Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “And cavalry? I must have cavalry to properly keep an eye on the Army of the Cumberland.”

  Johnston tilted his head in frustration and frowned. “Our lack of cavalry is our greatest weakness. But you are correct. General Jackson, you shall assign one brigade to General Hardee’s corps.” The commander of the cavalry nodded his assent.

  “They’re setting up an artillery battery, sir,” Stewart said, eyeing the enemy on the opposite bank through his field telescope.

  Johnston turned in his saddle and looked in the direction Stewart was pointing. He saw a distant puff of white gunpowder smoke and, a few moments later, heard a dull booming sound. Seconds after that, a cannonball slammed into the ground less than twenty yards away from the cluster of Confederate generals. It buried itself into the soggy ground and failed to explode, but Hardee and Stewart were splattered with bits of mud.

  “We should retire,” Hardee said calmly.

  “Not yet,” Johnston said, straightening himself in the saddle and staring defiantly across the river. “I shall not allow the Yankees to think they frightened us off.”

  “Remember how General Polk was killed.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Another artillery blast was heard from across the river and the cannonball slammed into the ground a few yards closer than the previous one. This time, the shell did explode, but the muddy ground in which it had buried itself muffled the detonation and no one was hurt. Two more shells followed, both as unproductive as the first two. Through it all, the five Confederate generals sat motionless in their saddles, staring impassively at the Northern gunners trying to kill them. They looked for all the world as though they cared less about the artillery fire than they did about the remote possibility of rain.

  “Very well, gentlemen. We’ve made our point. Let us retire.”

  With infinite patience, Johnston lightly kicked his horse into a walk and, trailed by his four subordinates, slowly moved away from the riverbank. The Yankee gunners fired a few more shots as they departed, but none came close to hitting them. As they left the river behind them, Johnston kicked his horse into a trot, with the others keeping pace.

  “General Stewart, General Cheatham, I want your corps on the march to Palmetto within the next two hours. I want the first train loaded with troops to be on its way to Alabama before the sun rises tomorrow morning. General Mackall will have all the details regarding rolling stock ready for you when you arrive at Palmetto.”

  The two generals grunted their understanding, and Johnston went on. “General Hardee, I shall obviously be accompanying the main force to Alabama, which leaves you in command of the region around Atlanta. I have full faith in you, of course. Make your dispositions with extreme care.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Very well. To your commands, gentlemen.”

  *****

  “Retaliation of this sort has been done as long as there has been warfare,” Cooper was saying calmly, as if explaining the matter to a child. “One can find examples in the books of the ancient historians, I believe. Herodotus and such.”

  “Do you think I give a damn about the ancient historians?” Seymour bellowed back. “You know and I know that there is absolutely no justification whatsoever for hanging General Thomas. It’s murder, plain and simple!”

  Cooper shrugged, as if the matter were no concern of his. Thomas, sitting silently off to one side of the room, was not surprised. He had known Cooper slightly before the war, when both had served in the United States Army. As far as Thomas was concerned, the man was only a single step above senility. Having come to Georgia on some other business, Cooper had decided to make an inspection tour of the prison camps at Andersonville and Camp Oglethorpe. Despite Thomas’s own objections, Seymour had loudly and repeatedly demanded an interview with Cooper to discuss the announced plans to execute Thomas. Thus far, the interview was going pretty much as Thomas had expected.

  “Forrest was murdered after he had been taken prisoner,” Cooper said. “That much is clear. Obviously, as the Union authorities have proven unwilling to hand over the perpetrators of this monstrous act, the Confederacy is left little choice but to retaliate against a prisoner of equal rank. Failing to do so would only encourage more such executions of Confederate prisoners, would it not?”

  “Oh, spare me,” Seymour said contemptuously. “How do we know these stories about Forrest being murdered weren’t just cooked up by your Southern newspapers?”

  “I would be happy to provide you with written copies of the eyewitness accounts, if you would like,” Cooper replied. “In any case, it is not for me to decide matters of government policy. I am merely communicating the intentions of the Davis administration as a professional courtesy.”

  Seymour stared daggers at Cooper. “It’s perfectly obvious to me that General Thomas is being singled out only because he is the most prominent Southerner to remain loyal to the Union. Were Thomas a Northerner, this execution would never have been proposed.”

  “A uniformed officer of the United States is the same as any other, as far as the Confederate government is concerned,” Cooper answered. “General Thomas has been selected for execution because he is the only Union officer currently in Confederate custody with a rank comparable to that of General Forrest. There are no other considerations, as far as I can see.”

  Thomas regretted having agreed to come to the interview. Cooper was in no mood to discuss the issue of his impending execution and, even had he been, he did not speak for the administration in Richmond. As it was, Thomas now feared that Cooper would interpret his silence as cowardice. He did not want the rebel general to think he was going to allow Seymour to fight his battles for him.

  Seymour was still shouting. “Even if Forrest was killed by Union troops after having been taken prisoner, is that any less than the bastard deserved? How many Union soldiers were killed by his troops when he captured Fort Pillow, after they had surrendered? Do you expect us to weep for the bastard?”

