Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Walking wounded, many of them holding bloody bandages up to their faces, drifted back away from the front lines. Hanley pointed some of them in the direction of the division’s hospital tents, but Cleburne knew that they would find little comfort there. If anything, the horrors the wounded would experience at the hands of the surgeons would be worse than those they had already encountered on the battlefield. But that would be something he would think about later, when the battle was over and if he managed to survive.

  They finally reached the battle line itself. Ragged and disorderly, it yet remained intact, with the men standing shoulder to shoulder as they loaded and fired continuously. Through the smoke, Cleburne could just make out the line of blue-coated Union soldiers perhaps a hundred yards father on. Neither side seemed willing to budge, but neither appeared able to mount a bayonet charge. Both sides simply stood their ground, pouring deadly fire into one another. Every few seconds, another one of his men fell, some dropping quickly and silently, others shrieking in agony as they were hit.

  Somewhere off to the right, obscured by smoke, was a Union artillery battery. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the booming of its guns and see their deadly effect. As he was watching, a solid shot passed neatly through the body of a young soldier, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen, slicing him in half as trimly as though it had been done by a butcher’s knife. He hadn’t had a moment in which to scream. The men on either side were drenched with the boy’s blood, but they ignored it and kept firing, instinctively scooting slightly closer to one another to close the tiny gap in the line.

  “Where is General Lowrey?” Cleburne shouted to the first officer he encountered.

  “Over there, sir!” the man shouted, pointed toward the center of the brigade.

  Cleburne trotted over, spotting Lowrey a few moments later. The brigade commander was on foot, his sword drawn and a fierce expression on his face. Mark Lowrey was a good friend who had long served with him and who had loyally supported him when he had issued his proposal to free the slaves. He was a devout man of God and, as far as Cleburne was concerned, the bravest man in the Confederate Army. Simply seeing him in command of his troops gave Cleburne a sense of comfort.

  “How are things, Mark?” Cleburne shouted.

  Lowrey shook his head vigorously. “The Yankees won’t break! We’re giving it everything we’ve got, but they won’t break!”

  Cleburne glanced back at the firing line. Men were falling with grim regularity and it seemed that the tempo of firing from the Union line was becoming more intense. Canister fire and solid shot from enemy cannon swept in every few seconds, taking clusters of men with it.

  “There’s a Yankee battery over there!” Lowrey said, gesturing frantically to the right. “It’s firing at an angle that’s enfilading our line.”

  “I’ll summon sharpshooters,” Cleburne said. He nodded toward Hanley, who galloped off.

  “I need support!” Lowrey said. “Can you bring Granbury up?”

  Cleburne thought quickly. He did not want to commit Granbury except at a time and place where it would be decisive. If he sent in his reserve brigade at the wrong place or at the wrong time, it might fail to have any impact and be chewed up for no gain.

  “Not yet! Can you hold?”

  “I think I can hold, but I can’t move forward!”

  “Keep the pressure on!” Cleburne shouted as he turned his horse away. He needed to consult with Govan on the other end of the division’s line. He kicked Red Pepper into a gallop, wanting to get to the other brigade as quickly as possible. As he shot past the men of Lowrey’s brigade, many of them sent up a cheer.

  A Union artillery shell slammed into the ground scarcely five yards off to Red Pepper’s right and exploded. The force of the blast tossed Cleburne out of his saddle like a ragdoll and he fell heavily onto the ground. The wind was instantly knocked out of him and he struggled to maintain consciousness. He felt faint for what could have been just a few seconds or perhaps longer than a minute. He couldn’t tell. As he began to try to pull himself up, the color bearer was at his side helping him.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the color bearer asked.

  Cleburne looked down and twitched his toes. Everything felt intensely stiff, but he did not think any bones had broken. “I think so, yes.”

  “A few more feet and that shell would have exploded right under your horse.”

  Suddenly startled, Cleburne glanced about for Red Pepper. With great relief, he saw the animal standing a few feet away, quietly gazing at him and seemingly impatient for Cleburne to get back in the saddle.

  He looked at the color bearer. “What’s your name, son?”

  The young man looked confused. “John Hatch, sir. 45th Alabama.”

  Cleburne clapped his shoulder. “Good to know. Now, get mounted up again and follow me.”

  Moments later, Cleburne and Hatch were again riding westwards toward the right flank of the division. They arrived within a matter of minutes.

  “Where is General Govan?” Cleburne asked the nearest officer.

  “He’s dead, sir! Shot through the chest!”

  Cleburne pursed his lips tightly. In an instant, he had lost a trusted subordinate who was also a dear friend. He had known Daniel Govan for years and respected him as he did few others. But grief would have to wait until after the battle was over.

