Shattered Nation
Page 26
Chapter Six
July 20, Morning
As the eastern horizon began to glow with the coming of the dawn and the chirping of the birds was only just beginning, a loose row of Yankee skirmishers appeared through the mist on the north bank of Peachtree Creek. Several yards separated each man and they moved in near total silence. Their eyes were alert, their muskets ready to be raised into a firing position at any moment. As they reached the bank of the creek, they paused, straining their eyes for any sign of the enemy on the other side.
They waited there for several minutes, seeing nothing. Then, the officers made silent hand signals. Picked men clambered down the bank into the creek. It wasn’t easy. Most handed their rifle to another man and then had him hand it back when he finally reached the bottom. They found the creek itself very shallow. Some crossed while barely getting their boots wet, while a few waded over with the water reaching their waists. Those remaining on the north bank covered the crossing of their comrades, raising their weapons to their shoulders and aiming at every shadow on the other side.
The picked men found it very difficult to climb up the steep southern bank while holding their muskets. It was only by clasping onto exposed tree roots or rocky outcroppings that the first few managed to get up. They then set their weapons down, feeling themselves in no danger as there seemed to be no enemy troops nearby, and turned to assist their comrades.
This scene was reenacted up and down the length of Peachtree Creek that morning. In ever increasing numbers, the men of the Army of the Cumberland began to cross over Peachtree Creek. They were now only a few miles from Atlanta.
As soon as their hold on the south bank was secure, the engineers immediately began working to erect improvised bridges to make the crossing easier for the vast host which remained on the north bank. Within hours, the trickle of Northern troops crossing Peachtree Creek became a flood.
Among them was General Thomas, who crossed over to the south side at about ten o’clock, walking his horse across what the locals had called Collier’s Bridge, which the rebels had mysteriously left intact. It connected to Peachtree Road, one of the few good thoroughfares in the area. He smiled at the thought that there was now no natural barrier between him and Atlanta. Had there been no war, he could have kicked his horse into a trot and been in the middle of the city in about an hour.
He drew over to the side of the road, followed by some of his staff and the color bearer of the Army of the Cumberland, and watched as yet another infantry division began to march across. Thousands of his troops were now on the south bank of the creek and every minute that passed brought yet more over. A few minutes later, General Joseph Hooker, the commander of Twentieth Corps, rode up to him.
“Good morning, General Thomas,” Hooker said without warmth.
“And to you, General Hooker.”
Among near-equals in rank, informality was the norm, but not with Hooker. Easily the most vain man Thomas had ever met, Hooker was the disgraced former commander of the Army of the Potomac, who had been outwitted and defeated by Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee at the Battle of Chancellorsville in Virginia the previous year. That defeat aside, Hooker’s combat record was actually fairly good, but the blow Chancellorsville had inflicted on Hooker’s immense pride had caused him to be extremely touchy on matters of rank and prestige. Thomas had learned to tread carefully with the man.
“Two of my divisions are across,” Hooker said. “One more to go.”
“Good, very good. Any sign of the rebels?”
Hooker shook his head. “Some cavalry pickets up front, but nothing to indicate the presence of large units anywhere nearby.”
“I see,” Thomas said. He thought for a moment. “I’m beginning to suspect that Sherman is correct. Maybe Johnston has given up the city.”
Hooker sat up straight in the saddle and spoke hurriedly. “If that is the case, General Thomas, I request that my corps be the one to lead the Army of the Cumberland into the city.”
Thomas sighed with quiet exasperation. “It’s too early to discuss such things, General Hooker. Let’s just get the army over this creek and form them up for the advance.”
“With respect, General, I believe that under all the observed rules of civilized warfare my seniority in rank to the other corps commanders in this army entitles my corps to the honor of leading the advance into Atlanta.”
“Like I said, General, we shall discuss such things later. Rest assured, only military considerations are on my mind when I determine marching orders.” He saw the look of injured pride on Hooker’s face, which struck him as mildly ridiculous, so he sighed and went on. “But unless there is a specific reason otherwise, you shall have the honor of leading the advance.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hooker saluted and rode off. Thomas watched him go, shaking his head. All that damned idiot wanted was to see his name in the papers again.
He turned in the saddle and looked back north, over the bridge. It was crammed with blue-coated troops. The crossing was going well. Hooker’s corps was nearly finished crossing and was taking up position in the center of the developing Union line of battle. The other two corps were crossing on either side of Hooker’s corps, using the bridges hastily thrown up by the engineers. Within the next few hours, assuming things continued to go smoothly, the entire army would be across.
“Sir!” a staff officer shouted. He pointed to three Union soldiers approaching, leading what appeared to be a Confederate prisoner.
“Bring him over here!” Thomas called out. Perhaps the man would have some useful information. “Who are you, son?”
“Stephen Carpenter, sir,” he answered, appearing rather stunned to be addressed by a Union general. “38th Tennessee. Cheatham’s Division.”
“Prisoner or deserter, Carpenter?”