  Cooper was unmoved. “General Seymour, it is unbecoming for you to refer to General Forrest as a bastard. I would expect an officer of the United States Army to maintain a certain level of decorum.”

  “You refer to the army of which you were an officer before you decided to turn traitor, yes? You and all the rest of the Benedict Arnolds in your so-called Confederacy!”

  Cooper drew back, his face fixed in a frown, seeming more aggrieved than angered. Thomas guessed that Cooper had not had many occasions to discuss such matters with Union officers since the commencement of the war, so when it was thrown into his face he simply reacted with surprise.

  Something snapped in Thomas at that instant. Perhaps it was the pent-up rage he had felt due to his defeat at Peachtree Creek and the destruction of his army. Perhaps it was simply the frustration resulting from his long confinement. Whatever it was, it exploded.

  “Enough of this nonsense!” Thomas roared, smacking his leg and standing bolt upright from his chair. The teenage guards who stood nonchalantly behind Cooper were suddenly stirred into something resembling attention, bringing their muskets up in such a way that they could quickly be brought into firing positions. Cooper and Seymour were both stunned into silence, staring intently at Thomas and clearly wondering what he would do next.

  “Listen to me, Cooper,” Thomas said forcefully. “You think I give a damn that the rebel government is going to kill me? We all have to die sooner or later, don’t we? At least I will have the consolation to know that I died while remaining true to the oath I took at West Point, an oath that you and all the other rebels saw fit to ignore. But I will say this. I don’t want a hanging. If I’m going to die, I want to die a soldier’s death. I demand a firing squad!”

  Cooper’s eyebrows went up. “Forrest was hanged, according to the eyewitness accounts. I understand the thinking in Richmond to be that since he was hanged, you should be hanged also.”

  “At worst, Forrest’s death was an unauthorized action by over
zealous soldiers,” Thomas said. “My execution, by contrast, would be an official decision by a group of people claiming to be a legitimate government. If you rebels have even a shred of honor and decency, you’ll do me the favor of executing me by firing squad rather than having me hanged. We hang criminals, after all. Soldiers are executed by firing squad.”

  Cooper considered this. “It does not much matter to me which method is used for your execution. If you like, I shall pass on your concerns to Richmond.”

  Thomas nodded. “Please do,” he said, with all the politeness he was able to muster under the circumstances.

  “Has a date been set?” Seymour asked, casting a concerned glance at Thomas.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Cooper replied.

  “The sooner the better,” Thomas spat. “As long as it’s a firing squad. So long as I’m allowed to die a soldier’s death, the earlier I meet my Maker, the happier I will be. And the first thing I’ll do is tell God what a bunch of bastards all of you are!”

  *****

  September 15, Noon

  Hardee arrived at Cleburne’s tent and slid off his horse with ease. No spoken orders were necessary to ensure that a nearby corporal took the reins and tied the animal to a nearby tree. Cleburne was waiting for him.

  “What’s the word?” Cleburne asked, his voice mixing excitement with apprehension.

  “Stewart and Cheatham are headed for Alabama. Their troops are marching to Palmetto and are probably starting to board the trains even as we speak.”

  “And us?”

  “We’re to remain here to protect Atlanta and keep an eye on the Army of the Cumberland.”

  Cleburne nodded sharply, even as his mind whirled with various calculations. Their corps would be outnumbered two-to-one by the Army of the Cumberland. With the agony of Peachtree Creek now two months in the past, the Yankee force was probably back to the same level of effectiveness it had been when it had crossed the Chattahoochee River in mid-July.

  Hardee could see what he was thinking. “We still have the river between them and us, and we have the fortifications of the city. If they try to advance against us, they will have numbers on their side, but we would hold every other advantage. We will be fine.”

  “Do you think they will advance against us, William?”

  “I frankly doubt it. Grant is taking his dog and pony show to Alabama. In fact, it would not surprise me if a fair chunk of the Army of the Cumberland has joined the other two armies in the march southwest, leaving perhaps only two corps or so at Vining’s Station. I suspect their purpose is entirely defensive. They don’t want us getting back onto the north bank and heading up toward Chattanooga.”

  “If that’s so, then we might be in for a quiet time.” Cleburne said these words with some regret. He was a warrior, and his instinct was to be where the battle was raging. If the rest of the Army of Tennessee was soon to be locked in a deadly battle somewhere in Alabama, Cleburne would feel ashamed if he were not present.

  But there was more to it than that. If Cleburne and his division were to play a major role in a Confederate victory, perhaps the newspapers would stop talking about his old proposal and instead turn their attention to his military service to the Confederacy. The people who were now calling for his head might remember that he was a patriotic Southern general. It would be just what his reputation needed.

  And yet, there was a part of Cleburne which felt a certain measure of relief. Every day, the inevitable onset of winter came closer. When the snows came and the roads froze, the movement of large armies would become impossible and the campaign season would come to an end. If he remained alive when winter finally arrived, he would finally be able to secure a furlough from General Johnston, travel to Mobile, and be married to Susan.

