Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Surely the legislation that Congress passed to regulate blockade runners earlier this year is helping to alleviate the situation?” The law had specified that at least half of the cargo space on every blockade runner had to be placed at the disposal of the government. It had been an attempt to reduce the quantity of luxury goods such as wine and perfume in favor of military supplies and basic foodstuffs. The former, needless to say, generated significantly higher profits than did the latter.

  “The new law might be effective, if only we could enforce it. But most captains, to my knowledge, are completely ignoring the legislation. We could prosecute them, I suppose, but if we did that most of them would just get out of the blockade running business altogether, which would gain us nothing.”

  The President sighed in exasperation. Legislation which seemed so simple on paper was all too often ephemeral when applied to the real world. It was like trying to eat soup with a fork.

  ‘Very well, Mr. Secretary. I thank you for your report. Please summarize any recommendations you have as to how we might improve our financial situation and submit them to me in writing before next week.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” Trenholm rose, bowed, and walked out the door, leaving the President alone.

  Davis slowly shook his head. What Trenholm had told him was not especially surprising, but this made it no less dispiriting. The Confederacy might win a dozen battlefield victories as decisive as Peachtree Creek, but if the war went on the economy that supported the war effort would eventually collapse. Inflation and the growing lack of basic necessities were like an acid that was dissolving the Confederacy from within.

  Since the defeat at Gettysburg and the fall of Vicksburg, Davis had known that the only way for the Confederacy to gain its independence would be to outlast the North until a peace party was voted into power. They had only to hold on for three months longer. With the Southern economy rapidly falling to pieces, he wondered if they had that much time.

  *****

  August 18, Noon

  To Grant, the sound of the guns bombarding the Confederate trenches at Petersburg rolled over the central Virginia countryside like the thunder of a distant but approaching storm. He didn’t hear the louder, clanging sound of rebel return fire, which didn’t surprise him. As low on gunpowder as they were, the enemy didn’t respond to his regular artillery barrages unless they felt they had to.

  Sitting under a tree just outside his headquarters at City Point, Grant paid no attention to the sound of artillery in any event. He was focused on the shocking telegram he held in his hands.

  General Grant,

  We send this message to you with the greatest reluctance, but we feel that the duty we owe to the nation requires it. It seems to us that General Sherman has suffered some sort of mental breakdown that has incapacitated him and rendered him unfit for command. The symptoms appear to resemble the same malaise from which General Sherman suffered in late 1861. He seems not to comprehend the true nature of the military situation, imagining it to be far worse than it is. We fear for the well-being of our commander no less than we do for the good of the service. Having had discreet discussions among ourselves, we feel compelled to bring this matter to your attention and we trust that you will take any necessary and appropriate action.

  General James McPherson

  General John Schofield

  General Oliver Howard

  Grant folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. Shocking though it was, no member of Grant’s staff could have told it from the expression on their commander’s face, which remained as serene and unconcerned as ever. The contents of the message were what he had greatly feared and hoped against hope would not happen. Now, he had to make what would be one of the most difficult decisions of his tenure as general-in-chief of the Union armies.

  Ulysses S. Grant trusted William T. Sherman as he trusted no other man. But he also knew him better than any other man. He remembered the dark days of late 1861, when Sherman had very nearly been forced out of the army under suspicion of insanity. He knew, from countless midnight discussions with Sherman throughout 1862 and 1863, about the dark depressive states into which he could fall, to say nothing of his suicide attempt.

  During his service as Grant’s subordinate at Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Chattanooga, Sherman had successfully regained his self-confidence. His strength had endured such setbacks as the failed attack at Kennesaw Mountain. Despite this, Grant could well imagine the damage inflicted upon Sherman’s mind by the disastrous defeat at Peachtree Creek. The renewed charges of insanity in the papers brought on by the interview with Joseph Hooker had only made it worse. Such misfortunes could break the mind of any man.

  Looking down at the three names signed to the bottom of the telegram, Grant focused in particular on McPherson. A brother-in-arms, McPherson had served with both Grant and Sherman since the beginning of the war. Sherman alone excepted, McPherson was the man in the army Grant most admired and trusted. He would not have attached his name to such a message unless he had seen the evidence with his own eyes and had absolutely no doubt that the essence of the telegram was true.

  The fact that the two other army commanders serving under Sherman had attached their names to the telegram was also quite telling. While he did not know either Schofield or Howard particularly well, he knew that they would not have advanced to the level of army command had they been fools. If all three of them were of the same mind on the subject, then the situation had to be truly grave.

  The facts on the ground confirmed what the men said. Nearly three weeks had passed since Sherman’s forces had withdrawn to the north bank of the Chattahoochee. The reinforcements being sent from Virginia were soon to arrive, despite the annoyance of the rebel raids on the railroads in Tennessee and Georgia. Yet Sherman had communicated no clear plan and had not undertaken any significant operation. It was as if he had become paralyzed.

  For a long time, Grant sat silently. He smoked a cigar and, as he was wont to do when faced with a difficult decision, whittled away on a short stick with a knife. He went over in his mind, again and again, the likely consequences of varying courses of action he might take in light of the information he had just received.

