It would also require an expenditure of significant resources.

  Forrest was happy to see that some of his more enterprising officers hadn’t bothered to wait for orders, but were already hard at work on the demolition of the bridge. Men were carrying kindling and dumping it onto the bridge, mostly planks and fence-posts taken from the town. Others were soaking bunches of cotton in turpentine and stuffing them into the kindling all along the bridge’s length. Beneath the structure on the riverbank, men were hacking away at the support beams, weakening them so as to increase the odds of a complete collapse when they set the bridge on fire.

  He watched his men go about their work, rarely calling out any orders. His command was a well-oiled machine when it came to this kind of work, for Forrest and his men had been burning bridges and wrecking train tracks since the opening days of the war.

  After an hour, all was ready. He gave the order, and one of his men tossed a torch onto the nearest bunch of cotton. It ignited immediately, and with astonishing speed a trail of fire seemed to shoot across the bridge like a phantom train. The kindling went up at once, and within minutes the wooden rail ties beneath it were also aflame. As a manifestation of destruction, it was darkly beautiful.

  He had details of men standing by with buckets of water, to ensure that the flames did not spread to the homes of Columbia itself, but it turned out that there was no need for them. Less than thirty minutes after the torch had been tossed onto it, the Duck River Bridge of the Central Alabama Railroad collapsed into the river, to the cheers of Forrest’s men.

  *****

  August 4, Evening

  “Two thousand?” Johnston asked, incredulous. “In just the past two weeks?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mackall said happily. “It seems that news of Peachtree Creek, along with your announcement of a general amnesty, has persuaded many deserters to return to the colors.”

  Johnston nodded sharply, anxious not to appear too satisfied. “Please prepare a circular for distribution to all regimental commanders, stating that they are not to mistreat returned deserters in any way. My offer of amnesty meant exactly what it said.”

  “I shall have the circular drawn up at once, sir.”

  Johnston nodded again. It would not be completely effective, of course. There would be many regimental commanders who would go out of their way to give returned deserters unpleasant tasks. In combat, many captains and majors might think less of placing returned deserters in positions of danger than they would other men. But if the deserters were willing to return to the colors and endure the scorn of their comrades, Johnston would give them a chance to prove themselves worthy of his trust. He hoped his officers would do the same.

  The return of so many deserters was enough on its own to bring a smile to Johnston’s face, but his recent success on the battlefield had also resulted in increased enlistment of Georgia militiamen. Seven thousand of those old men and young boys now manned the defenses of Atlanta and vital points along the railroads that webbed out from the city. Although they would not have been much use in a stand-up fight, they could at least protect strongly fortified posts and thereby free up veteran troops for use against Sherman. They were also useful in guarding the vast number of Union prisoners.

  Further bolstering the Army of Tennessee was the arrival of a brigade of reinforcements made up of regiments which had been serving in the coastal regions of Florida and Georgia. Taken together, all of this had boosted the strength of the army to roughly sixty thousand men.

  Johnston still wasn’t satisfied. Determined to increase the strength of his army by any means possible, Johnston had also dispatched some of the Georgia militia units to scour the plantations south of Atlanta and bring back as many able-bodied slaves as possible. He intended to put these black men to work digging fortifications, serving as cooks and teamsters, and performing other menial tasks. The white men thus relieved could be added to the muster rolls of the infantry regiments.

  Johnston thought this move was only common sense, but he knew that many politicians in the Confederacy would be uncomfortable with it. They saw it as the beginning of a slippery slope toward enlisting slaves directly into the army as combat soldiers, which could only be done if they were promised their freedom. He smiled, wondering what those politicians would have thought had they known about General Cleburne’s radical proposal to do just that.

  “Has there been any word from our friends across the river?” Johnston asked Mackall.

  Mackall chuckled slightly. “They seem to be completely inert, according to the latest information we have from General Jackson.” Sinc
e Wheeler had vanished into north Georgia with four thousand troopers on his mission to disrupt Sherman’s supplies, command of the cavalry of the Army of Tennessee had fallen to General William Jackson, the senior officer among the remaining cavalry divisions.

  “Have we hurt Sherman that badly?” Johnston asked, mostly to himself. “It’s been more than two weeks since the Battle of Peachtree Creek, yet our enemies still seem unable or unwilling to take action.”