  He located Colonel Warfield, the ranking officer, and ordered him to take command of the brigade. Such transitions happened all too often in the midst of battle, but Cleburne trusted his men enough to know that any unnecessary confusion would be avoided. He spent a few minutes riding back and forth behind the brigade, feeling for himself what the situation was.

  It looked little different from the situation on Lowrey’s front. The Arkansas troops were exchanging heavy fire with the Yankees, but neither side seemed to have the gumption to charge forward. It was a stalemate.

  All around, men were collapsing, dead or wounded. He knew that his men could only take this punishment for so long before the number of casualties forced them to break off the action. Something needed to be done, and fast.

  Behind the line, he knew, the Texans of Granbury’s Brigade were waiting. Cleburne knew he needed to do something with them. If he simply committed them to the fighting by pushing them up to the front line, they might also lack the strength for a decisive attack and simply be cut to pieces like the other two brigades.

  He looked across the line at the enemy. They presented a long, continuous battle line, with scarcely any gaps between formations. There were no flanks that could be turned, nor any particular pieces of terrain he could see that might give his men some sort of advantage. He knew his division lacked the strength to overwhelm the enemy by brute force and he could not see any way to outmaneuver them.

  It was then that he had his idea.

  *****

  The phenomenon known as acoustic shadows had been reported many times since the beginning of the war. Battles could be seen clearly a mile or so away, though they appeared to make no sound. Odder still, people at a considerably greater distance could hear the sounds of fighting quite distinctly. No one understood what caused acoustic shadows and they were the subject of much debate and discussion.

  The particular combination of air pressure, temperature, humidity and the topographical realities of the north Georgia terrain happened to come together during the early afternoon of July 20 to form an acoustic shadow over the battlefield just south of Peachtree Creek.

  West of Decatur, Sherman and McPherson watched the four divisions of Fifteenth Corps form up for an advance on Atlanta, entirely unaware that the Army of the Cumberland was even then engaged in a desperate battle for its life just a few miles away.

  *****

  July 20, Afternoon

  Thomas sat silently in the saddle of his favorite horse, Billy, serenely smoking an enormous cigar. Less than twenty yards away, two four-gun artillery batteries thundered every few seconds, sending their de
adly shells out into the midst of the attacking rebels. Clearly visible in a clearing a quarter mile to the south, the rival battle lines were continuing to slug it out. The loud and constant crackle of gunfire rose into the skies.

  Inevitably, the stream of wounded men was painfully making its way back from the front line in search of the hospitals in the rear. A few confused men also arrived, frantically asking staff officers to direct them to their units. Some of these men, Thomas knew, were shirkers seeking to avoid combat, but he hoped most of them were genuinely lost and trying to get back into the fight.

  He raised his field glasses to his eyes and surveyed the scene. Most of the ground over which the fighting was taking place was heavily wooded, but there were also numerous open fields where heavy fighting was easily observed.

  According to what he saw, and all the reports coming to him from his commanders, the Confederate attack had been stopped dead in its tracks. While momentarily taken by surprise when the rebels had emerged from the trees to the south, the individual brigades and divisions had rallied quickly and given up only a small amount of ground in the first half hour of the engagement. Everyone now appeared to be holding their positions with relative ease. In a few cases, some individual brigades had even launched counter attacks. Heavy casualties had been sustained, but that was inevitable.

  As information from the front line filtered back to the army command post, an increasingly clear picture of the situation formed in his mind. Some of the enemy units carried the distinctive blue battle flags of Cleburne’s division, which meant that Hardee’s corps had to be involved in the attack. A few prisoners from regiments identified as being from Polk’s old corps had been brought in, who provided the useful information that the corps was now under the command of General Alexander Stewart. There was no sign of Hood’s corps, which Thomas therefore concluded had to be deployed east of the city to protect it from McPherson and Schofield.

  Thomas did some fast mental calculations. He had briefly considered halting the movement of his troops over Peachtree Creek, for in the event of a disaster the bridges would need to be cleared in order for the men on the south bank to retreat to the north bank. He had never doubted the ability of his men to hold their ground, but Thomas was a careful man and always planned for every eventuality. As it now appeared that the enemy attack was faltering, such a precaution seemed unnecessary. He sent orders to speed up the crossing if possible.

