Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Please advise me immediately as to your future course of action.

  General Grant

  Sherman folded up the paper and set it gently on his desk. He then stared at it for some time. Over the course of a few minutes, a feeling of rage filled him. He felt abandoned and betrayed by the man he thought had been his friend. Did Grant seriously expect that dispatching a few measly divisions of reinforcements would make any difference? Sherman had no doubt that an even larger number of enemy reinforcements were arriving for Johnston, who might be expected to launch an attack north of the Chattahoochee at any moment. If that happened, Sherman expected to have little choice but to retreat back to Chattanooga, if not further.

  The fact that Grant was trying to prod him into an ill-advised attack on Atlanta or Alabama was, as far as Sherman was concerned, a grievous insult. Indeed, it was nothing less than an attempt to brand him a coward. Did Grant seriously think that Sherman would not have already done such a thing if it were at all possible?

  Moreover, Grant’s telegram made no mention of the fact that Forrest and Wheeler were both chopping away at his supply line, tearing up his railroads as though they were made of spaghetti rather than iron. Sherman couldn’t force his mind to do the calculations necessary to figure how long it would be before his men began to starve, but he imagined that it couldn’t be very long.

  There was a soft knocking on the door.

  “Come in!” Sherman said sharply. McPherson quietly entered.

  “You wanted to see me, Cump?”

  “Yes. I understand that my orders to execute five deserters from the Army of the Tennessee have yet to be carried out. What is your explanation?”

  “Four of the men have been shot,” McPherson answered, his voice unsuccessfully attempting to hide the disquiet he felt. “The fifth man has yet to be executed because doubts have arisen as to whether he actually deserted or had simply gone off to forage for supplies.”

  Sherman grunted. Without a word, he passed Grant’s telegram across the table. McPherson picked it up and read it, as Sherman watched his face for the signs of anger and dismay he hoped and expected to see. To his disgust, McPherson’s face lit up with delight.

  “This is excellent news, Cump!” McPherson said with enthusiasm, affectionately slapping the paper with his free hand. “With an additional corps, we can get the campaign back on the move once again!”

  “You think so?” Sherman asked.

  “Absolutely. And I think Grant’s concept of an advance into Alabama is an intriguing idea. My army, with some reinforcements, could simply advance down the north bank of the Chattahoochee until it is within striking distance of Selma and Montgomery. We could move rapidly and live off the land, just like we did during the Vicksburg campaign. Both cities are critical enemy industrial centers. Capturing them would be a tremendous victory!”

  “Really?”

  “Of course! With the enemy forces all bunched up around Atlanta south of the Chattahoochee, there is really nothing to prevent a large force such as the Army of the Tennessee from moving from here into Alabama. The capture of Selma or Montgomery would greatly strengthen morale both within the ranks and on the home front and would certainly assist the present administration in its reelection prospects.”

  Sherman thought the eagerness being displayed by McPherson was akin to that of a child presented with a new toy. “Have you taken leave of your senses, man?”

  McPherson’s eyebrows shot up and his head jerked slightly backward. “I’m sorry?”

  “You are talking nonsense!” Sherman said with energy. “Six divisions of reinforcements is hardly sufficient! The enemy has probably received much more than that already, and could cross the river at any moment! The enemy cavalry is tearing our supply line to pieces! If we can make it back to Chattanooga with a thousand men remaining, we should count ourselves lucky!”

  The look of enthusiasm on McPherson’s face vanished in a flash, replaced by a look of horrified concern. “Cump, I have heard nothing of any enemy reinforcements, nor have I heard-“

  “You will address me as `General’, young man! Do you understand me properly?”

  McPherson was utterly taken aback. He and Sherman had become close friends over the years they had served together and informality between them was a matter of course. But the personal snub was nowhere near as frightening to McPherson as his chief’s clearly tenuous grip on sanity.

  Sherman continued on, waving his arms in exasperation. “And how dare Grant try to provoke me into launching an attack on Atlanta? Does he want my men slaughtered under the guns of our enemy like they were at Kennesaw Mountain? Or, dare I say, like his own men were slaughtered at Cold Harbor? And this talk of mounting an offensive into Alabama is the sheerest lunacy! How would he expect me to keep such a force supplied?”

  “If the Army of the Tennessee brought along sufficient ammunition in its wagon trains, it could subsist from the countryside as far as foodstuffs are concerned, just like we did during the Vicksburg campaign. It would also force Johnston to detach strong forces from his present position in order to block our advance.” McPherson said this cautiously, knowing its logic but not knowing if its logic would be appreciated.

  Sherman pointed his finger directly at McPherson. “When I ask you for information, you shall provide it to me. But I shall never ask for your advice on military matters, so do not presume to give it to me."

  “Of course, sir.” There was nothing else McPherson felt he could say.

  “Return to your command. Shoot that deserter. If you feel it necessary, find a different deserter and shoot him instead. But I will have examples made.”

  McPherson nodded. “Yes, sir.” He paused for a few moments, considering whether he should say what he wanted to say. “General Sherman, are you all right?”