The man shrugged. “Oh, I just had to give up, General. Got a letter smuggled in from my family back home, in occupied territory. They need me to come home and keep the farm safe from your boys, who’ve been stealing all the hogs and chickens.”
Thomas grunted. War was hard on everyone. “Answer some questions for me and I’ll make it easier for you to get home.”
“Happily, sir.” The man’s eyes lit up.
“Where are the closest Confederate troops?”
“Well, the Atlanta defenses are manned by the Georgia militia. I think they’re the closest ones. Nothing between them and you, near as I can tell. But I was trying to stay out of sight, you see.”
Thomas nodded. “Where was your division when you left it?” Cheatham’s division was one of Johnston’s best, so its location might say a lot about the Confederate commander’s intentions.
“Oh, way out there,” Carpenter said, waving his hand. “Out east and south of the city. We marched through Atlanta the day before yesterday.”
“Other divisions out there, too?”
“I think so, yes. But I can’t say for sure. They don’t tell us privates much. Probably the same in your army, I reckon.”
“Thank you kindly, Carpenter.” He turned in the saddle and spoke to a staff officer. “Get this man some food and make sure he gets processed properly.” A moment later, Carpenter was gone.
Thomas pulled his notebook out and hastily scribbled a message for Sherman.
General Sherman,
Crossing proceeding normally. No sign of enemy. Deserter just brought in reports Atlanta defenses held only by militia and Confederate troops southeast of the city. Recommend McPherson watch his flank. I shall prepare to advance if opportunity presents itself.
General Thomas
He tore the paper off and ordered a courier to take it to Sherman. The deserter’s claim that the defenses of the city were being held only by the Georgia Militia seemed to confirm the reports of his cavalry that there were no formations of Confederate troops between the Army of the Cumberland and Atlanta. Either Johnston was pulling out or he was massing his troops for an attack on McPherson. In either case, Thomas had little to fe
ar.
Sherman had ordered all forces to be ready to move into Atlanta the following day. Thomas now felt that the prize was within his grasp already. The Georgia militia would not last long in a fight with the hardened veterans of the Army of the Cumberland, even if they were behind stout defenses. Once the entire army was across the creek, they would move south toward the city. There was no time to bother entrenching and Thomas did not want the men to be too tired to make a forced march. Even if Johnston did intend to attack him, Thomas was fully confident in the ability of his army to maintain its position. He had, after all, done it all before.
*****
Captain Collett looked tense and perhaps even apprehensive as he glanced around the group of two lieutenants and nine sergeants. McFadden felt his patience instantly wear thin. Collett had just returned from a hurried conference with General Granbury, the brigade commander, and everyone was frantic to know what was about to happen.
“Listen carefully, men,” Collett began. “It’s look like we’re about to have one hell of a fight on our hands. The Army of the Cumberland is crossing Peachtree Creek, just a mile or so north of here. In a couple of hours we’re going to hit them with everything we’ve got. The whole corps is going in. Stewart’s corps, too, over on our left. Our goal is to drive them into the creek and destroy them.”
As Collett spoke, a rustle seemed to breeze through the assembled officers and sergeants. A few men smiled, while others appeared more pensive. McFadden’s face betrayed no reaction, for Collett’s words didn’t particularly surprise him. The strict orders of the previous evening had made it obvious that something big was about to happen. The 7th Texas had made a night march to its present position, instructed not to speak or to make any unnecessary noise. All their gear except their rifles, ammunition and canteens had been left behind in a rear depot, though many of the men had stuffed some biscuits in their pockets, not wanting to go into battle on an empty stomach.
“Two corps against the whole Army of the Cumberland in an open field fight?” one of the lieutenants asked, incredulous.
“If I understand what General Granbury told me, the plan is to strike them while they are still crossing the creek, catching them by surprise while their forces are divided. Sherman’s other armies are too far away to come to their support. Something like that, anyway.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Those Cumberland boys don’t run.”
“They did at Chickamauga,” Collett said. “Besides, it’s not for us to worry about the big picture. We must place our trust in God and General Johnston.” Collett squatted down and used his finger to sketch a diagram in the dirt. “Now, our division will hold the far left of the corps’ line. Our brigade has been designated the division reserve. We’ll advance behind the main line. The other brigades are going to make contact with the Yankees before we do. When old Pat Cleburne gives the word, we’ll be sent in to break the bastards.”
The men around the captain nodded stiffly and he stood up and went on. “Every man has been issued sixty rounds of ammunition. Hopefully that will be enough. Make sure that everyone’s canteen is filled. We’ll all be in hell before the day is over and we’re going to need the water.”
A few men chuckled at what they assumed had been Collett’s attempt at a joke, but the stern face of his captain persuaded McFadden that he had not meant to be funny.
“Now, get back to your men and get them ready. The attack is scheduled for one o’clock.”
The group of officers and sergeants quickly broke up and McFadden jogged back to the Lone Star Rifles, who had been placed on the far left of the rough line in which the 7th Texas was deployed.