  “Perhaps our cavalry is succeeding in their attacks on the enemy supply line?” Mackall offered. “If Sherman is worried about food and ammunition, he certainly would not likely want to risk mounting any major operation against us.”

  “Possibly. But I expect any attack on our enemy’s supply lines to require time to take effect, even if it is completely successful. Sherman has built up large supply depots at Allatoona and other locations south of Chattanooga and can draw on them for sustenance for some time after his lines are cut. It’s a mystery, William. It’s as if we’re dealing with a different man now than we were before Peachtree Creek.”

  *****

  Sherman was finding the words coming out of Oliver Howard’s mouth to be increasingly annoying. Indeed, the constant stream of bad news was causing Sherman to wonder whether he might have made a mistake in appointing Howard to the command of the Army of the Cumberland after all.

  “Surely it’s not that bad, General Howard.”

  “I’m afraid it is that bad, General Sherman. At least a hundred men deserted from the Army of the Cumberland in just the last twenty-four hours. That brings the total for the last week to nearly a thousand men. The morale of the men has not recovered from their defeat at Peachtree Creek and the retreat across the river has only made the situation worse.”

  “The decision to retreat across the river was taken by me, General Howard,” Sherman said sharply. “If I desire your opinion as to the wisdom of my decision, I shall ask for it.”

  Howard, stung by such uncharacteristically unfair criticism from Sherman, glanced for support over to McPherson and Schofield, who tensely stared down at the floor and refused to meet the eyes of either man.

  The scene within the headquarters was tense. Sherman remained seated behind a table strewn with maps, while his three senior commanders stood on the other side, holding their hats like penitent men come to seek the blessing of the local bishop. All around them, staff officers pretended that they were not listening to the conference.

  Sherman looked at McPherson. “I trust, at least, that the brave men of the Army of the Tennessee are remaining true and steadfast, as opposed to the shaky men of the Army of the Cumberland?”

  “Desertions have increased among my forces as well,” McPherson said in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

  “Have they?”

  “Yes, they have. We might as well face facts. Desertions have been on the rise in all three of our armies since the disaster at Peachtree Creek. The news of the defeats in Virginia are only making the situation worse. Our boys don’t have the stomach to keep fighting in a war they are increasingly convinced is simply not winnable.”

  “Well then, firm measures must be taken to clamp down on desertions. I want ten captured deserters from the Army of the Cumberland, and five each from the other two armies, to be tried by court martial and, if found guilty, executed by firing squad. Make sure that brigades are called out on parade to witness the executions themselves. I will also prohibit the further distribution of newspapers, as they only contain bad news these days.”

  The three army commanders glanced at one another in considerable discomfort. Schofield was the one with the courage to speak up first. “General Sherman, are you sure that is wise? Such draconian measures might further inflame the situation and actually increase the number of desertions.”

  “As I said to General Howard a few minutes ago, if I desire your opinion on my orders, I shall ask for it.”

  “But it’s not just the issue of desertions, General Sherman,” McPherson said. “Many of our regiments are coming to the end of their enlistments. They signed up in 1861 to serve for three years and those three years are up. A lot of these units are simply leaving the morning the terms of their enlistments are up and there’s not a damn thing we can do to stop them. Morale being what it is, these men are not reenlisting.”

  “General Sherman,” Howard said with great graveness. “Our losses at Peachtree Creek, combined with the increase in desertions and the expiration of the enlistments of so many of our regiments, have reduced our total force to roughly seventy-five thousand men. We can only expect that further desertion and the expiration of enlistments will continue to weaken our forces in the weeks to come.”

  These words seemed to cast a cloud over the meeting. No one needed to be reminded that the Union host which had swarmed over the Chattahoochee River a month before had numbered well over a hundred thousand men. Nor did anyone need to be reminded they now had scarcely any numerical advantage over the rebels. The idea that they might cross the river once again, defeat Johnston’s army, and blast their way through Atlanta’s formidable defenses before the election in November seemed utterly impossible.

  Sherman looked back at them sternly. “General Grant has ordered the Sixth Corps transferred from Virginia to Georgia. Its lead brigades have already arrived in Nashville. When they arrive here, they shall add between ten and fifteen thousand bayonets to our force.”

