Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “I’m not disturbing you, I hope?”

  “Not at all,” Benjamin said, waving to the seat across the desk. “To what do I owe this visit? Is something the matter which cannot wait until tomorrow’s meeting of the full Cabinet?”

  “I’m not sure,” Davis admitted. “We have received a telegram from General Johnston informing us that he is moving the bulk of his army by train from Atlanta to Alabama in order to counter the move by General Grant in that direction.”

  “I see. I shall not venture to express an opinion on the military merits of such a decision, as I am entirely uneducated in the arts of war.”

  “It is not the military aspects of the decision which worry me. I am concerned that Johnston saw fit to make such a decision without receiving permission from the government to do so.”

  “Ah,” Benjamin said. “Now that I understand completely. You fear that Johnston is appropriating to himself the strategic direction of the war, which is your responsibility.”

  “I am the President, and the Constitution states emphatically that the President is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces.”

  “Indeed. As with most of the rest, that clause was lifted directly from the United States Constitution. I imagine that the James Madison and his friends knew what he was doing when he elected to give control of the military to the President.”

  Davis shook his head. “Johnston publicly socializes with Senator Wigfall, Governor Brown, Vice-President Stephens, and just about every other prominent critic of our administration. These are the very people who say that I have no business being the President of our Confederacy.”

  “Not only that. They are discussing Johnston as possible presidential candidate in 1867.”

  Davis scoffed. To him, the idea of Joseph Johnston being the chief executive of the Confederacy was ludicrous. “So, what am I to do with a general who constantly consorts with my political enemies and now refuses to communicate with the government before making major strategic decisions?”

  “I confess I do not know. History is full of politically ambitious generals who gradually began to raise themselves to a higher level than the government they ostensibly served. Look back to the Roman Republic and the lives of Sulla or Marius or, for that matter, Julius Caesar. Look at Cromwell in England or Bonaparte in France.”

  “General Johnston was already the darling of our political enemies before Peachtree Creek. In the months since, they have raised him to the level of a mythical hero. God help us, Judah. If we do not do something to deal with this nonsense, we might find ourselves facing a military coup the moment the war against the Yankees is over.”

  *****

  September 16, Evening

  Down on the stage of Ford’s Theater, Shylock was raging against the injustices he felt had been committed against him by his fellows.

  “He hath disgraced me!” the booming and magnificent voice of Edwin Booth thundered. “And hindered me half a million! Laughed at my losses! Mocked at my gains! Scorned my nation! Thwarted my bargains! Cooled my friends! Heated my enemies! And what’s his reason? I am a Jew!”

  “Shakespeare didn’t like the Jews, clearly,” Seward said, leaning over to whisper in Lincoln’s ear. No one in the audience could have heard a conversation going on in the President’s Box, but the Secretary of State still felt compelled to whisper.

  Lincoln looked over at him in some surprise. “How do you figure?”

  “Shylock is the only Jewish character Shakespeare ever wrote. He made the man an unspeakable villain, motivated by nothing but avarice and revenge. Just like Christopher Marlowe did in The Jew of Malta.”

  “Listen further,” Lincoln said, tossing his head toward the action on the stage.

  “Hath not a Jew eyes?” Shylock was pleading. “Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food? Hurt by the same weapons? Subject to the same diseases? Healed by the same means? Warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?”

  “You see?” Lincoln said.

  Seward nodded quickly, but was too intent on the action of the play to respond to the President.

  “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we shall resemble you in that!”

  Lincoln turned back to Seward with a smile. “You’re right that Shylock is a villain. After what he did to Antonio, how could he be otherwise? But can you not see that he was driven to such evil by his endless persecution at the hands of the Christians of Venice? The people in this play who we are supposed to see as the protagonists – Antonio, Bassanio, and all the women – they created Shylock’s evil, even though they cannot recognize this.”

  Seward shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “Hmm,” Lincoln said thoughtfully. “If you think about it, one can see parallels between how the Christians of Venice treated their Jews and how the whites of the South treat their blacks. The Venetians reviled the Jews of the community for engaging in usury, even though the legal restrictions the Venetians themselves had placed on the Jews left them with no other choice than to engage in money-lending. Similarly, the Southern whites deride their blacks as ignorant brutes fit only to be slaves, even though it is the Southern whites themselves have made the blacks ignorant by ensuring that they never learn to read or write.”

  “No one who has met with Frederick Douglass can say that a man born a slave is naturally an ignorant brute.”

  “Indeed not!” Lincoln said, rather too loudly. He heard a rustling in the audience below him and realized he had not kept his voice sufficiently quiet. No one present would dare shush the President of the United States, but they could still make their displeasure known indirectly. “Indeed not,” Lincoln said again, this time in a whisper. “The man may skewer me in the columns of his newspaper from time to time, but what a fine man he is! And how hard he has worked at recruiting men for our black regiments!”

  “When a man is oppressed, when a man is pushed far enough, he shall push back. Rather like Shylock, I suppose. But Douglass is a considerably more dignified and honorable man than Shylock is.” Seward chuckled softly.