  Finally, after a long time, he made his decision. He rose from his chair, walked into his headquarters, and called for writing materials.

  *****

  August 18, Afternoon

  “Wheeler dead?” Johnston repeated, shocked despite himself.

  “Yes, sir,” the officer standing before him said sadly. He was Captain Jefferson Leftwich of the 8th Tennessee Cavalry Regiment, one of the units which had gone north with Wheeler on his grand raid against Sherman’s supply lines. He had arrived at Johnston’s headquarters at the Niles House only ten minutes earlier, covered in dust and with his head wrapped in a bloody bandage.

  Johnston nodded slowly. “Give me the details, son.”

  The story which Leftwich proceeded to recount was not a pleasant one to hear, but neither did it particularly take Johnston by surprise. He had heard nothing from Wheeler since the cavalry general had departed the army with four thousand troopers on July 28. Not having had a very high opinion of Wheeler’s abilities to begin with, he had not expected any useful results from the raid.

  What had apparently happened was less a raid than a fiasco. Rather than strike at the most vulnerable sections of the Western and Atlantic Railroad, Wheeler had gone looking for a fight, directing his men to attack the strongly fortified blockhouses Sherman’s engineers had constructed to protect bridges and other important points. Instead of avoiding Union cavalry brigades, Wheeler had actively sought them out in his quest for combat. Although the Southern troopers had won some of these fights, on each occasion they suffered significant losses, became more disorganized, and lost valuable time.

  As he listened to Leftwich go on, Johnston felt more and more disappointed. After tearing up a measly few miles of railroad south of the Etowah River, Wheeler veered northwards a
nd attempted to attack the Union forts at Dalton and Resaca.

  However, according to Leftwich, Wheeler had begun to lose control of his command by this point. He had never been a very strict disciplinarian, which was one of the main complaints Johnston had had about him, and had clearly failed to keep his units under firm control. Hundreds of Tennessee and Kentucky troopers had deserted and gone off to visit their homes. Other units fell to looting local communities on the excuse that they needed supplies.

  “A damn disgrace,” Mackall said upon hearing of the looting.

  “Captain Leftwich,” Johnston said firmly. “Before you take your leave, please give General Mackall the names of any looters you can specifically identify. They shall have charges brought against them at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Of course, General.”

  “Now, go on.”

  He did. Leftwich told of a foolhardy attack Wheeler had launched on an enemy fort near Dalton, which he had expected to be an easy victory because the men holding it had been black troops, recruited from among the freed slaves of Tennessee. But the black troops defending the post had fought bravely and effectively, holding their position without much trouble at all. Wheeler himself had been carried from the field, shot through the chest. According to Leftwich, he had lasted about two hours before he finally died, enduring agonizing pain before the end.

  The remainder of the story was even worse. Of the four thousand men Wheeler had taken with him into northern Georgia, only a few hundred were on their way back to the Army of Tennessee. Leftwich was, as far as he knew, the first officer to make it back to friendly lines, and had taken it upon himself to report to Johnston as quickly as he could.

  “You have done very well, Captain Leftwich. Now, return to your men and do what you can to get them in proper fighting trim. And please prepare a written report.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young captain gave a stiff, professional salute, which Johnston returned with every mark of respect.

  Throughout the interview, several staff officers had crowded around, interested to hear the account for themselves. Now that it was over, they scattered to return to their duties. Johnston leaned against one of the pillars on the porch, a surly look on his face, shaking his head.

  “It’s a shame, William. A fine force of four thousand cavalry, destroyed for no good reason.”

  “Indeed,” Mackall replied. “I see no benefit from Wheeler’s raid. Our scouts report that trains from Chattanooga have continued to arrive in Sherman’s camp without any apparent trouble.”

  “The only benefit I can see from this disaster is that it may have drawn away Union cavalry forces which would otherwise have been employed against Forrest in Tennessee. Forrest, unlike Wheeler, has actually been able to accomplish some good. However, now that Wheeler is dead and his force scattered, it may be that Forrest will face increasing opposition.”

  Mackall nodded. “It is already clear that several brigades of the Sixth Corps arriving from Virginia have been deployed to garrison threatened points in Tennessee rather than be shipped on down the railroad to Sherman. Reconstruction of the bridge at Bridgeport is already underway, according to our sources.”

  “Astonishing,” Johnston said with admiration. “Had we but a fraction of the material resources of the North, our independence would have been achieved long ago.”

  “Truth, indeed.”

  “Please send a message to General Forrest informing him of what happened to Wheeler’s command. He will want to know, as it may affect his own operations.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Wheeler was not married, was he?”

  Mackall thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “Double check. In any case, find out the name of his nearest living relative and draft a letter for me to send to them.”

  “I will.” Mackall paused a moment before he spoke again. “Wheeler was among those plotting to remove you from command.”

  Johnston waved dismissively. “It makes no difference now. Whatever his flaws as a man and as a commander, he was a brave man who died defending his country.”

  Mackall nodded and strode off, leaving Johnston to his thoughts. He shook his head again. It was impossible to know how many of his troopers had been killed or captured in this foolish escapade. Some would have deserted and gone home, while it was likely that others would trickle back to the army either individually or in small groups over the coming weeks.