  Hardee was still talking. “Nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet. Until it is proven otherwise, we will assume that the enemy across the river will attack Atlanta and we will make our dispositions accordingly.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have only four divisions of infantry and a brigade of cavalry. I hesitate even to count the Georgia Militia among our forces, as they are so very useless. But I suppose we shall have to bow to convention and kiss the ass of Governor Brown.”

  Cleburne chuckled, and Hardee went on.

  “I shall keep one division in Atlanta itself, to keep the Georgia Militia company. The three others will be stationed on the river, with their brigades stretched out to cover as much ground as possible without moving so far apart that they would be unable to support one another if attacked. The cavalry, of which we have far too little, will be deployed out on the flanks, with a few picked men to serve in roving patrols.”

  “A sound plan,” Cleburne said. “It allows us to cover as much ground as possible considering our limited resources, while keeping a central reserve in Atlanta. Now, who shall go where?”

  “A map?”

  Cleburne gestured toward a small table set up in front of his tent, on which a map of the Atlanta region lay. Hardee thumped it in various spots as he spoke.

  “Bate’s Division will serve as the central reserve in Atlanta. Maney’s Division will be positioned here, on the Chattahoochee at Howell’s Ferry, directly across from the Yankee encampment where the old railroad bridge is. I’ll send Walker’s Division upriver, to keep an eye on the same fords the Yankees crossed over the first time around.”

  “If they do cross the river, I doubt they’ll try to come the same way they came before. They’re not going to want to have to cross over Peachtree Creek again, by God!”

  “Certainly not.”

  “And my division?”

  “You’ll be posted downriver, keeping an eye on the fords down by Sandtown.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Good to keep you and Walker as far apart as possible, I think,” Hardee said with a grin.

  “I can’t help but notice that if the Army of the Cumberland does make a try for Atlanta, they are more likely to cross downriver and approach the city from the west. Doing so would allow them to avoid the obstacle of Peachtree Creek.”

  “Precisely where your division will be located, yes. It only makes sense to have my finest division commander at the point of greatest danger, does it not?”

  “As always, sir, it is a honor to me that you display such confidence in my abilities and those of my men.”

  “How many times in the past has your division been the rock on which the attack of the enemy was broken? Nothing shall ever cause my confidence in you to falter.” He then forced the serious expression off his face, reached across the table and cuffed Cleburne on the shoulder. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. I doubt that the Yankees across the river will stir out of their encampment.”

  “Likely not. We are rather like the actors of a four-act play who are never seen again after the second act.”

  “Speaking of plays, we should inquire what shall be showing at the Athenaeum, now that Mayor Calhoun has allowed it to reopen. Whatever the play is, we should make plans to attend.”

  *****

  September 15, Evening

  It felt good to be back in New York City. Marble’s journalistic profession and political interests required him to move across the length and breadth of the United States. He sometimes thought he had traveled more miles by rail than any other person in the country. Still, New York City was where he felt most comfortable and at home. Whenever he left it, Marble felt rather like a dragon having to leave its lair.

  As he stepped off the passenger car and onto the platform of the New York Central Railroad, he realized he had been gone too long. Watching the bustle and listening to the chatter of hundreds of fellow New Yorkers, he smiled with genuine warmth. He was back among his own kind of people.

  He strolled to the street, clutching both his own carpetbag and the one containing the money given to him by Humphries. He had distributed most of it while he had been in Chicago and at several other places during his return journey
. But he still had about five thousand dollars remaining and intended to use it all in New York City itself. A few minutes later, he was rolling through the city streets, happily listening to the clip-clopping of the horse pulling his cab and the curses of the driver constantly berating people who got in his way.

  As the cab approached his house, Marble’s head swirled with ideas. He would get a good night’s sleep, of course, but as early as possible the next morning he would be back at the offices of the New York World to repair whatever damage negligence had inflicted during his extended absence. In the meantime, he would dispatch messages to the most important Democrats in the city, arranging meetings to discuss how best to divvy up the remaining five thousand dollars still in his possession.

  He arrived and stepped out of the cab, quickly paying the driver. When he turned and began walking up the steps toward the door, he was stopped dead in his tracks.

  Standing on either side of the entrance to his house was a squad of Union infantrymen. They had been lazily leaning against the wall before he had arrived, but upon his appearance they came to attention. They did not look like proper soldiers, leading Marble to suspect that they were probably just militiamen. This didn’t surprise him, as any soldier worth his salt would have been at the front in Virginia or Georgia.

  But if the soldiers themselves did not have a frightening appearance, the officer standing in their midst certainly did. Marble immediately recognized General Benjamin Butler.

  “Good evening, Mr. Marble,” Butler said with a charm tinged with something sinister. To Marble’s eyes, Butler looked like a haggard clown, whose flabby cheeks seemed to droop down his face like melting makeup, while his arms and legs seemed like the appendages of an overweight octopus. Though Butler might look like a buffoon, Marble knew that he was the last person any rational man wanted to have for an enemy.