  “I should have liked more than a single corps sent to us,” McPherson said. “As it is, fifteen thousand men will not make good the losses we have sustained.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Sherman snapped.

  A courier from the telegraph tent arrived. “I’m sorry, excuse me, sirs. But these messages have just arrived.”

  Sherman impatiently gestured for the lieutenant to hand him the two telegrams, which he quickly read through. The three army commanders stood quietly for a time, waiting to hear whatever the news was.

  “Well, it seems that a rebel raiding force has destroyed the bridge over the Duck River at Columbia, Tennessee.”

  “What about the garrison?” Schofield asked.

  “They surrendered to the raiding force.”

  “That sounds like Forrest,” McPherson said.

  “If it is Forrest, God help the black troops who made up the garrison,” Howard said. “If he has had those men killed in the same manner that he had the garrison at Fort Pillow killed, he will yet again demonstrate that he is a despiser of God and all true Christian virtues.”

  Sherman reflected with some amusement that Howard intended for his comment to be taken literally, as he was by far the most religious officer in the Union army. Sherman, himself a freethinker despite the agony it caused his devoutly Catholic wife, thought such statements of piety to be mildly ridiculous. He didn’t care, though, so long as Howard carried out his orders with reasonable efficiency.

  “So, Forrest is on the loose against our railroads in Tennessee?” Schofield asked, despondent.

  “It gets worse,” Sherman said, holding up the second telegram. “Reports from our outposts and garrisons along the Western and Atlantic Railroad through northern Georgia are saying that small rebel bands have been firing on trains coming south from Chattanooga, that several of our blockhouses have been attacked and a few miles of railroad torn up near Resaca and Dalton.”

  “That makes no sense,” Schofield said. “Forrest cannot be in both Tennessee and Georgia. Even he can only be in one place at one time.”

  “It’s very simple, gentlemen,” Sherman said. “We have two raids underway against us. Forrest is attacking our supply lines in Tennessee, while Wheeler attacks them here in Georgia with the cavalry of the Army of Tennessee itself.”

  “My God,” McPherson said. “Forrest and Wheeler? A single raid is a serious enough problem on its own, but two simultaneous raids represent a mortal danger to this army. If they succeed, we shall be completely cut off from our sources of supply.”

 
“They shall not succeed,” Sherman said. “All along the railroad, stretching back to Louisville on the Ohio River, strongly fortified posts are guarding key points, as well as crews and equipment standing by to repair any breaks. If the rebels succeed in damaging the line, a break will only be temporary.”

  “But if both Forrest and Wheeler are on the loose in our rear areas, our resources might be stretched very thin, indeed,” Schofield pointed out. “Many of the men guarding our supply lines have been called down to the front in order to replace the men we lost at Peachtree Creek.”

  “If needs be, we shall detach forces from the Sixth Corps as they arrive to shore up the defense of our supply lines.”

  “At the cost of reducing the strength of our reinforcements before they reach the front lines,” McPherson pointed out.

  “I am aware of that, General!” Sherman snapped. “Do you think I can just wave my hand and make more soldiers magically drop down from the sky? Not even President Lincoln can do that. General Howard here may believe in manna from heaven, but I do not.”

  The insult brought another awkward silence to the meeting.

  Sherman exhaled sharply. “I know you are all tired. I know you are all frustrated. Return to your commands and carry out my orders regarding the need to clamp down on desertions. In the meantime, I shall prepare a plan for dispatching some of our cavalry northward to keep Wheeler off our railroad here in Georgia. Our forces in Tennessee are adequate to deal with Forrest, and can be reinforced by the arriving Sixth Corps if needs be.”

  Schofield and Howard muttered a farewell and departed. McPherson lingered just long enough to say something further.

  “Cump? Are you all right?”

  Sherman glared up at his friend. “Worry about yourself, James, and allow me to worry about myself.”

  McPherson nodded, saluted, and left, leaving Sherman alone in more ways than one.

  *****

  “Gentlemen,” President Davis said as he looked at the two men sitting across the desk from him. “I am almost reluctant to say it, but I believe that we are winning.”