Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Davis thought for a moment about Hood, now commanding troops in Arkansas and participating in an offensive to retake the state capital of Little Rock. The diversion of Federal troops from west of the Mississippi to the fighting in Georgia had been of great benefit to the Confederacy in that theater. But Davis had no time for it. Atlanta was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary.

  There was a knock on the door and Secretary Benjamin entered. He was beaming a broad smile.

  “Good news?” Davis asked.

  “Very good news, Mr. President.”

  Seddon’s eyes narrowed. “You know something about Atlanta that we don’t?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Seddon. I know nothing of military matters, nor would I ever presume to step on your toes. No, my news is about something far more important than any battle.”

  “Well, out with it, then!” Davis spat.

  Benjamin took a seat. “I just read the most recent dispatch of Yankee newspapers sent in by General Lee. It seems that Manton Marble has been released from jail by General Butler. Not only that, but Butler has released a statement saying that Marble’s arrest was unconstitutional and that the evidence against him was contrived.”

  “I don’t understand. Marble is released?” Davis asked.

  “You heard correctly, Mr. President.”

  “But I thought Butler was Lincoln’s creature,” Seddon said.

  Benjamin shook his head. “Butler is a political chameleon. He has judged that the wind is blowing away from Lincoln and toward McClellan. I own that I would not have agreed with him before today. If anything, the momentum in the race was with the Republicans. But Butler has decided to become a turncoat and once again embrace the Democratic Party.”

  Davis rubbed his chin. Despite how much he detested Butler, the Confederate President had to admit that his actions were now serving Southern interests quite well.

  “How do you imagine this news will affect the election, Mr. Benjamin?” Davis asked.

  “The Democrats had been hammering the Republicans on the issue of unconstitutional war acts. You know, newspapers being shut down, dissenters intimidated or jailed, the suspension of habeas corpus, and of course conscription. The Democrats have made a lot of hay with this line of political attack, but the recent revelations about Marble and the money coming from us to fund their campaign caused it all to go off the rails. With this single act, Butler has basically erased all the advantages the Republicans gained from the Marble scandal and reinforced the Democratic message about Lincoln’s unconstitutional rule.”

  “But why?” Seddon asked. “What Butler has done doesn’t change the fact that Confederate money did fund a lot of Democratic campaign activities.”

  “It’s politics, my friend,” Benjamin said with a twinkle. “Reality is irrelevant. In any case, the Northern public will buy Butler’s claims of the evidence against Marble being fabricated.”

  “Why?” Seddon asked.

  “Because it makes for a better story. Everyone loves a good story, you know. Especially if scandal is involved. In such cases, the people will believe whatever they were last told.”

  Davis nodded. “This will certainly contribute to Lincoln’s defeat at the polls.”

  “Indeed, it will. It could be enough to push Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania into the Democratic column. And that would be enough to give McClellan the presidency.”

  “Unless we lose Atlanta,” Davis said. His lips pursed tightly and he again damned Joseph Johnston.

  “Yes, Mr. President. If we do lose Atlanta, it could yet again swing the election in Lincoln’s favor. And I must admit, if the latest reports are true, the fall of the city is not a possibility, but a probability.”

  *****

  September 27, Night

  “This is it, Truman,” Thomas said soberly. “Are you ready?”

  Seymour nodded nervously. “I think so, yes. As soon as you and the others draw the attention of the guards, we’ll move back to the cabin and get through the tunnel.” Throughout the camp, the hundred men who had drawn the shorter straws the night before were anxiously waiting. Seymour has been among the lucky ones and his rank as a general entitled him to go through the tunnel first.

  The diggers had broken through to the surface the night before. They were close enough to the tree line that those who emerged from the tunnel could dash into the woods immediately upon coming out of the ground. Assuming that the guards lining the stockade were distracted, there was at least a possibility of getting away from the camp without getting shot.

  “I’ll pray for you, my friend. God willing, you’ll be back in the army commanding a division or a corps within the next week or so.” In truth, Thomas gave Truman and the others a less-than-even chance of even getting away from Camp Oglethorpe, much less back to the safety of the Union lines. Even those odds were preferable to remaining imprisoned, however.

  “Is it too late to persuade you to make the attempt with us?” Seymour asked. “You know what happens if you remain here, George.”

  “The firing squad if I’m lucky and the noose if I am not. Yes, I know. But if I escape now, after having had a death sentence pronounced against me, the rebels would simply choose another man to die in my place. That is not something I am willing to have on my conscience.”

  Seymour pursed his lips tightly and shook his head. “If I do manage to get back to friendly territory, I’ll make sure that the whole country is told that you could have escaped but chose to remain behind. Your courage will not be forgotten.”

  Thomas gave a slight, bitter chuckle. “Yes, it will. But I don’t care.”

  “Can I do anything for you, George?”

  “Yes. If you do get home, tell my wife that I love her.” He paused just a moment. “Now, let’s get on with this, shall we?”

