“Send them to hell, boys!” Collett was shouting, walking up and down the line behind the men with his sword in one hand and pistol in the other.
McFadden quickly fell into the relentless pattern of load-and-shoot, load-and-shoot. The noise of the fighting was deafening, with the roar of musket fire mixing with the pounding sound of artillery blasts, the screams of wounded men, and the maniacal laughter of those pushed to the edge of sanity by the pressure of battle.
McFadden fired as quickly as he could load. He had to kill as many of the enemy as possible. He squeezed off another round and was pleased to see the stout-looking Yankee at whom he had been aiming fall to the ground, clutching at his chest.
“The Yankees must be crazy!” Harrison shouted as he reloaded. “We’re butchering them!”
McFadden had no time to reply, but didn’t disagree. As he aimed and fired, he could already see that scores of Yankees had fallen, some writhing in pain, others simply dropping like sacks of flour, never to move again. The formation was melting away, like a piece of ice tossed into hot water. He noticed that some Union soldiers were instinctively raising their left arms to shield their faces, as if they were walking into a heavy rainstorm.
Remembering his duty as a noncommissioned officer, McFadden began shouting out encouragement to his company. “Keep up your fire, boys! Slaughter the sons of bitches!”
Not many Yankees got close to the Confederate line. Many, unable to force themselves forward but unwilling to retreat, stopped where they were and began firing back. Little spits of dirt popped off the parapet as bullets hit it and he heard other shots whistle past, but McFadden felt adequately protected. Besides, most of the enemy soldiers who stopped to fire were killed within a few seconds.
A few Yankees, braver or luckier than the others, actually reached the parapet. As he withdrew his rifle to reload yet again, McFadden glanced through the opening under the head-log and was astonished to see a Union officer charging forward from less than ten feet away. Within seconds, the man was over the head-log, waving his sword.
“Surrender, you traitors!” the Union officer yelled.
“Go to hell!” Harrison shouted, shooting him in the head at point blank range. The body fell unceremoniously into the Confederate trench, where it was quickly kicked out of the way.
The unequal contest went on for an astonishingly long time, the two sides simply blazing away at each other. But the Southerners were well-protected behind their fortifications, whereas the Federal infantry was completely exposed. It was less a battle than a mass slaughter. The ground in front of the regiment’s position was soon red with blood, slowly trickling downhill through the grass.
McFadden’s ears began to ring. He wanted desperately to take a swig of water from his canteen, as his lips were parched and cracked from biting into his gunpowder cartridges and the heat of the musket fire all around him was intense. But he couldn’t bring himself to waste even a few seconds, as he continued to load and shoot.
Finally, the Yankee officers realized the futility of pressing the attack further. McFadden could hear the sound of Yankee buglers blowing the notes for a retreat. It was a slow movement at first, with many frustrated Northern soldiers continually pausing and firing potshots back at the Southerners. But eventually, with the fire continuing to pour forth from the Confederate line, the retreat became rushed. The men hurried back downhill, amazed at having remained alive and desperately hoping to avoid death now that the attack had failed.
McFadden didn’t reload. He hated the Yankees, but he saw no point in shooting men who were already running away. Besides, he was tired. While the rest of the regiment removed their hats and waved them in the air, cheering wildly, McFadden simply stared out onto the ground over which the Yankees had attacked. For hundreds of yards, it was littered with unmoving Yankee corpses and the pathetic forms of badly wounded men trying to drag themselves down the hill to safety.
It had been Pickett’s Mill all over again.
*****
General Patrick Cleburne was in a good mood. Truth be told, repulsing the Union attack had not been particularly difficult. But his men had behaved admirably, fighting a long engagement with little respite on one of the hottest days of the year.
Mounted on his favorite horse, Red Pepper, he rode behind the lines, trailed by Lieutenant Stephen Hanley and Lieutenant Learned Magnum, his two personal aides-de-camp. Also following was the color-bearer carrying the unique flag of Cleburne’s division. When Joseph Johnston had taken command of the Army of Tennessee in January, he had ordered a standardization of all divisional battle flags, but Cleburne had successfully persuaded him to allow his men to retain their distinctive standard. From what Yankee prisoners had told him, the enemy had learned to dread seeing the white moon on a blue background facing them across the battle lines. This gave him more pride and satisfaction than anything else in his life, aside from the love of his fiancée, Susan.
The men of his division turned and cheered when they saw him and he raised his hat in salute as he passed his regiments, one by one. Other generals might have reined in and personally congratulated the men with some grandiloquent oration, but Cleburne was a shy man and not much given to making speeches. His men didn’t take any offense. For them, the raised hat was enough.
Major Calhoun Benham, his divisional chief-of-staff, galloped up, an urgent look on his face. “General!” he shouted out excitedly.
“Yes, Major! What is it?” Cleburne was suddenly worried, as Benham was not easily alarmed.
“A brush fire has started directly in front of the 1st Arkansas! Dozens of wounded Yankees are lying out there, screaming for help! Our men are still taking some fire from the enemy lines. Colonel Martin requests authorization to raise a flag of truce and allow the Yankees to come get their wounded.”