  Sherman looked up at him icily. “Am I all right? Am I all right, you ask? You always ask me that! What the hell kind of question is that? Are you in league with Joseph Hooker now?”

  “You know that I detest that man just as much as you do,” McPherson said, resentment creeping into his voice. “What he has done to you by going to the papers with his false and slanderous stories offends me every bit as it does you.”

  “Does it now?” Sherman said sarcastically.

  McPherson waited a few moments before speaking again. “Was there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Return to your command.”

  “Yes, sir.” McPherson saluted stiffly, turned and walked out the door. Sherman didn’t bother watching him go, instead reading through Grant’s telegram once again.

  *****

  August 16, Night

  Nightfall had only made the rioting worse. From the roof of the building housing the offices and printing press of his newspaper, Manton Marble watched as New York City burned all around him. He was equally aghast and enthralled by what he saw. He had been an eyewitness to the devastating draft riots which had wracked the city the previous year, but it had quickly become apparent to him that the disturbances now engulfing the city made the unrest of 1863 appear trivial by comparison.

  Next door, a mob was busy ransacking the offices of the pro-Lincoln New York Times. Though he was not exactly displeased to see a rival newspaper receive such treatment, Marble was somewhat worried lest a fire start and spread to the New York World building. The rioters were leaving his own newspaper alone, deterred by the armed guards he had posted on the ground floor and the fact that his paper was well known to be opposed to the Lincoln administration.

  If what he was hearing from his reporters in other parts of New York City was true, the entire metropolis was dissolving into chaos. The houses of prominent Republicans were being attacked, gangs of Irish immigrants were venting their racial hatred by killing blacks on the street in horrific fashion, and stores and warehouses were being looted indiscriminately in every ward. The veneer of public order had completely fallen apart. Marble could see ugly red glows off to the north and northwest, indicating tha
t much of New York City was on fire.

  One of Marble’s errand boys, those young men who did favors and occasional reporting for him in the hopes of one day being a major player at the newspaper, came running breathlessly up to him, having charged up the stairs from the ground floor.

  “Mr. Marble! Mr. Greeley is here!”

  “Is he?” Marble said with a grin. Greeley, the eccentric but fervently Republican editor of the New York Tribune, was one of Marble’s most devoted enemies in both politics and the newspaper business. “What is he doing here?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, send him on up.”

  Marble turned and gazed out over the city again as the errand boy ran back downstairs. A few minutes later, Greeley arrived on the roof.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Marble,” he said harshly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are you doing here?”

  Greeley’s face was a synthesis of anger and despair. “It seems that the New York World is magically immune from the attentions of the rioters, though all Republican newspapers in the city are being attacked. If I want to save my own skin and avoid being hanged from a lamppost, I have little choice but to come here and ask for your protection.”

  “You have it,” Marble said, nodding. He honestly couldn’t have cared less if Greeley were hanged by the mob or not. Indeed, he would have found such an event worthy of several good jokes. But having one of his archenemies come and throw himself upon his mercy gave Marble a sense of satisfaction.

  “I hate having to ask you for it, thought, especially since all this is your doing.”

  “I am insulted, sir. How can a mere newspaper man like me be responsible for these riots?”

  “That story you ran the day after the shooting in Central Park!” Greeley spat. “The `Manhattan Massacre’ is what you called it! You said that the soldiers murdered Vallandigham and then fired into a peaceful crowd without provocation!”

  “That is what happened, according to my reporters.”

  “Hogwash! You just want to paint the administration with a tar brush and to sell newspapers! And if the city is burned to the ground as a consequence, you don’t care a damn!”

  “Did I send an angry crowd to attack the provost marshal’s headquarters the day after the shootings? Did I organize the funerals of the victims? No, I did not. These are real people we’re talking about here, Greeley. People who were killed by Union soldiers for no reason other than that they were attending a Democratic Party rally. You can’t argue with the facts.”

  The part of Marble’s mind which still respected the truth told him that Greeley might be correct. Exactly what had happened during the incident in Central Park was unclear, but it did seem that there were armed Tammany Hall men shooting at the soldiers at some point. Still, Marble had felt no particular compunction in failing to mention this fact in the story the New York World had run. The patriots of old had acted in precisely the same manner when the Boston Massacre had taken place, after all.

  The story he had run had suited his needs. The image of government soldiers murdering one of the President’s most vocal political opponents before firing into a peaceful crowd had quickly flashed across the country. The story he had written for the New York World had been reprinted almost word for word by the Chicago Times, the Cincinnati Inquirer and other Democratic newspapers across the North. Just as the story of Sherman’s insanity was beginning to fade from the front pages, the story of the Manhattan Massacre appeared. It, and the resulting riots in New York City, would obviously dominate the headlines for at least the next several days.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, you son of a bitch,” Greeley was saying. “You have on your hands the blood of all the people who have been killed in this chaos. I shall pray to God to have mercy on your soul.”

  Marble simply shrugged. He couldn’t possibly have cared less what Greeley said, nor was he paying attention to him any longer. He gazed out over the city as though it were a stage, feeling as though he was the playwright and the flames were his actors.