  Seymour nodded sadly and slowly walked away. Thomas watched him go, wondering if he would ever see him again. Amid the crowd of Union prisoners milling about in the center of the camp, there was a noticeable stirring. Perhaps a quarter of the men were privy to the plot in some way. Now that the attempt was actually going to be made, a few others had surely been told as well. If discipline failed to hold, some of those just now learning of the existence of the tunnel might try to find it and demand to be let through, thus spoiling all the careful planning. It was also possible that some desperate prisoner might succumb to the temptation to inform the guards of the plot, thereby winning his own freedom at the expense of the freedom of others.

  There were many unknowns. It was entirely possible that not a single man would succeed in escaping. If Thomas could do anything at all to help his comrades reclaim their freedom, he was willing to try.

  Trailed by several dozen other prisoners, Thomas walked slowly to the “line of death” on the opposite end of the camp from where the tunnel was located. Although there was no physical marker, it was understood that any prisoner who came too close to the stockade could be shot without warning. The young, undertrained militiamen serving as guards on the stockade did not have a reputation for restraint in such matters.

  He glanced back and forth at the men watching him, just as he might have done while inspecting a line of infantry in the midst of a terrible battle. Then, he began to shout.

  “More food!” he called up to the nearest pair of guards. “We want more food!”

  “Yes!” another prisoner shouted. “More food! We want more food!”

  The two guards, who could not have been more than fifteen-years-old, looked down at the crowd of prisoners with confusion in their eyes. “Shut up, you Yankee bastards!”

  “We demand more food!” Thomas bellowed.

  “I said shut up!”

  More prisoners took up the call, shouting loudly for more food. Within less than a minute, the scattered calls had become a deafening chorus. As the noise intensified, Thomas could see guards moving along the stockade toward the disturbance. Every guard that came to his side of the stockade meant fewer on the other side
, thus giving the escapees the chance they had been waiting for.

  The shouting continued. “More food! More food! More food!”

  Two guards fired their muskets into the air, hoping to frighten the mass of prisoners into silence. It didn’t work and the shouting grew even louder. The pent-up frustrations of the captives seemed to feed off the discomfort they were causing the guards, who had tormented them for so long.

  Someone threw a rock. Within seconds, other rocks filled the air. Thomas glanced worriedly back up at the guards. The shouting by itself was having the desired effect of drawing the guards from the other side of the stockade. Engaging in actions that would prompt violent retaliation would only endanger lives unnecessarily.

  Thomas saw one rock glance off the shoulder of one of the guards, who had looked especially nervous. Now, his face coiled into an expression of anger and he fired his musket directly into the crowd of prisoners. Colonel Benjamin Harrison, a brigade commander who had been captured at Peachtree Creek, was struck squarely in the chest. He was flung backwards into the crowd and was dead before he hit the ground.

  A stunned silence fell on the prisoners, like a curtain falling abruptly on a stage. For an infinite moment, no one moved. Then, Thomas stepped forward from the crowd, boldly walking beyond the line of death until he was directly beneath the guards overhead.

  He was happy to see more than two dozen guards lined the stockade above him. That meant that most, possibly all, of the guards who normally covered the perimeter on the other side of the camp had come over in the face of the developing riot. The diversion had already cost the life of Colonel Harrison, but it was also accomplishing its mission of distracting the rebels long enough for Seymour and the others to make their escape.

  “I am General George Thomas!” he yelled defiantly. “I am a Southerner who fights for the Union! If any of you rebel bastards wants to shoot me, shoot me now!” He stretched his arms out and raised them level with his head, inviting the gunfire of the guards. He wasn’t sure whether or not they would fire, but he found part of himself hoping that they would. Jefferson Davis had not yet responded to his request that he be executed by a firing squad rather than by hanging. Perhaps he could take the decision out of his hands.

  The guards and the prisoners were both absolutely silent. Amidst the rebels above him, all of them aiming their rifles down at him, Thomas saw the figure of Captain Gibbs.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Thomas?” he called down.

  “Calling on your men to show the courage of their convictions.”

  “Have you lost your mind, man? What is the purpose of this demonstration?”

  “We are demanding more food, obviously! And better food!”

  Gibbs drew his head back in surprise. “A man just got killed, Thomas. You think that complaining about the food we provide you here is worth a man’s life? You think it’s worth your own life?”

  Thomas knew that every moment he could keep the conversation going was one more minute in which the attention of the guards would not be focused on the point of the camp perimeter where the exit of the tunnel was located.

  “The food you give us is garbage that isn’t fit for pigs!” Thomas shouted. There was a stir and murmur in the crowd of prisoners at these words, causing some of the guards to shift the aim of their rifles away from Thomas and back toward the other prisoners.

  “The food we give you is the best we can provide,” Gibbs replied.

  “Hogwash!”

  Anger clouded the Confederate captain’s face. “If you don’t like the food, you have only yourselves to blame! Your raiders have torn up our railroads! Your armies have destroyed our farmland! Your navy blockades our ports! We can scarcely feed our own women and children! How can we be expected to feed you prisoners more food that we already are?”

  “The South brought the war upon itself the day it seceded from the Union!” Thomas yelled back. These words were greeted with cries of agreement from the crowd of prisoners.

  “Be silent, Thomas! Your own day with the hangman is soon to come. Causing trouble like this will only blacken your name further!”