“Yes! Immediately!” Cleburne said without hesitation. Nobody should suffer so horrible a fate as being burned alive, even if they were Yankees. All brave warriors were worthy of respect. Whatever else they were, the Yankees were undoubtedly brave.
Benham kicked his horse and dashed off. He didn’t waste time saluting, but Cleburne didn’t care. He did not demand strict military protocol from his staff officers, and every second was precious if it meant saving the lives of wounded men.
He heard the light thundering sound of a party of horsemen, and turned to see Lieutenant General William Hardee, his corps commander and immediate superior, followed by a party of staff officers considerably larger than Cleburne’s own. He wasn’t surprised to see a smile on his face.
“We whipped them, Pat! We whipped them good!” Hardee reigned in alongside him, and Cleburne clasped his outstretched hand. “You and your men performed most admirably, my friend. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, General. What’s the word from the rest of the line?” Cleburne’s thick brogue easily betrayed his Irish origins.
“The Yankees attacked everywhere, all up and down the line. Cheatham’s division had a particularly heavy attack, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. We repulsed the enemy at all points. A great victory, Pat!”
“Excellent. This day will greatly improve the morale of the men, I imagine.”
“Have you any word on your division’s casualties?
“No exact numbers yet, but very light. Less than a hundred in the whole division, I think.”
“If there’s a better example of the stupidity of attacking veteran troops protected by fortifications, I can’t think of it. Having achieved such a great victory at such a small cost in blood is certainly something to celebrate.”
For a moment, Cleburne found himself thinking about the bloodbath at Chickamauga, where the Southern triumph had been purchased at the cost of thousands of Southern lives. Even then, the victory had been squandered by Braxton Bragg. Today, by contrast, was a much better day.
The sudden sound of artillery rumbling far off to the north caused them to instinctively look over in that direction, although of course
they could see nothing. Hardee’s tone shifted from lightheartedness to seriousness. “Another attack?”
“I doubt it, sir. The Yankees are probably just shelling us out of frustration. I don’t hear any musketry.” He quickly glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s still early in the day, but the drubbing they have received will surely have taken all the fight out of them. It’s over for today, I think.”
Another general appeared out of the dust, trailed by a single color-bearer. Cleburne tensed when he recognized the man as General William Walker, the commander of one of the other divisions in Hardee’s corps. Walker saluted as he approached the group, eyeing Cleburne warily. He saw a flash of hatred in Walker’s eyes. He was not surprised.
“General Walker,” Hardee said simply. “You may report.”
“The Yankees attacked my line with a heavy force, but we repulsed them handsomely. Our losses are light, but the losses inflicted upon the enemy are heavy.”
“Good,” Hardee replied. “Very good. Please convey my congratulations to your brigade commanders.”
“Oh, I will. I certainly will,” Walker said with a snide smile. Cleburne had the distinct impression that Walker’s pleasure had less to do with earning Hardee’s approval than it did with the sheer joy he derived from killing people.
Hardee went on. “You’ll be happy to know, General Walker, that the enemy attacks have been equally unsuccessful at other points along the line. General Cleburne here repulsed a very heavy attack, as a matter of fact.”
“Did he now?” Walker said.
“Indeed,” Hardee replied.
Cleburne could see what Hardee was trying to do. He wanted Walker to offer congratulations to a brother officer in view of the assembled staff officers. Cleburne did not expect Walker to offer any such sign of respect and was unsurprised when the man merely grunted.
“Well, I thank you for your report,” Hardee said to Walker. “Best get back to your division in case the Yankees try again.”
“Yes, sir.” Walker raised his hand in a salute to Hardee and, without casting another glance at Cleburne, turned his horse and rode off.
Hardee chuckled softly as soon as Walker was out of hearing. “As agreeable as ever,” he said to Cleburne with a wry grin. Cleburne nodded to acknowledge Hardee’s joke, but he did not consider Walker any laughing matter.
The smile on Hardee’s face dimmed and he became serious once again. “If you think it advisable, Pat, send out pickets in the more heavily-wooded sectors. It might be worth picking up some of the wounded Federals as prisoners, especially if we can get any officers.”
Without speaking, Cleburne turned and nodded to Lieutenant Hanley, who galloped off to make Hardee’s order happen. In the meantime, Hardee turned to one of his own staffers and told him to report to General Johnston’s headquarters. He then turned back to Cleburne.
“Keep your men on the alert, just in case the Yankees try again. I don’t think they will, but we must be prudent.”
“Of course, sir.”
They quickly exchanged respectful salutes, and Hardee and his staff rode off. Cleburne watched him go. Serving in an army as torn by bitter personal and professional rivalries as the Army of Tennessee, Cleburne always counted himself lucky to serve under a man as decent as Hardee. Over the years, their excellent professional relationship had developed into a strong friendship.
Major Benham returned with the good news that the Yankees facing the 1st Arkansas had agreed to a temporary truce and had come forward to rescue their wounded comrades. Cleburne continued moving down the line of the division, occasionally stopping to chat briefly with regimental officers. The initial reports of low casualties proved even better than expected, with the division having suffered only two killed and nine seriously wounded. At no point had the enemy come close to breaking the line.