  *****

  August 17, Afternoon

  The confines of the office seemed even more stuffy than usual as Davis listened to George Trenholm, who had just recently joined his Cabinet as the new Secretary of the Treasury. What he was hearing did not make him happy.

  “How bad is it?” Davis asked. “Summarize, if you please.”

  “It’s bad, Mr. President. Very bad. According to my latest information, a barrel of flour which cost eight dollars at the commencement of the war now costs, on average, about four hundred and twenty-five dollars. People are paying five dollars for a pound of coffee, whereas when the war began it would have cost less than twenty cents. Potatoes cost seven times more today than they did two years ago, and a pound of beef that cost fifteen cents in late 1861 is today going for more than two dollars. The same is true for all other commodities, Mr. President.”

  “Not cotton or tobacco,” Davis pointed out.

  “True. But people can eat neither cotton nor tobacco.”

  Davis sighed and slowly nodded. He was far from unaware of the suffering endured by the civilian population on account of the inflation that was ravaging the Southern economy. For a moment, he recalled the day in the spring of 1863 when he had had to clamber atop a wagon in the Richmond streets and give an impromptu speech to calm an angry mob of women who were desperately seeking bread.

  “Can you at least tell me that our currency fares better?”

  “I wish I could, but I cannot,” Trenholm replied. Unlike the other Cabinet members, Benjamin aside, the new Secretary of the Treasury was displaying an annoying habit of telling Davis the bad news.

  “Out with it, then.”

  “Very well. At present rates, a Confederate dollar is worth only four percent of a dollar in gold.”

  “But that’s worse than it was three months ago!” Davis exclaimed.

  “Indeed it is, Mr. President.”

  “Surely the victory at Peachtree Creek would cause people to have more faith in Confederate currency!”

  “Perhaps, but you must remember that the Union has since won their naval victory at Mobile Bay.”

  “I know that. But the Battle of Peachtree Creek was far more important than the Battle of Mobile Bay.”

  “I’m not qualified to comment on matters of a military nature, Mr. President. But as great a victory as Peachtree Creek was, it has no apparent economic consequence. By contrast, the Union closure of Mobile Bay represents a severe economic blow to our Confederacy. Mobile, like Charleston and Savannah, is now closed to blockade runners. Galveston remains open but is cut off by Union control of the Mississippi River. This leaves Wilmington in North Carolina as the single port through which we can export cotton and import foreign goods.”

  Davis nodded quickly. He made a mental note to ask Secretary Seddon about conditions at Fort Fisher, which guarded the sea approaches to Wilmington. He also considered inquiring of General Lee as to whether it might be possible for some troops to be spared from the Army of Northern Virginia to reinforce the garrison of the fort.

  Trenholm was still talking. “The closure of Mobile Bay is about more than just hindering our ability to bring in hard cash through the sale of cotton. The government securities we have on sale in the bond markets of London, Paris and Amsterdam are only fetching the prices they are because they are backed by cotton. Even if we are unable to keep up the interest payments, the bond holder can still redeem them in cotton. But this only matters if the holder is actually able to take physical possession of the cotton.”

  “And the closure of Mobile Bay makes it much more difficult to do that than was previously the case.”

  “Exactly, Mr. President. This means that the bonds will decrease in value, and our currency with them, despite our recent victory at Peachtree Creek.”

  Davis looked down at the desk and shook his head. He was no economist, but had assumed that the ris
e in confidence following their great victory would help stabilize the value of Confederate currency and therefore limit the rise in commodity prices that was slowly strangling the country’s economy. To learn otherwise was extremely discouraging.

  If prices for foodstuffs and other necessary items continued to increase, morale on the home front would become increasingly worse. Davis could imagine how the men in uniform were being affected by receiving desperate letters from their families at home, describing how hard it was simply to obtain enough food for the children. At best, the spirits of the men would suffer. At worst, they might be tempted to desert.

  Could he blame them if they thought about deserting? He tried to imagine how he would react if he were in the army and received a letter from Varina telling him that the family was in desperate straits. Like any man, his first instinct would be to abandon the colors and go to his family with all speed, doing whatever he could to protect and provide for them. If anything was more important than a man’s duty to his country, it was his duty to his wife and children.

  Immersed in these thoughts, he suddenly realized that Trenholm was still talking.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. Could you repeat what you just said?”

  “I was saying that the latest figures regarding the blockade runners, which I have from Mr. Mallory, are equally discouraging. Not only is Mobile Bay now closed to us, leaving Wilmington as our last major open port, but the Yankee blockaders are becoming increasingly effective. When the war started, only one out of ten blockade runners was captured. Today, however, the figure is one out of three. The increased possibility of capture is making British sea captains increasingly reluctant to even make the attempt, as the higher insurance premiums they must pay are making the business less profitable.”

  Davis nodded. If anyone knew the economics of blockade running, it was Charles Trenholm. It was through blockade running that he had made himself the wealthiest man in the Confederacy before accepting Davis’s offer to become the Secretary of the Treasury.