  “Like I told your General Cooper, I’d rather be shot than hanged. So have one of your little boys shoot me now and be done with it!”

  Several of the guards again raised their weapons to a firing position, perhaps hoping that Gibbs would give exactly such an order. But the camp commandant held up his hand as a signal not to fire. He looked down at Thomas for some time in silence.

  “Tomorrow morning, General Thomas, I shall meet with you in my office and we will discuss what can be done to improve the quantity and quality of the food in the camp. In exchange, you will tell these men to go back to their cabins. Do we have a deal?”

  Thomas thought quickly. If he continued making a ruckus, the distraction of the guards would be prolonged. However, if he failed to agree to Gibbs’ sensible proposal, the enemy captain might realize that what Thomas was doing was a diversion and therefore discover the escape attempt. He figured that the attention of the guards had been sidetracked for perhaps half an hour, which should have provided enough time for Seymour and the others to get away.

  “I will see you tomorrow morning, then, Captain.”

  Gibbs nodded and the guards begin filtering back to their assigned positions on the stockade. The crowd of Union prisoners begin drifting back to their habitations, still grumbling. After detailing some men to take Colonel Harrison’s body away from a proper burial, Thomas walked back to his own cabin, his heart pounding. He tried not to be so quick as to attract unwanted attention from the guards who were still eyeing him carefully.

  He stepped inside the cabin. There was no sign of Seymour or any of the other escapees.

  *****

  Night had brought no respite from the fighting. Fires had been started in the woodwork by exploding shells or inflamed cartridge wadding and now were burning out of control in certain parts of the redoubt. Many men had fallen wounded into the flames and the screams they had let forth as they had burned to death had shaken the nerves of many men. The fires cast a disturbingly macabre light over the whole scene. With the clouds of gunpowder smoke obscuring the light of the moon and stars, it was the only illumination by which the men could fight. Unfortunately, it was enough.

  Inside the confined space of Battery Bate, thousands of men were doing everything in their power to slaughter one another. Union forces were trying to cram into the redoubt from the gun ports they had captured and at other points along the rampart, while Confederate troops dashing in from the rear of the battery were just as intently trying to push them out. Hundreds lay dead all over the fort, cut down by gunfire, bayonets, or swords. Others lay wounded and found themselves being trampled to death by the feet of both their friends and foes as the fighting continued to swirl unmercifully around them, their desperate cries for help going unanswered. Everywhere were the sounds of gunfire, metal clanging against metal, wood smacking against wood, and bare fists pounding bony faces.

  McFadden stood toward the rear of Battery Bate, directing the fire of a line of two dozen troops he had assembled. He was struck by the terrifying idea, which his mind refused to entirely discount, that Battery Bate had become some sort of opening into Hell itself. There no longer appeared to be any unit cohesiveness whatsoever. The men to whom he was shouting orders were a combination of survivors from the Texas and Florida brigades plus a smattering of troops from South Carolina, Mississippi, and Georgia.

  The men of Gist’s brigade from Walker’s division had arrived about an hour-and-a-half earlier. McFadden had thought them not a moment too soon. The remnants of Granbury’s Texas Brigade and Finley’s Florida Brigade, after several hours of fighting, had been on the brink of collapse and had been about to abandon the redoubt when the reinforcements had arrived. However, the newly-arrived troops had simply been swallowed up by the fighting within Battery Bate.

  The enlisted troops had confused and often terrified looks on
their faces. Their overriding concern, besides simply staying alive, seemed to be finding an officer to give them any kind of order. But most officers had already fallen, dead or wounded, as anyone waving a sword and shouting orders immediately made himself a primary target for the rifles of the opposing side.

  McFadden was at a loss to know who was actually in command inside Battery Bate. When Gist’s brigade had arrived, he had assumed that the commander was the highest ranking Confederate officer in the redoubt. Gist had not lasted for than ten minutes before his chest had been ripped open by a blast of canister fire from one of the Napoleon 12-pounders, which the Yankees had captured and turned on the Southerners. While McFadden had seen captains and majors running about, none of them seemed to be exercising any command responsibilities. It was as if the entire Confederate force inside Battery Bate, now numbering in the thousands, had degenerated into nothing more than an armed mob.

  McFadden had his rough line of riflemen pouring as much fire as they could into the mass of Northern troops still forcing their way inside the redoubt through the captured gun ports. There was no end to the constant stream of Union reinforcements pouring into Battery Bate. Artillery shells passed by overhead, the eerily sparkling light of their lit fuses casting a strange white light over the proceedings before they exploded in the area behind the redoubt.

  “Lieutenant!” an unfamiliar voice called out. It was a man in a major’s uniform, running up to him. “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant McFadden! 7th Texas!”

  “I’m Major Dunlop, 46th Georgia!” He pointed to one of the gun ports on the top level, which had contained one of the Brooke rifled cannon until it had been struck by a Yankee shell near the beginning of the battle. “See that?”

  McFadden looked. Directly facing a steep ramp to the upper level, Yankee troops were pouring in through the gun port. They had to have erected ladders in a considerable number to be coming through so quickly. He nodded sharply.