It was at this critical juncture that a staff officer carrying dispatches from Macon found Brigadier General Philips. The first message, from Major General Smith’s chief of staff, after alerting him that Wheeler’s cavalry had departed the area, instructed Philips to “avoid a fight with a superior force.” A second dispatch, from Smith himself, had been added after Major Cook’s first sighting report had reached Macon. “If pressed by a superior force, fall back upon this place without bringing on a serious engagement, if you can do so,” Smith advised.
In what remained of Griswoldville, the Macon staff officer composed a situation report for delivery to Major General Smith: “GENERAL: The whole division, including Cook’s battalion, is one mile in advance of this place on the Central railroad, in line of battle, with the State Line troops thrown out in front skirmishing with the enemy. Anderson’s battery opened upon them just as I rode up to the line, the enemy’s battery replying. General Philips does not know what their force is, and, on receiving your instructions, concluded not to advance farther. On the movements of the enemy depends whether or not he will fall back to this place or remain where he now is.”
Brigadier General Walcutt waved over Captain Albert Arndt, commander of the 1st Michigan Light Artillery, Battery B, whose two-gun section was assigned to this expedition. Walcutt indicated a party of enemy soldiers visible at the edge of the woods to the right of a log house and told the gunner to do something about it. Arndt rode the short distance back to his guns, where he ordered the section commander, Lieutenant William Ernst, to target the group. Ernst called out the commands, aimed the two cannon at the distant figures, and yanked the lanyard. The shells landed close enough to cause the enemy soldiers to melt back into the woods, so Arndt ordered a ceasefire.
Their appearance provided the officer with a point of reference for the enemy’s possible advance, and he realized that he should shift one of the guns more to the right to set up a crossfire. Another quick visit to Brigadier General Walcutt secured the necessary permission, but even as the captain returned to reposition his artillery, the equation was changing. Four Rebel cannon emerged from the woods, expertly swung into firing positions, then opened on his pair. An Iowa soldier crouching nearby was impressed as the enemy’s initial round smashed into one of two caissons carrying munitions, resulting in an explosion that destroyed about half of Arndt’s immediate supply.
The first enemy volley also accounted for the Union battery commander. One moment Arndt was assessing the situation, the next he was flat on his back, “lying behind a [tree] stump with one of my men leaning over me unbuttoning my clothes.” Stunned by the nearby explosion and believing himself to be fatally wounded, Arndt told the gunner to leave him and help his battery mates. Even as the officer felt himself growing woozy, the air around him was filled with the sharp crack of explosives and the vicious hiss of shrapnel as enemy rounds continued to pummel the Michigan cannon.
Confederate brigadier Pleasant J. Philips now faced one of the most difficult and controversial decisions of his military career. Even as the various regiments and companies making up his composite division moved into places along the tree line, Philips had to decide whether or not to attack. While he had assured Major General Smith’s aide that he had no intention of going over to the offensive, Smith’s orders had provided the option of doing just that as long as he wasn’t being “pressed by a superior force.” He wasn’t. The Federal infantry blocking his way had made no aggressive moves save for the feeble effort of two Yankee cannon, smothered by the counterbattery blast from Captain Anderson’s iron quartet. The open field his men would have to cross was far from flat and level; in fact, two small branches of Big Sandy Creek wriggled north to south, providing sheltered resting places for any advancing line of battle. Its relative openness would also make it easy for the militia units to maneuver, since most had been trained in farm fields such as these.
Philips doubted that the enemy would make a stand here. So far, the U.S. soldiers had demonstrated a marked disinclination to fight, preferring to fall back when pressed, especially as they had done at Griffin and Forsyth. Philips knew from Hardee’s assessment that the Federals, no longer targeting Macon, were likely moving toward Milledgeville, so the thin line of enemy infantry across his path was probably a rear guard that would fade away at first push.
Also part of his calculation was the mood of his men. Many had been marching constantly since the campaign opened, abandoning swaths of territory for the enemy to ravage. There were companies in the gray ranks drawn from many nearby areas—Jones, Wilkinson, and Bibb counties, as well as Macon itself—with others from farther away—the towns of Athens and Augusta, as well as Montgomery County, toward Savannah. While not exactly itching for a fight, they were determined to defend their state, tired of those who challenged their courage. According to one Confederate officer, the militiamen dreaded the “jeers and sneers they must encounter…more than they do the bullets of the Yankees.”
Philips came to the conclusion that the circumstances justified an attack, though he would never share his precise reasoning or proffer any justification for the decision. The plan he settled on was big on simple and direct; his flanks would turn the enemy flanks, while his center would tackle the Federal center. In the only report he would write of this day’s actions, his sole comment was that “an advance was ordered.”
Recollected an Iowa foot soldier across the way: “The enemy’s forces marched out of the timber into the open field with three lines of infantry, either one of which more than covered the brigade front. Their lines were pushed boldly forward, with colors flying and loud cheering by the men, presenting a battle array calculated to appall the stoutest hearts.” The martial panoply might have had the desired psychological impact had the opposition been raw troops, but it was a wasted gesture given the nature of these soldiers. “The enemy advanced in three columns,” remembered another Iowan, “but the boys who had fought so many battles with Sherman were not frightened at superiority of numbers.”
