Mackall stared down at map. “I do not believe we have sufficient men to extend our left flank, sir. Our right flank is already stretched dangerously thin. In some places we have had to dismount units of Wheeler’s cavalry and deploy them as infantrymen in the trenches.”
Johnston thought a moment. “Draft a letter to Governor Brown. Remind him that he has repeatedly promised me that he will send forward all the militiamen he can muster. We have yet to receive so much as a single regiment. Tell him that we need those men, and we need them now.”
“You intend to field Georgia militia against Sherman’s men?” Mackall asked. “Old men and young boys with no training won’t last long against seasoned veterans.” Mackall certainly had no love for the Yankees, but he respected them very highly as fighting men.
“We can put the militia in quiet sections of the line, freeing up our reliable troops for more active sectors. Even old men and young boys are better than no men at all. In circumstances such as ours, we have to make do as best we can.”
“True enough.”
Johnston tapped the table impatiently. “Too many Yankees,” he said absent-mindedly. For a moment, he found himself wondering if the people of the Confederacy would blame him if they lost the war.
A courier handed Mackall a note, which he quickly opened and read.
“What is it?” Johnston asked.
“It’s from Senator Wigfall, sir. He wishes to inquire if it would be best for him to postpone his visit to headquarters, what with the battle and all.”
“No, tell him to come straight away. The battle is over, and the sooner Senator Wigfall and I have a chance to discuss matters, the better. I am sure he is anxious to continue on his way to Texas.”
“I will notify him, sir.”
“In the meantime, please find out the estimated losses we have sustained in this morning’s engagement.”
“At once, sir.” Mackall stood, saluted and walked off.
Johnston let out a deep breath and stared back at the map. He was quiet and still for some time, as the staff of his headquarters continued to swirl around him.
*****
General William Tecumseh Sherman, commander of the combined Union armies in the Western Theater of Operations, shook his head in intense frustration, chewing his cigar until it nearly disintegrated. Couriers kept arriving with message after message, all of them saying the same thing. Every single one of his attacks had been repulsed with heavy losses. At no point did his men even come close to breaking through the Confederate lines. The attack had been a complete fiasco.
“Take a telegram for General Thomas,” he said to a nearby staff officer, who immediately prepared to accept the dictation.
Do you think you can break any part of the enemy’s line today?
“Have that dispatched at once, and let me know as soon as he replies. Right away, as soon as he replies. No delays, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The officer scurried away to carry out his task.
For a moment, Sherman reflected on the telegraph lines which connected him with the command posts of his chief subordinates. The very thought of the instant communication they provided filled him with amazement and fleetingly distracted him from the day’s disappointments. He wondered what use Napoleon, Marlborough or the other great generals of the past would have made of such an invention. He shook the thought from his mind and tried to focus on the task at hand.
He was angry at himself. Nearly two months of marching and fighting throughout northern Georgia had gained a lot of ground, but had failed to inflict a decisive defeat on the Army of Tennessee. So long as the Army of Tennessee continued to exist as a formidable fighting force, the capture of Atlanta and the defeat of the Confederacy would remain an elusive dream. After countless failed attempts to run his opponent to ground, he had finally given into frustration and launched a full-scale frontal assault.
He had played right into the hands of Joe Johnston. Three thousand Union soldiers had paid the price.
A few minutes passed. “Sir, we have just received the response from General Thomas.”
“Read it to me, please.”
From what the officers tell me, I do not think we can carry the works by assault at this point today, but they can be approached by saps and the enemy driven out.
Sherman frowned and shook his head. To have the men approach the Confederate trenches by means of digging zigzag trenches, all while under fire, would effectively mean resorting to siege warfare. It would take weeks, perhaps more than a month, for such tactics to work.
Sherman knew the Union had unlimited resources of men and material. He also knew that one thing it did not have was time.
“Take the return message, Lieutenant.”
“Go ahead, sir,” the officer said, readying his pencil.
Is there anything in the enemy’s present position that if we should approach by regular saps, he could not make a dozen new parapets before one sap is completed? Does the nature of the ground warrant the time necessary for regular approaches?’
Again, the officer hurried off to the telegraph tent. Sherman didn’t like the idea of remaining stuck before the Kennesaw line. After all, using siege tactics would simply give Johnston time to build a new defensive position slightly farther back. It would also provide a respite for the Confederates, allowing them to recover their strength, and Sherman felt it critical to keep them as hard pressed as possible.
To make matters worse, every day that Sherman remained stymied at the Kennesaw line was another day in which the Confederates might unleash a cavalry raid on his supply lines. Such an operation was the thing Sherman feared more than anything else, the terror which kept him awake at night. The three armies under his command constituted one of the most powerful military forces ever assembled in the history of warfare. However, for their supplies they were dependent on a ramshackle network of railroads that stretched hundreds of miles to the north.
For a man as worry-prone as Sherman, his shaky supply lines made him decidedly uncomfortable. The fact that the commander of any such raid would likely be the dreaded Nathan Bedford Forrest made him worry all the more.