  Lincoln greatly enjoyed coming to the theater. Since he had arrived in Washington three years earlier, he had been to the performances at Ford’s Theater and Grover’s Theater over a hundred times. Sitting in the darkness of the President’s Box, he felt somehow insulated from the pressures of the war and the demands of his office. While at the theater, Abraham Lincoln could be a human being, at least for a few precious hours.

  “Edwin Booth is in fine form tonight,” Lincoln observed.

  Seward nodded. “The finest actor of our age, I’d reckon. I had him over to my house for dinner not too long ago. We had a lovely conversation.”

  “A good Union man?” Lincoln asked. He recalled that the Booths were from Maryland, which meant that their loyalties might lie on either side.

  “Oh, beyond any doubt. He is very loyal to the government. The same cannot be said for his brother John, alas.”

  “John Booth? Also an actor, yes? I seem to recall him playing Cassius in Julius Caesar at Grover’s Theater not long ago.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I think he played Brutus, though.”

  The two ceased talking and continued to watch the play. The scene had shifted to a silly conversation between the love-struck Portia and her suitor Bassanio, neither of whom had the slightest conception of the disorder and anguish they were inadvertently causing through their actions. Lincoln reflected for a moment on the Bard’s meaning. How much agony was brought about by people who simply had no idea what they were doing?

  A man slipped into the back of the box, quietly cleared his throat, and handed Lincoln a message. He quickly unfolded and read it.

  “Secretary Stanton is outside,” Lincoln said quietly.

  “Did you not invite him to the play?” Seward asked.
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  “He said he didn’t want to come. You know that he considers the theater a waste of time.” He turned to the messenger. “Could you ask the Secretary to come into the box, please?” The man nodded and left.

  Lincoln went back to watching the play. Bassanio was now engaged a game in which he had to answer a riddle in order to win Portia’s hand in marriage. It was all the more moving as Bassanio has just realized that he truly loved Portia. For a brief moment, Lincoln felt grief tug on his heartstrings as the image of the face of Ann Rutledge passed through his mind. She had been his first love, with whom he shared more pure and unadulterated affection as a young man that he had ever enjoyed with his wife in later years. She had been taken from him at the tender age of twenty-two during a typhoid epidemic. He wondered how different his life would have been had she lived.

  Lincoln was distracted from these melancholy thoughts when the messenger returned.

  “Mr. Stanton will not come into the theater, Mr. President. He says that he wishes to speak to you outside.”

  A look of intense irritation crossed Lincoln’s face. He rose from his chair with the deepest reluctance. Though he rather wished Seward would remain seated and continue to watch the play, Lincoln did not protest when the Secretary of State rose to follow him.

  They emerged out onto 10th Street, which was crowded with people and carriages despite the late hour. Torches hanging from iron braces on the façade of Ford’s Theater illuminated the scene. A troop of infantry was marching by amidst the bustle, unaware of the presence of the President.

  Stanton, looking irritable as always, was waiting.

  “Well, Edwin? What’s so important that we needed to be disturbed while at the theater?”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t waste your time with such amusements, Mr. President. What does one achieve by watching people frolic around on a stage pretending to be people they are not?”

  “Come with us to a performance and you might learn,” Seward replied with a grin. He always had found Stanton’s seriousness amusing.

  Stanton politely ignored the comment. “I’ve gotten some telegrams from both New York City and Chicago in the last hour. It seems that some of the newspapers will run stories in their morning editions tomorrow that Grant has abandoned the effort to capture Atlanta and is instead advancing into central Alabama.”

  “Are they?” Lincoln said. “Well, I can honestly say that I really don’t know what Grant is doing.”

  “Some of the reporters are already showing up at the War Department, asking questions.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear that Stanton did not think the reporters had any right to ask questions about anything unless he deigned to give them permission to do so.

  “Let them speculate,” Lincoln said. “All I can say is that I know which hole Grant has gone into, but I do not know which hole he will come out of.” Seward smiled at the analogy, but Stanton’s face remained cold.

  “Grant has not informed me of his destination, nor has he said a word to Chief-of-Staff Halleck. It really is unseemly, Mr. President. I am the Secretary of War, after all.”

  “Yes, yes, Edwin. I hope you take no offense at Grant’s secretiveness. But as he is the one general we have capable of delivering results, I humbly request that you indulge him in this. He clearly knows what he is doing.”

  “Very well, Mr. President,” Stanton said in a voice which sounded more like a grunt. “We must assume that the rebels in Richmond will have access to the newspapers within a few days at most.” Try as they might, the commanders in the field had never been able to stop the informal trade that went on between the lines of the opposing armies around Petersburg, in which Yankee coffee was traded for Southern tobacco and each side traded its respective newspapers.

  Lincoln shrugged. “Chances are that the rebels are already aware of the movement, if indeed it is taking place. One cannot move a large army a great distance without someone noticing, after all.”

  Stanton cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of Manton Marble.”