Captain Anderson’s Georgia gunners had wreaked havoc on the two Michigan cannon opposing them, clearing the way for the infantry attack. By the time Captain Arndt realized that he wasn’t mortally wounded (the fragment that hit him had been deflected by his saber belt plate, leaving him bruised but otherwise okay), his battery had been savaged. His fourteen men paid a terrible price for sticking with their guns—two lost legs, one an arm, and four more were wounded to various degrees. Even as the still dazed officer watched, one of his gunners, William Plumb, gamely continued to perform his duty even “after the sponge and rammer had been shot to pieces.” Although Arndt later reported that he had maintained his position until “the last round of ammunition was fired,” evidence suggests that he ordered his tubes out well before the Rebel battle line came within killing range. With six of his horses also down, Arndt’s men had to haul the cannon away by means of ropes harnessed to human backs.
Griswoldville
Freed of their only real threat, the Rebel cannoneers now ranged freely along the Union line. The Georgia artillerymen, noted an Illinoisan, “made the rails and logs fly pretty lively.” “The enemy’s well served artillery continued to do serious damage along the entire line of the brigade,” seconded a member of the 6th Iowa. “A single shell that struck and exploded in the rail and log barricade at the point where the regimental colors were waving [killed a member of the color guard]…blowing the top of his head off and saturating the colors with his blood.”
As the first, then the second, and finally the third lines of battle emerged from the woods, they were greeted only by the spattering fire from Yankee skirmishers who had holed up in the ruins of some farm buildings located outside the main line of resistance. The militiamen, State Line soldiers, and local defensemen moved steadily, finding comfort in the close presence of neighbors and friends. “The rebel infantry approached…at shoulder arms, in good order, as if on parade,” recorded one admiring Federal. The Union main lin
e was ominously quiet. “We charged them but were ignorant of their numbers and advantage,” declared a member of the Georgia State Line. This state of affairs lasted until the first line was about midway across the field. Then the Yankee position began blinking with gunfire. The time was about 2:30 P.M.
“The music of shot and shell soon began,” wrote an Indiana soldier. “As soon as they came in range of our muskets a most terrific fire was poured into their ranks, doing fearful execution,” reported the commander of the 103rd Illinois. This first volley, fired at 250 yards, recorded another member of the regiment, “was most terrible; literally mowing down the first line, which halted, wavered, and seemed amazed.” Although the majority of Federals were armed with standard single-shot muzzle-loading Springfield rifles, within each Union regiment were special squads of picked men carrying rapid-firing breech-loading rifles. This, allowed an Indiana soldier, “enabled us to keep up a continuous fire.” According to a rifleman in the ranks of the 6th Iowa, “we ‘shot low and to kill.’”
From his position along the tree line, Brigadier General Philips watched his center units advancing “in fine style under a heavy and galling fire.” The two local defense battalions on the right flank, which were slow getting started, lagged behind the State Line troops, who were moving apace with a militia brigade on their left. A shallow gully was encountered where the Confederate line steadied to deliver a volley at the distant foe. Then the advance resumed, the lashing of bullets coming from the enemy position showing no diminution.
After what seemed an eternity, the first line reached a large gully carrying one of the branches* feeding Big Sandy Creek. This deeper trench offered protection from the lead hail spitting in their faces, and for many participants this would be their high-water mark. The advance did force the enemy skirmishers to abandon their forward posts in the farmhouse ruins and scamper into the main position. Within minutes, the second and third lines had pushed into the first, jostling for cover among the gall bushes, scrub pines, and reed cane. Also coming forward was the reserve militia brigade, which was so confused and rattled by the inferno that its first volley was loosed into the backs of some of the Georgia State Line.
A Yankee soldier standing in the ranks of the 103rd Illinois later termed this encounter “quite a hard fight.” The enemy infantry, recalled a member of the 97th Indiana, “came at us with force and fury,” while a comrade in the nearby 100th Indiana wrote that the Georgians “charged us and fought furiously.” “We kept on loading and firing till the smoke got so thick it almost blinded us,” added another Hoosier, “and our guns got so hot they burned our hands.”
Soon after sliding into the deep gully wriggling roughly parallel to the Federal line (at distances varying from 45 to 100 yards), determined Confederate officers began concentrating on overwhelming the Union right flank. To meet this threat, Brigadier General Walcutt started thinning his left to reinforce his right. He shifted the 46th Ohio from one end of his line to the other, and made two calls on the 100th Indiana—one for three companies to plug the gap created by the withdrawal of Arndt’s cannon, and the other to screen the extreme right. Because of these moves, three Hoosier companies had to now cover the frontage previously held by one and two-thirds regiments, but fortunately most Rebel effort seemed directed against Walcutt’s right.