His mind raced. Kennesaw Mountain had been a bloody fight, but had been brief and had involved only portions of the respective armies. The vicious engagements at Pickett’s Mill and Dug Gap had also been brutal, but in the grand scheme of things had been little more than large skirmishes. If what Captain Collett had just told him was true, the Army of Tennessee was about to fight its biggest battle since Missionary Ridge. The fate of the campaign, perhaps even the entire war, might well turn on its outcome.
McFadden knew that there was a very good chance he would not be alive by the end of the day. He had never had much fear of death. Before the nightmare of the campaign in New Mexico, he had been a sincere believer in the doctrine of salvation through faith in Jesus Christ. After coming out of New Mexico, after what had happened to his family, he honestly hadn’t much cared whether he lived or died. Death, at least, would have been an end to the agony which gripped his soul. Indeed, he had embraced death as he had plunged into the maelstrom of war on so many battlefields in Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee and Georgia. Imminent death had become almost like a companion to him, something comforting that he could caress as warmly as a lover.
McFadden suddenly stopped in his tracks, confusion clouding his face. He was not afraid, but he was abruptly and unexpectedly possessed by the intense realization that he no longer wanted to die. Something had changed. Some new factor had entered the equation of his life.
Since the dinner he had had with the Turnbows, nearly a week before, he and Annie had exchanged three letters, two from him and one from her. They had been innocent enough. Mostly they had discussed her father’s plan for providing fresh produce to the men of the regiment. He had asked her about her favorite authors and poets, telling her of his love for Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott. He also had made what he considered a pathetic effort to describe camp life, trying hard to make an incredibly dull topic sound interesting.
She had replied almost immediately, telling him that she had read and enjoyed Scott and would now try to read Burns. She liked Shakespeare and Milton very much, so McFadden resolved to try and find copies of those writers and brush up on them.
Annie had ended the letter by expressing concern for his well-being and safety, noting the prevalence of tuberculosis in the army and the prospect of renewed fighting. He hadn’t thought about it when he read it, assuming that it was nothing more than a general statement of good will. However, with the biggest battle of the campaign at hand, the words suddenly had a much deeper resonance. Even if only slightly, he meant something to someone again.
McFadden took a deep breath. Steeling himself, he resumed his run.
He found the Lone Star Rifles just where he had left them, sitting in a large circle with disgruntled looks on their faces. Just before leaving them a few minutes before, McFadden had forbidden them from starting a fire to make coffee, citing strict orders.
“Can we make our damn coffee now?“ Pearson demanded.
“Shut up, Pearson,” McFadden said sharply. “We’re going into battle, men. A damn big battle, from the looks of it.”
The men stiffened and some stood up, looking to him for more explanation.
“Near as I can tell from what the captain said, the Yankee army is crossing that little river north of here right about now. Our plan is to hit them before they are all across, or something like that. Johnston wants to trap them on the south bank and crush them.”
The eyes of the Texans lit up and their lips tightened. McFadden scanned their faces carefully, watching for any sign of fear or hesitation.
“What enemy?” Private Balch asked.
“Army of the Cumberland.”
“Shit.”
“Mind your tongue, Balch.”
“We’re dead men, sure as hell,” Pearson said resignedly.
“That’ll do,” McFadden said, his tone making it clear that there would be no further discussion. “Rest up. Make sure your Enfields are clean and you have enough ammunition. If you brought any food with you, even though you were told not to, I suggest you eat it now.”
“Can I make my coffee?” Pearson asked again, his tone much more polite.
“Sorry. No fires. Orders are orders. We don’t want the Yankees to see any smoke, after all.”
And after that, there was nothing to do but wait.
*****
East of Atlanta, the twenty-five thousand Union troops of the Army of the Tennessee were marching south. In their midst rode Sherman and McPherson, surrounded by their respective staffs and followed by a large cavalry escort.
A courier galloped up. “Lead brigade reports it has entered Decatur. No rebels there, General!”
A cheer went up from the nearby federal troops. Sherman smiled and turned to McPherson.
“Well, that’s good news, James. It means we now have a force on the railroad between Atlanta and Augusta.”
McPherson nodded. “It does, indeed, Cump.”
“I want you to get your engineers down on that railroad and start tearing it up. I want it so thoroughly wrecked that not a single train will pass between Atlanta and Augusta from now until doomsday. You hear that, James! From now until doomsday!”
“I understand completely, sir.”
“Now that Johnston is cut off from his main rail connection to the east, he’ll certainly pull out of Atlanta, if he hasn’t already. We’ve cut him off from easy communication with the Carolinas and Virginia. If Lee really was sending him reinforcements, they’ll have to come by a different route now.” Sherman’s face beamed and his voice was giddy.
Another courier arrived and handed Sherman a note.
General Sherman,
Crossing proceeding normally. No sign of enemy. Deserter just brought in reports Atlanta defenses held only by militia and enemy troops southeast of the city. Recommend McPherson watch his flank. I shall prepare to advance if opportunity presents itself.
General Thomas
“Well, James!” Sherman said happily. “Old Tom tells me that there are no rebels in his front and that the defenses of the city are held only by militia.”