There was stone cold silence. The flickering of the torches and the dripping of a trickle of water onto stone were the only sounds. For a long minute, Marble tried to make sense of what Butler was saying.
“Perhaps if you explained yourself?” he finally asked.
“I am willing to offer you a deal. If you do what I want, I am willing to let you out.”
“And why on Earth would you do that? You are Lincoln’s errand boy, aren’t you?”
“I am my own errand boy.”
“And what is it that you want me to do?”
“It’s quite simply, really. I want to be the Secretary of War. If McClellan wins the election, as I believe he shall, I want to be included in his cabinet as the Secretary of War.”
Marble’s eyes widened in shock. The unadulterated audacity of the man was enough to win his admiration, if not his respect. Butler had been a ferociously partisan Democrat before the war, pushing for Jefferson Davis to be nominated as the party’s presidential candidate and stridently working against Lincoln’s election throughout 1860. When the Southern states had seceded and the war had begun, Butler had effortlessly switched over to the Republicans and become one of Lincoln’s staunchest supporters. Now, by the looks of things, he was ready to switch sides yet again.
“You amaze me, General Butler,” Marble said. “At least Benedict Arnold had the decency to betray only one side.”
“Spare me. I made you an offer. What say you?”
Marble raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “George McClellan has said he wants nothing more to do with me. Governor Seymour probably doesn’t trust me any longer, either. I want to get out of this jail as much as any prisoner in history, but what makes you think I can persuade anyone in the party to make you Secretary of War?”
“If I release you from this jail, I am also willing to make a statement to the press that your arrest was unwarranted and that the evidence against you was contrived. In a flash, your credibility with McClellan, Seymour, and the other power players in the Democratic Party will be restored. Indeed, it will be enhanced, as you will become a symbol for what you have been calling the unconstitutional abuse of power by the Lincoln administration.”
“But what has become of the evidence? The list you confiscated from me?”
He withdrew a piece of paper from his uniform coat pocket. “Is this the list to which you refer? If we have an agreement, I shall place it over one of these torches.”
“And the remaining five thousand dollars?”
Benjamin said nothing, staring impassively through the bars at him. Marble took that to mean that the money had already found its way into Butler’s own coffers.
“Why do you think McClellan is going to win the election? From what Governor Seymour told me, Grant is knocking on the gates of Atlanta and the people are enraged at the idea of the rebels funding the Democratic Party. It seems to me that Lincoln’s chances for reelection are now excellent.”
Butler slowly shook his head. “The scandal you speak of, once I let you out and release my statement to the press, will be like the tide reversing itself. As for Grant, I do not expect him to succeed at Atlanta. Indeed, I expect that he shall eventually be repelled by the enemy and will suffer enormous casualties. At least, that is the outcome I choose to bet on.”
“Quite a risk,” Marble said.
Butler looked up at the ceiling, staring at nothing in particular. “If I were to remain a Lincoln man and the Republicans emerge triumphant in the upcoming election, I would expect to be rewarded. I shall be guaranteed a seat in the House of Representatives. Perhaps I should even be the Governor of Massachusetts. But a Cabinet post? No, Lincoln would never have that. It will be his policy to reconcile with the South once they are defeated, and that task would be made much more difficult were I in the Cabinet.”
Marble nodded in understanding. As far as the Confederates were concerned, no Union man was more despised than Benjamin Butler. During his stint as the military governor of New Orleans, he had executed a man for tearing down the United States flag, issued an order allowing his men to treat as prostitutes any woman found to be disrespecting a Union soldier or sailor, and lined his own pockets and that of his brother through corrupt deals in confiscated cotton. He had bent himself to the task of recruiting both former slaves and Confederate prisoners into the Union army. Jefferson Davis himself had issued a proclamation stating that Butler would be immediately shot if he were ever to be captured by Confederate forces.
“Why is it so important for you to be in the Cabinet?” Marble asked. “I would have thought a lifetime seat in Congress or the governorship of Massachusetts would be enough, even for you.”
“If you don’t know the answer to that question, Marble, than you have no business being a newspaper man.”
Marble considered this for a moment, and then all became clear. A seat in Congress or the governorship of a state would, for all their prestige, confine Butler to a relatively small geographic region of the country. At most, he might exercise a dominating political influence over New England, but in practice his power would be limited to his home state of Massachusetts. For most men, that would be the culmination of all their dreams, but it would not be enough for Butler.
A cabinet post, on the other hand, would instantly transform Butler into a figure on the national stage. His influence would be seen across the country. Moreover, his ability to offer an inexhaustible number of military contracts to businessman from one end of the United States to the other would put almost unchecked political influence in his hands. With clout like that, there was literally no limit to the heights of power Butler might obtain. And his ultimate goal was suddenly crystal clear to Marble.
His machinations might well tear the country apart, but the politician-turned-general staring at him through the jail bars clearly intended that whatever was left of the United States when all the dust had settled would be fertile ground for an eventual accession of Benjamin Butler to the presidency. All his heart and soul craved it, no less than the Medici family had craved the power of the papacy. He would have it and he could not have cared less how much death and destruction he left in his wake.