Thomas’s response was quickly received.
Enemy works exceedingly strong, so strong that they cannot be carried by assault except by immense sacrifice, if they can be carried at all. Best chance is to approach them by regular saps. We have already lost heavily today without gaining any advantage. One or two more such assaults would use up this army.
The staff officer reading the message to Sherman glanced up nervously as he recited the last sentence. The language Thomas used could easily be interpreted as a criticism of Sherman’s decision to attack, and for a subordinate to criticize his superior so openly was simply not done.
If Sherman thought the words were critical, he didn’t show it. He knew that Thomas didn’t want to resort to siege tactics any more than he did. It was clear that his subordinate was trying hard to dissuade him from launching another frontal attack and he was doubtless correct.
Sherman took a deep puff on his cigar as he contemplated his options. The Confederate defenses could not be taken by assault, and he didn’t have the time to break them down by siege methods. The only alternative, therefore, was to revert to his previous strategy of outflanking Johnston. To do that would require moving the bulk of the army away, at least temporarily, from the railroad that brought them their supplies. For a few days, most of his troops would have to carry with them all the food and ammunition they would need to both survive and fight. If the movement somehow went awry, the consequences could be grave.
It would be a risk, but there was no other choice.
Sherman called for his maps and spread them on the table, ideas whirling through his mind as he began dictating his orders.
*****
June 27, Afternoon
Those who saw General John Bell Hood often came away thinking that he looked like something out of Beowulf, for the commander of the secon
d infantry corps of the Army of Tennessee did indeed resemble a bearded, angry Anglo-Saxon tribal chief. On the face of it, he was a powerfully built man in his early thirties, whose eyes and facial expression positively exuded strength and ferocity. But all that was belied by the physical torments which the war had inflicted upon his body.
His left arm dangled uselessly in a permanent sling, shattered beyond recovery by an exploding Union shell at the Battle of Gettysburg. His right leg was missing, having been amputated after being smashed by Yankee musket fire at the Battle of Chickamauga. Because of his grievous injuries, Hood had to be strapped into the saddle of his horse if he wanted to ride anywhere. He was, quite literally, a broken man. His eyes remained strong, but perceptive observers could see a dark element in their gaze that had not been there before he had suffered his wounds.
Hood was sitting quietly in his tent, listening to the steady rumble of cannonading off to the north. Clearly, something had happened on the right, on the opposite end of the line from the position held by his own corps, but he had no idea what. Staff officers he had sent to investigate had not yet returned. If anything particularly important had taken place, Hood assumed that General Johnston would have notified him immediately. In the absence of any such message, Hood assumed that the Yankees had attacked the Confederate lines, probably around Hardee’s corps, and had been successfully repulsed.
Until he knew for certain what was happening, he would withhold judgment. He had ordered his division commanders to be ready to repel any attack, but there seemed to be little activity on his own lines. As the sun began its slow descent toward the western horizon, it became increasingly clear that June 27 was going to be an uneventful day for John Bell Hood.
As he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his peg leg accidently thumped onto the ground. In an instant, shocking pain screamed through the stump that was all that remained of his natural leg. He tightly gripped the table with his one good hand, grinding his teeth against the agony and resisting the almost irresistible urge to cry out. His peg leg was of the highest quality, custom-made in England from the finest cork available and run through the Union blockade. It had been paid for by a subscription raised by the men of his old brigade in General Lee’s army. However, even at the best of times it caused severe discomfort. Often, the torture it caused him was unbearable.
Glancing outside to make sure that no one was in a position to see him, he quietly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of laudanum. Removing the cork with his teeth, he took a quick swig of the concoction of alcohol and opium. Very quickly, he replaced the cork and put the bottle back in his pocket.
“General Hood, sir?” a staff officer outside called.
“What?” There was irritation in his voice.
“General Wheeler is approaching.”
Hood hobbled up, holding the table for support. Ordinarily, he would receive another general in his tent, since his comrades were more than happy to accommodate the limitations imposed by his physical condition. But Joseph Wheeler, commander of the army’s cavalry, was one of the few genuine friends Hood had in the army and Hood figured he deserved the courtesy of a proper greeting.
Hood threw back the flap of his tent and stepped outside, just as General Joseph Wheeler reined in a few yards away, trailed by two staff officers.
“Hello, Sam!” Wheeler said, using the nickname by which friends customarily addressed Hood.
“What is happening up north, Joe?”
“The Yankees attacked all along the line, but we beat them back, by God! Killed us a whole mess of Yankees!”
“Very good!” Hood said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Intense pain still shot through his leg, but he tried to ignore it. “I only wish my boys could have joined in the fun!”
“Oh, you’ll get your chance soon enough, my friend.”
“Join me for a glass of whiskey?”
“I believe that I shall take you up on that, sir,” Wheeler responded with mock formality. He sharply dismounted, the reins being taken by one of Hood’s staff officers. Hood gestured into the tent, and a moment later they were sitting down at the table while Hood poured two glasses of whiskey.