Even though Anderson’s gunners were operating virtually unopposed, the proximity of the Georgians to the Yankee line forced the artillerymen to choose their targets with care. The abandoned Duncan farmhouse was an obvious mark, with the added bonus of its being Brigadier General Walcutt’s headquarters. One of Anderson’s well-placed rounds exploded near the brigadier, driving a shell shard into the lower part of his right calf, causing a painful and incapacitating wound. The officer was carried off to the field hospital in the rear, near Mountain Springs Church. Command devolved to the senior regimental commander, Colonel Robert F. Catterson of the 97th Indiana.
Making a quick assessment of the situation, Catterson was not happy with what he found. Several units were reporting low stocks of ammunition, and the enemy was continuing to press him hard on the right. “As I had already disposed of every available man in the brigade, and my [thinned] left being so strongly pressed that not a man could be spared from it, I sent to the general commanding the division for two regiments.”
Incredibly, the Confederate militia, local defense, and State Line soldiers maintained their position in the forward gully for nearly two hours. “The firing was incessant,” reported the State Line commander. A man in his ranks remembered that “the boys fell one after another.” When the man was himself hit, he made himself small behind a tree stump while enemy “bullets…cut the ground on either side.”
For his part, Brigadier General Philips lost all control of events once contact was made and remained at the tree line. An effort to get Major Cook’s local defense battalions to flank the enemy’s left “(from some cause of which I am not aware)…was never carried out,” Philips complained afterward. Also, without any order from him, the militia brigade standing in reserve advanced into the field to join the others in the far gully.
From the few extant reports and accounts of this action, Philips played no role once the engagement was under way. Perhaps overwhelmed by the spectacle of what he had initiated but was unable to manage, the militia officer became a spectator. There would be rumors afterward (but no actual accusation) of alcohol abuse, but this is often a ready excuse to explain errors of judgment. No charges of drunkenness against Brigadier General Pleasant J. Philips are found in any contemporary account from knowledgeable sources.
Griswoldville
Of the men filling that broad gully, only bits and pieces of a picture emerge. That there was confusion is attested to by at least one report. Someone must have maintained a firing line near the gully lip to discourage any enemy forays against the position, although Federal sources indicate that their aim was poor, with most shots passing harmlessly overhead. Other officers rallied units together time and again in an effort to drive the invaders away. According to some accounts, at least three and perhaps as many as seven separate assaults lurched out of the gully, only to be beaten down by the torrent of gunfire. The last took place near the end of the engagement, when the left wing of Brigadier General Charles D. Anderson’s brigade, which had gotten separated from the other wing, tried to turn the Federal right flank.
By the time of the battle’s close, no less than three of the unit commanders—Brigadier General Anderson and colonels James N. Mann and Beverly D. Evans—had been hit. What kept the Georgians trying for so long had little to do with strategy or even tactics. In a telling comment from the battle’s aftermath, a mortally wounded militiaman told his captors: “My neighborhood is ruined, these people are all my neighbors.”
The Union soldiers were confident but not cocky. “I never saw our boys fight better than they did then,” declared a member of the 100th Indiana. “Once when we were so hard pressed that it seemed as though they were going to run over us by sheer force of numbers our boys put on their bayonets resolved to hold their ground at any cost.” “At one time it seemed that they would overcome our thin line, as our ammunition [was] nearly exhausted and none was nearer than two miles,” reported the commander of the 103rd Illinois, “but fortunately a sufficient amount was procured, and our boys kept up a continual fire.”
It was growing dark before the reinforcement Catterson had requested reached the scene of the action. There were three regiments: two cavalry and one infantry. A mounted unit was sent to the left, the others further bolstering the right. Also back was Major General Osterhaus, whose meeting in Gordon with Major General Howard had been interrupted by “a rather severe cannonade in the direction of Griswold[ville].” Osterhaus arrived “soon enough to witness the last efforts and entire rout of the enemy.”
There was nothing dramatic about the end of the battle. It was almost as if the men and officers on both sides decided that enough was enough. Some of
the militiamen called it quits on their own. Private William Bedford Langford recollected heading across the clearing in the rear toward the woods with a friend. “Just about half way across,” he often told his daughters, Yankees began firing at them, about twenty or twenty-five bullets hitting around them, but neither of them was shot. He said neither he nor his companion ran until they reached the woods and then “they surely did run.”
Most withdrew under positive commands to do so. One of the Confederate officers in the gully wrote that night came “and, ammunition being well-nigh exhausted, the commands retired in good order.” That latter description was repeated in all the Southern after-action reports, suggesting a weary but unpanicked withdrawal, though not without some bitter recrimination from the ranks. A militiaman complained in a letter home of their “leaving some of our killed and wounded on the field exposed to the severities of a very cold night.”
Brigadier General Philips claimed his intention was to halt in Griswoldville so he could send out detachments to haul in the wounded, but orders were waiting there for him to return his command to Macon. Thanks to some aggressive track repair, the bone-tired soldiers had to march only two and a half miles from Griswoldville to where trains—and medical assistance—were waiting.
The men began arriving back in Macon at 2:00 A.M., to streets that were as dark and empty as when they had departed. For the citizen-soldiers who had fought with determination but without success, it was a very long and very terrible day.
Southern Storm: Sherman's March to the Sea Page 24