“So, Marble?” Butler asked. “Do we have a deal?”
Slowly, ever so slowly, Marble nodded his head.
An unpleasant smile crossed Butler’s face. Without another word, he held the list of the names of people to whom Marble had distributed the money from Humphries over the nearest torch. Within seconds, the paper ignited and the soft crackling sound of its fiery incineration echoed through the cellblock. A few moments later, Butler dropped the gray ashes onto the stone floor.
“Guards!” Butler called.
The two soldiers opened the door. Butler tossed his head toward Marble’s cell.
“Let him out.”
Without hesitation, one of the guards produced a large set of keys and, fumbling only momentarily, unlocked the door to Marble’s cell. As the door swung open, Marble felt the refreshing sensation of freedom, which overpowered his spirit with a much greater force than he had expected. He stepped out into the hall, smiling from ear to ear.
“You’ll have my press statement tomorrow.”
Marble nodded. “Very well, sir.”
“Perhaps you and I could meet for dinner at Delmonico’s the day after tomorrow? Seven o’clock, perhaps? We are good friends now, after all. Aren’t we, Marble?”
Marble smiled more broadly and bowed his head. “That we are, General Butler. And dinner at Delmonico’s would suit me just fine.”
Chapter Seventeen
September 26, Morning
The train carrying Johnston, his staff, and some regiments of Benton’s Mississippi brigade had arrived in the town of Newnan, roughly midway between the Alabama border and Atlanta, shortly after midnight. Because of a delay needed to repair yet another break in the line made by Yankee cavalry, Johnston had decided to try to sleep. Mackall had appropriated a local house whose owner had be
en more than happy to vacate temporarily in order to accommodate the commander of the Army of Tennessee.
Though he had scarcely slept more than two or three hours out of the previous forty-eight, Johnston had found it difficult to fall asleep. The sun was just beginning to illuminate the eastern horizon with a long, thin, reddish glow when Mackall stepped quietly into the room. He gently shook his commander awake.
“Sir?”
Johnston opened his eyes and, after a moment, sat up in the bed. He saw trouble on Mackall’s face.
“What is it?”
“We’ve just received word, sir. East Point fell yesterday evening. The railroad into Atlanta is blocked.”
He kicked off the sheets and turned, placing his feet on the floor. He waited for his mind to fully clear away the cobwebs of sleep, trying to make sense of what Mackall had just said. If East Point had fallen to the enemy, then it would be impossible to simply run the trains directly into the city with their precious cargo of reinforcements. The plan he had devised was in tatters.
“What happened?”
“From the telegrams we have gotten, sir, it seems that the Yankees overwhelmed the two divisions that were holding the defenses of East Point by sheer force of numbers. Two entire Yankee corps attacked them, essentially destroying both divisions and capturing the railroad. General Bate has been killed and General Hardee has been badly wounded.”
“What’s that? Bate killed? Hardee wounded?”
“Yes, sir. Hardee was hit by shrapnel from a Yankee artillery shell.”
“Who is in command in Atlanta?”
“General Cleburne, sir.”
Johnston’s eyes widened. “Good Lord,” he said without thinking. Cleburne was an outstanding division commander, but how would he respond to the responsibilities of commanding an entire corps, without any supervision from a superior officer? Johnston had seen the burden of being an independent commander break more than one general. Moreover, with all the swirling controversy about Cleburne’s proposal, how would the rank and file respond to his leadership?
With a sudden shock that hit him with the power of a fist, Johnston realized that events had made Cleburne into Walker’s immediate superior. Would Walker even take orders from Cleburne? Considering the man’s fiery temperament, it seemed rather doubtful.
“General, what shall we do? We cannot continue on to Atlanta now.”
“How far south along the railroad do the Yankees control?”
“We’re not sure right now. The situation up north is changing rapidly.”
“Is Palmetto still free of Yankees?”
“We have not heard that the city has been occupied by the enemy, but we cannot be certain.”
“We have no cavalry here?”
“No, sir.”
Johnston nodded. “Pick a good regiment. Send a locomotive and enough boxcars for the troops north along the railroad. If they can get to Palmetto without encountering resistance, we shall continue moving troops up to that point and assemble the army there.”
“That’s still twenty-five miles short of Atlanta,” Mackall pointed out.
“A good day’s march, I know. But it puts us in a position to strike the rear of Grant’s army. It will force him to divert some troops away from Atlanta. It’s the best we can do, William. If you have any better idea, please let me know.”
Mackall thought for a moment before shaking his head.
“Do we still have the ability to send telegrams to Atlanta?”
“Indirectly, yes. It takes quite a long time, though.”
“Good. Send a message to Cleburne telling him to hold on as long as he can. Tell him that we are coming. I would rather have the city reduced to rubble than for there to be any thoughts of withdrawal or surrender.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Please address a message directly to General Walker. Tell him that he is to obey the orders of General Cleburne as though they were coming directly from me.”