“General Johnston will be in high spirits this evening, I should think,” Wheeler observed.
“I suppose so,” Hood replied. “Of course I am very glad at the day’s success. But is Old Joe going to follow up with a counter attack? I frankly doubt it.”
“No argument here,” Wheeler said, his face becoming more serious. “You know that I’ve been saying all along that we need to be taking the fight to the enemy. Hell, every time my boys have come up against Yankee cavalry since the campaign started, we have sent them running. I can’t see why the infantry can’t do the same.”
Hood frowned and shook his head. “The main result of today’s engagement may well be to encourage the men in the belief that they should never fight unless they are protected by strong fortifications. When I served under Lee in Virginia, all my successes- at Gaine’s Mill, at Second Manassas, at Sharpsburg- were achieved the old-fashioned way, by charging the enemy with the bayonet!”
“I know it, Sam,” Wheeler said. “It was your record of success in the East which made me so pleased when you took command of one of our infantry corps. And I must say, your record in the present campaign has fully vindicated my hopes.”
Hood, smiling modestly, responded with a slight nod. Though he was more than happy to accept Wheeler’s flattery, he knew quite well that his fighting record over the past two months had been mixed at best. Try as he might, Hood had been unable to replicate as a corps commander in the West the brilliant success he had achieved as a brigade and division commander in the East. Memories of the missed opportunity at Cassville and the botched attack at Kolb’s Farm flickered through his mind. The latter had cost the lives of hundreds of Southern soldiers.
Wheeler raised his whiskey glass. “To offensive action, and soon!”
“To offensive action,” Hood replied as they clinked their glasses together.
A few minutes of trivial conversation passed quickly, focused mostly on horses, but both men soon realized that their minds were turning elsewhere. Excusing himself politely, Wheeler soon mounted his horse and rode on.
Seeing no reason not to, Hood poured himself another glass of whiskey. He then pulled out writing material and began the laborious process of writing a letter with his right hand without being able to hold the paper down with his left. Since it was apparent that there would be no action along his front that day, it seemed like a propitious time to address a letter to Sally Preston, the sophisticated and beautiful Richmond socialite he hoped to soon call his wife. He had a letter of substantially greater political and military significance to write afterwards.
*****
June 27, Evening
General George Thomas, commander of the Union Army of the Cumberland, shook his head sadly as a staff officer handed him the most up-to-date report on casualties from the day’s attack. Hundreds of his men had been killed in front of the Confederate defenses, while nearly fifteen hundred were wounded. Many of the latter would undoubtedly perish in agony in the rudimentary field hospitals over the next few days. Farther north, the Army of the Tennessee had also suffered heavy losses. All of the fallen men had had friends and loved ones back home, but Thomas tried not to dwell on that.
His men had fought bravely; that much was clear. Two of his best brigade commanders, Colonel Daniel McCook and Brigadier General Charles Harker, had been killed while leading their men from the front. If eyewitness accounts were to be believed, the color-bearer of the 52nd Ohio Infantry had reached the Confederate line and planted his flag on the parapet before being shot down. But as the war had proven so many times, even the greatest gallantry was no match for the brutal firepower of entrenched infantry.
The few prisoners Thomas’s men had captured, all from the Confederate picket line well in front of the fortified position, had said that the division holdi
ng the line where the strongest attack had been made was that of General Patrick Cleburne. If that were true, it was no wonder that the attack had failed.
Thomas was a big man, not tall but possessing such bulk that he reminded many people of an oversize Scottish terrier. His whole form seemed to combine manly strength with a certain grace and dignity. His eyes sparkled with an intense and clear intelligence and his thick beard was speckled with shades of gray. Though his face could on occasion express a comforting warmth that cheered those around him, it was just as likely to solidify into an indecipherable mask.
Since their earlier telegram exchange, in which Thomas had forthrightly expressed his view that they could not hope to break the Confederate lines through frontal attack, Sherman had been pestering him with telegrams asking his advice about their next course of action.
To Thomas’s mind, there were two possible courses of action. They could adopt siege tactics and attempt to blast their way through the Confederate defenses by approaching them with saps. It would probably work, but it would take several weeks even under the best circumstances. Thomas knew Sherman would be unwilling to wait that long. Accepting such a long stalemate might give the rebels time to mount the cavalry raid against their supply line that the Union generals so dreaded. More importantly, President Lincoln would be far from pleased.
The second possible course of action would be to attempt a wide-sweeping flanking movement to the south to get around the Confederate left flank. This had been done several times since the commencement of the campaign, always with success. But in this particular instance, the nature of the terrain and the respective positions of the armies would make it necessary for the bulk of the Union forces to abandon the railroad on which they depended for supplies. It was hard to say how long such a movement would take, but it might turn out to be several days. If they failed to force a Confederate withdrawal, the flanking forces would have to make an inglorious retreat as soon as their supplies ran out. Meanwhile, the portion of the Union forces left holding the railroad might be vulnerable to a surprise Confederate attack.
Shattered Nation Page 3