  Lincoln chuckled, amused at the alliteration. Stanton’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “Oh, do cheer up, Edwin! Now, tell me about Marble.”

  “Butler arrested him, and claims he found evidence on his person that he did indeed receive money from Humphries and has been using it to finance the Democratic election campaign. He has now placed him under arrest.”

  “I assume that Butler, being Butler, has prepared a complete and concise summary of the evidence mentioned?”

  “He did, yes.”

  “Very well. Make sure that this report accidently finds its way to the newspapers. In particular, anything linking Marble directly to McClellan needs to be mentioned.”

  “Easily done, Mr. President.”

  Lincoln smiled broadly, then slapped his thigh and laughed. “The people will be up in arms when they discover that the same rebels who are daily killing their sons and husbands are also financing the political campaign against our administration.”

  “We may have the Democrats over a barrel, Mr. President,” Seward said happily.

  “Quite so, quite so. And if Grant sends us news of a victory in the West, confidence shall be restored both among the public and in the financial markets. Things are definitely looking up, my friends!”

  “I will reserve my judgment for the time being, Mr. President,” Stanton said, refusing to smile. “But I agree that our situation seems to have improved.”

  “Will you join us for the remainder of the play?” Seward asked Stanton.

  “No, thank you. Too much work to do. I bid you both a pleasant evening.” Stanton touched his hat and walked off down the street.

  “Come, Mr. Seward,” Lincoln said happily, taking the elbow of the Secretary of State. “If we hurry, we can still catch the courtroom scene.”

  *****

  September 18, Noon

  The men of the Army of the Tennessee were continuing to trudge southwest along the bank of the Chattahoochee River. When the march had first begun, they had occasionally spotted Confederate cavalry shadowing them from the opposite bank, but these men had not appeared for a few days. Aside from a few men injured in wagon accidents, the march thus far had been utterly uneventful.

  General McPherson was riding at the head of one of his divisions, happily contemplating the fact that the day was going to be both dry and cool and therefore good for marching. He then saw Grant approach at a canter with only a small escort behind him.

  He touched his head. “General Grant.”

  Grant nodded. “How does the day find you, James?”

  “Well, sir. Very, very well. My boys seem to be in fine spirits.”

  “Excellent.”

  “How is it with the other armies?” McPherson asked.

  “Schofield and his boys are fine. I believe that Howard the Army of the Cumberland are feeling rather lonely back at Vining’s Station.”

  McPherson chuckled. It was not like Grant to make such a joke, so the junior officer assumed that his chief must be in exceptionally good spirits. “Is there any sign of rebel opposition up ahead?”

  “None,” Grant said. “Some local militia in a few towns, who quickly surrender when they see the size of our force. A few cavalry scouts. Not many, though.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Grant shook his head. “No, it’s not. I’d much rather have more cavalry on us than has been the case. Perhaps our defeat of Wheeler inflicted more damage on the rebel cavalry than I thought. In any case, though, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that Johnston and the authorities in Richmond see that we’re headed to central Alabama and take steps to stop us.”

  McPherson’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, James, that’s why I have come to you today.” He handed an envelope over to McPherson. “Your new orders. The Army of the Tennessee is to halt its march southwest, turn around, and return to Campbellton with all speed. You will be
met there by advance elements of the Army of the Cumberland.”

  McPherson looked through the first few lines of his orders. “March back to the northeast? Why have we come all this way only to turn around and go back the way we have come?”

  “It’s quite simple, really. You and the Army of the Ohio have been taking part in a ruse, designed to make the enemy believe that we had abandoned our effort to capture Atlanta. In fact, the capture of Atlanta has been my goal all along. We’ve received word from our spies in the city that General Johnston has been successfully deceived. Two corps have been entrained at Palmetto and are now on their way to Montgomery. Only a single corps now holds Atlanta. If we cross the river and move on the city quickly from the west, we shall have such an overwhelming numerical advantage that we should be able to defeat this force and capture Atlanta before Johnston realizes his mistake and brings the other two corps back.”

  As he listened to what Grant was saying, a smile gradually spread across McPherson’s face. He was silent for nearly a minute, while Grant eyed him closely to gauge his reaction to the news.

  “Well, James?” Grant finally asked.

  “General Grant, I applaud you. You certainly fooled me. And you seem to have fooled Johnston as effectively as you fooled Pemberton last year during the Vicksburg Campaign.”

  Grant grunted. “Let’s hope so. But there is a lot of work to be done before we congratulate ourselves. You and your men must move to Campbellton at once and secure a bridgehead across the river. The Army of the Cumberland will march to meet you there, excepting one corps which shall remain at Vining’s Station to protect the railroad from any rebel attack.”

  “And Schofield?”

  “He shall continue downriver with his men for the time being, as will most of the cavalry, to keep up the appearance of a threat to Alabama.”

  “And when we’re across the river in force?”

  “Why, James, it should be obvious. When we’re across the river in force, we shall move directly on Atlanta, smash the rebel force remaining there, and present the city as a gift for President Lincoln.”