Mackall snorted. “I’ll send the message, for whatever good it may do.”
“If nothing else, I just want that to be on the record.”
“Okay, I’ll send that scouting train north and I’ll get the two telegrams off.”
“Are the other units still on their way from Lafayette to here?”
“Yes. We have two brigades here already. Two more should arrive by this afternoon, I think.”
“Very well. Off with you, then.”
*****
“General Cleburne?” the voice said.
“Yes?” He didn’t immediately recognize to whom the voice belonged. Lieutenant Hanley, of course, was dead. Most of the rest of his staff had been dispersed throughout the area the night before, trying to bring order out of the chaos caused by the defeat at East Point.
“General Finley is requesting your presence on the southwestern portion of the defenses, sir. He says it is most urgent.”
He opened his eyes and recognized Lieutenant McFadden. His memories of the previous night instantly reasserted themselves. McFadden and his small band of Texans had remained with him, essentially serving as military police for a time and helping to reorganize the scattered bands of Southern troops as they had come into the inner defenses of Atlanta. Cleburne assumed that McFadden and his men had bedded down for the night nearby, not having any better idea where to go.
“What’s that?” Cleburne asked.
“General Finley, sir. A courier has arrived from him. He needs you on the southwestern defenses.”
Cleburne nodded. He expected the Union attack to begin at any time. Presumably Finley, who had taken over command of Bate’s division following the latter’s death, had observed something that led him to believe the attack was imminent. He rose from the ground, where he had slept wrapped in a simple blanket, grabbed his hat and sword, and followed McFadden.
The sun was still just peeking over the horizon. He recalled that the red glow of dawn had already been visible when he had lain down on the ground for a brief bit of sleep. It had been one of the most exhausting and confusing nights of his life. For hours, he had striven to reorganize the shattered brigades of the two divisions that had been defeated around East Point. It had not been an easy task, especially as so many of the officers had fallen during the ferocious fighting that had taken place over the previous two days. After the sun had gone down, the hours had seemed endless as an immense stream of thousands of confused Confederate troops filtered north into the inner defenses of Atlanta.
Things had only gradually started to come back together. Granbury, to his relief, had made it out alive and unharmed, but so few of his men were left that his entire brigade now numbered less than five hundred rifles. He had considered amalgamating them into the Arkansas Brigade, with Granbury in command, then decided that the middle of a battle was no time for such reorganization efforts.
The survivors of the two divisions had been rallied along the southern defenses and the remnants of the six brigades had been put back together. Cleburne had forwarded ammunition from the city’s depots and sent forward rations, but the men were so shaken from the strain of two day’s combat and the shock of their heavy defeat that their reliability was questionable.
Cleburne mounted the horse McFadden was holding for him, feeling a great sadness washing over him at the memory of firing a bullet into the head of his beloved Red Pepper the night before. A horse was not a man, of course, but that mattered more to his mind than it did to his heart. Cleburne knew he would never forget the expression of infinite sadness and forgiveness with which Red Pepper had looked up at him just before he pulled the trigger.
He was worried that he felt the loss of his horse more deeply than he did the loss of one of his men. What did this say about his moral character?
“Come along with me, McFadden,” Cleburne said. It seemed sensible to bring him along. Though not officially attached to his staff, McFadden and his men had served him very well the previous night. It wouldn’t
do for the men to see their commander riding around by himself, and he might need a good man to send on an errand at some point. McFadden nodded, mounted another horse, and followed.
After a few minutes riding, they arrived at the redoubt where General Finley had set himself up. As he dismounted, Cleburne saw Finley pointing over the rampart.
“Riders from the enemy lines with a flag of truce, sir!”
Cleburne’s eyes narrowed in confusion. What on earth did the Yankees want to talk to him about? He looked out over the parapet and saw three blue-coated men, though from the distance it was impossible to make out any details of their appearance or rank. One of the men was carrying a white truce flag. They had reined in halfway between the lines and were waiting.
He suddenly felt nervous, being wholly unfamiliar with the procedures and protocols involved with communicating with the enemy. Over the course of the war, he had occasionally arranged temporary truces with Union units opposite him so as to allow both sides to assist the wounded and bury the dead. But Hardee’s incapacitation had elevated him to the supreme command of all Confederate forces in and around Atlanta. Whatever it was that the Yankees wanted to discuss with him, Cleburne was uncertain what sort of authority he had. There was no time to send a telegram to Richmond to clarify the situation, either.
“What do you think they want?” Cleburne asked Finley.
“No idea at all, sir.”
“Well, I suppose I have to go.”
“Alone, sir?”
Cleburne started to reply, but realized he had no idea what to say. Would it be proper for him, now the commander of all Southern troops in Atlanta, to venture forth alone to meet with the enemy between the lines? But he reasoned that he would be perfectly safe. Not even the Yankees would be so uncivilized as to attempt to kill or capture a Southern officer under such circumstances, in plain sight of thousands of soldiers on each side.
He nodded at McFadden. “Come with me.”
“Of course, sir.”
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