He allowed himself the luxury of a small smile.
*****
The Confederate battle flag fluttered slightly in the breeze above the cluster of tents that contained the headquarters of the Army of Tennessee. Controlled chaos swirled about everywhere, as staff officers talked and argued, couriers came and went, and secretaries hurriedly scribbled orders and reports. The shade offered by the tents and trees provided only a slight respite from the heat. The sun had reached its zenith and begun its long descent toward the western horizon.
General Joseph E. Johnston, commander of the Army of Tennessee, sat at one table, intently reading a message just brought in from a dispatch rider. Of medium height, his body language did not convey strength so much as a leathery toughness and a wound-up energy that belied his fifty-seven years. His mustache, goatee and sideburns were carefully trimmed and his uniform appeared impeccably clean and well-pressed. His hat, rarely off his head as he preferred to conceal his baldness, was decorated with an ostrich feather, his only obvious concession to vanity.
The sounds of battle had been clearly audible throughout the day, though they now were now gradually tapering off. While he had naturally felt some apprehension, Johnston had been quite confident in the outcome of the battle. He had chosen the position well and the men had constructed excellent fortifications. Moreover, he knew the men under his command were among the toughest soldiers in the world.
He had been rather surprised at Sherman for abandoning his flanking strategy in favor of a frontal attack. From the commencement of the campaign nearly two months before, the Union commander had continually used his superior numbers to maneuver Johnston out of one defensive position after another. But if Johnston had been surprised by the frontal assault, he wasn’t about to complain. After all, successfully tempting Sherman into launching such an ill-considered attack was precisely what Johnston had been trying to do since the campaign had begun.
In the distance, a courier appeared, galloping toward the tent at top speed. Johnston heard someone say that it looked like a staff member from Hardee’s corps, whereupon he hurriedly rose from his chair and walked to the edge of the tent. The man reined in about ten paces out.
“Report!” Johnston called out.
The man shouted so that everyone in the vicinity could hear. “General Hardee presents his compliments, sir! He wishes to inform you that the attacks have been repulsed all along the line! The Yankees never got close!”
The headquarters staff cheered, but Johnston called out again, asking about casualties.
“Hardly a man in the whole corps hit, sir! But we sure killed a god-awful lot of Yankees!”
The men cheered all the louder and Johnston smiled. He was not a man given to bloodlust and, in quiet moments, felt very keenly the horror and sorrow of the war in which he fought. But he told himself that every Union soldier killed was one less enemy trying to kill his own men. As the army commander, it was his responsibility to put human emotions aside and deal with the cold logic of warfare.
“Thank you, lieutenant!” Johnston called. “My compliments to General Hardee! Tell him it was a job well done!”
“Yes, sir!” The man saluted and galloped off.
Johnston indulged in the victory ritual of shaking hands and receiving congratulations from most of the staff. For a moment he felt a feeling of exultation, as the victory at what eventually would come to be called the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain was his most significant achievement in the campaign to date.
Brigadier General William Mackall, chief-of-staff of the Army of Tennessee and Johnston’s principal staff officer, extended his hand as the commander reached his seat.
“Congratulations, General!”
“Thank you, my friend. I recall that when we received news of Lee’s victory at Cold Harbor earlier this month I complained that no person would ever attack me in such a perfect defensive position. I must now stand happily corrected.”
“Indeed, sir. I dare say that even President Davis will be pleased, assuming that it is possible to please that man.”
Johnston smiled. Any words critical of Jefferson Davis were music to his ears. He gestured back
toward his table, where he retook his seat as Mackall sat down across from him. “I don’t know what Sherman was thinking today. If this war has taught anyone anything, it is never to launch a direct infantry assault on a prepared position.”
Mackall nodded. “You’d think the Yankees would have learned that, having had their noses bloodied at Chickasaw Bluffs, Fredericksburg, and a half dozen other places.”
“And as I have well learned by studying carefully what has happened to our own troops at Malvern Hill and Cemetery Ridge.”
“Point taken, sir. Much better to receive and repulse an attack by the enemy than to have our own men slaughtered in front of impregnable defenses.”
“Quite so. Still, as happy as I am that we defeated Sherman today, this victory does little to change our strategic situation. Now that Sherman has discovered the futility of launching a direct assault against us, he will certainly return to his previous strategy of using his superior numbers to maneuver around our flanks.”
Mackall nodded. “No doubt. I just hope the beating we have given him today will give us at least a few days of breathing space. The army is tired.”
“Sherman will move to outflank us, and soon,” Johnston said with conviction. “He is far from foolish. My guess is that he will attempt to get around our left flank, where Hood’s corps is currently posted. Sherman always goes after our left.” His fingers traced the route on the map that covered the table.
The map showed something else troubling. Only a few miles south of Kennesaw Mountain was the Chattahoochee River, the last major natural barrier between Sherman and Atlanta. If Johnston could not prevent Sherman from crossing the river, he doubted he would be able to hold the city.
Shattered Nation Page 2