  What was clear to Johnston was that half of his cavalry had been effectively destroyed. What impact this would have on the campaign was anyone’s guess. Sherman had barely budged since he had withdrawn across the Chattahoochee three weeks earlier, and Johnston found his lack of activity very disquieting. True, thousands of Sherman’s men had departed due to expired enlistments, but he was also receiving reinforcements from Virginia.

  Johnston was worried. If Sherman now intended on making some sort of movement across the Chattahoochee to once again threaten Atlanta, the weakness of the Confederate cavalry would make it more difficult for such a move to be detected in time for it to be intercepted. It was still summer. There remained several months in the campaign season before winter would bring a halt to active operations. Johnston had no doubt that the enemy would make another attempt to capture Atlanta, though he had no idea where and how they would do it.

  Worse, Johnston felt certain that President Davis would seek to lay the blame for the destruction of the cavalry and the death of Wheeler squarely on his shoulders. After all, Davis blamed Johnston for the loss of Vicksburg, the loss of northern Georgia, and just about every other Confederate setback. As far as Johnston could tell, Davis would have liked to blame him for the original sin of Adam and the damnation of all mankind. It would not matter in the least that it had been Davis, rather than Johnston, who had pushed for the dispatch of Wheeler.

  He had defeated Sherman at Peachtree Creek. Hood had departed the army and now Wheeler had been sent to his eternal reward by a bullet fired from the gun of a freed slave. Still, Johnston felt certain that his most dangerous enemy remained determined to destroy him.

  Mackall returned and held out an elegantly enveloped letter with a wax seal. “Just arrived from Atlanta, General. Mayor Calhoun requests the honor of your presence at a banquet this Saturday celebrating our victory at Peachtree Creek and the eviction of the enemy from the south bank of the Chattahoochee. This is your official invitation, or so I am told.”

  “Well, that’s very generous of the honorable mayor,” Johnston said, taking the invitation, slicing through the wax seal and quickly reading its contents. “Two days from now? I suppose that would be acceptable, barring any serious military developments. Please send Mayor Calhoun my regards and tell him I will attend.”

  “Very well, sir. If there happens to be any wine left over, I hope you would do me the favor of bringing it back for the headquarters staff to enjoy.”

  Johnston laughed. “Consider it done, my friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  August 19, Evening

  “I don’t which circle of hell Clement Vallandigham ended up in,” Lincoln said with a wry grin. “Wherever he is, though, I have no doubt that he’s having a good laugh at my expense.”

  Across the table, Secretary of State William Seward chuckled softly, pouring himself another glass of claret from an ornate decanter as he did so. Lincoln nodded when Seward held the decanter up slightly, whereupon another glass was poured for the President. Lincoln drank virtually no alcohol, but the wine Seward served was so fine that Lincoln usually indulged in a glass or two whenever he visited the table of his Secretary of State.

  “Wherever traitors go, I should think,” Seward answered. “Wasn’t that the eighth circle?”

  “The ninth, I believe.” Lincoln thought about it for just a moment. “Yes, I am quite certain it was the ninth. That was where Dante found Brutus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot.”

  Lincoln thought back to when he had first en
countered Dante’s Inferno as a teenager. He was momentarily transported back to the lonely youth on his father’s farm in Indiana, with less than a year of formal education, seemingly condemned to live a life of obscurity and meaningless toil. His love of books and poetry had provided the only means of escape from the harsh realities of his existence.

  Lincoln took another bite of the delicious roast beef that had been set before him, which had been tenderly cooked on a spit for hours while being flavored with rosemary and other herbs. Next to it was a dish of delicately stewed vegetables. It was about as far from the simple fare he had eaten in his youth as was possible to get. They had already completed a lovely first course of turtle soup and salad. If the previous evenings he had spent at Seward’s home were any indication, Lincoln could look forward to a splendid dessert when the dinner was completed.

  The President greatly enjoyed the evenings he spent at Seward’s splendid home on Lafayette Square. Such nights were becoming more frequent as the stresses of his office increased as the war dragged on. In Seward’s company, Lincoln found a companion with whom he could discuss poetry, philosophy, religion, and other subjects that had absolutely nothing to do with the war or the political issues of the day. It was a relationship that Lincoln could never have had with Stanton or any of his other friends in Washington. Moreover, since Mary Todd disliked Seward and refused to set foot in his house, as Seward’s guest Lincoln could find a few precious hours of freedom from his complicated and frustrating marriage.

  Seward was still talking. “In any case, you are correct. In death, Vallandigham may have the last laugh. I fear that he will do us more harm by getting himself killed than he would have done had he given a thousand additional speeches and written a thousand more pamphlets.”

  Lincoln nodded soberly, taking another bite of the roast beef. Ever since Vallandigham’s death, in what even some Republican newspapers were now calling the Manhattan Massacre, the unscrupulous Copperhead politician had been held up as a martyr by the Democratic Party. Demonstrations against what was seen as his murder had been held from one end of the Union to the other.