  In an instant, Thomas saw a breathtaking possibility. The rebel attack was in the process of being repulsed. When that was achieved, the enemy formations would be in great disorder and would have suffered heavy casualties. A few fresh Union divisions, formed up for battle behind the main Union line, would be in a perfect position to launch a devastating counter attack. Two-thirds of the Army of Tennessee could be shattered in a matter of hours. If Hood’s corps could be dealt with by McPherson and Schofield, not only would the city of Atlanta be in Union hands before nightfall, but the main Confederate army in the western theater of the war would be completely destroyed.

  He breathed in sharply. The possibility before him was nothing less than a chance to bring the war to an end as a decisive Union victory.

  He pulled a message pad out from his saddlebag and began furiously scribbling.

  General Sherman,

  I have come under heavy attack by two enemy corps. The fighting is severe but I am holding my position and am confident I can continue to do so. I intend to counter attack as soon as possible. Recommend McPherson and Schofield advance from the east. I believe we can crush Johnston between us.

  General Thomas

  He tore the paper off the pad and handed it to a nearby aide.

  “Take this to General Sherman as quickly as possible. Ride like the devil, Captain!”

  “Yes, sir!” the man said, shoving the paper into his saddlebag before kicking his horse into a full gallop.

  *****

  As he rode across the landscape, trailed by his staff, Johnston kept glancing to the north. The sounds of battle continued to increase with every passing minute, becoming a constant low roar and seemingly coming from every direction. It sounded like an endless piece of paper was being torn in half. In a few places, darker smoke was intermingled with the grayish mist caused by the mass expenditure of gunpowder, indicating that underbrush in many areas had caught fire. As in past battles, the flames would certainly consume many of the helpless wounded men.

  The earth had broken open and hell had been let loose.

  Before him suddenly was General Stewart. They had traveled across the length of the battlefield and were now near the left flank of the line. The corps commander was mounted on his horse, frantically issuing orders to his own officers. For the first few moments, he seemed entirely unaware of Johnston’s presence. Nearly a full minute passed before a staffer quietly told Stewart that the army commander had arrived.

  Stewart quickly composed himself and saluted. “Good afternoon, General Johnston!” he said. It seemed a ridiculous thing to say.

  Johnston returned the salute. “What’s the situation, General?”

  Stewart didn’t respond right away, but his expression told Johnston everything that he needed to know. Stewart looked frazzled, like a man who had just lost a fortune at the gambling table. This worried Johnston, but he was somewhat comforted by another emotion he could see in Stewart’s fierce face. The Tennessee warrior was also enraged.

  “The Yankees won’t drive worth a damn!” Stewart blurted out. “We caught them by surprise at first, and pushed them back a half mile or so. But then they stiffened up and brought up artillery. We haven’t gone forward an inch since then!”

  Johnston nodded sharply. He quickly recalled the division Stewart had held in reserve. “Have you sent in Walthall’s division yet?”

  “I did,” Stewart said quickly. “I had to! French’s division was shattered by Yankee artillery and an enemy counter attack. But Walthall is barely holding his ground as we speak.”

  “And Loring?”

  “He’s holding his own, but says he can’t move forward without support. Dear God, General, I’ve already lost more than two thousand men!”

  There was a sudden crash of artillery fire from somewhere off to the north. Instinctively, Johnston looked in the direction from which the sound had come, but could see nothing through the smoke and trees. In all likelihood, yet another Union artillery battery had gotten into position, set itself up, and started pouring fire into the ranks of his army.

  As he was listening, Johnston realized that the sound of battle had changed. An hour earlier, he could distinctly hear the yip-yipping sound of the Rebel Yell over the din of artillery and musket fire. It had signaled that his army was attacking and pushing back the Yankee enemy. But he no longer heard the Rebel Yell. Instead, as he listened intently, it was apparent to him that the deep hurrah sound made by the Northern soldiers was becoming ever louder. The sounds of battle were coming closer, not getting farther away.

  Johnston pursed his lips. The gamble had clearly failed. The attack had not achieved the decisive success he had sought. He was now caught in an open field fight with a foe that outnumbered him. He faced the very real possibility that his two corps would be shattered on this field, that Atlanta would fall, and that the name Joseph Johnston would be written in history as the name of the man who had lost the war.

  He had to find Hardee.

  Johnston left orders directing Stewart to rally his men and continue the attack with whatever strength he could muster. After assuring himself that he had been properly understood, Johnston saluted and kicked his horse back into a gallop, heading east this time, followed by Mackall and the rest of the staff.

  Ten minutes later, as they continued to ride across the battlefield, Johnston saw a horrifying sight. Out of a white cloud of gunpowder smoke, he could make out Confederate soldiers running toward the south, many of them weaponless and all of them frightened. Worse still, none of them appeared to be wounded. As he
watched, the number grew from a handful to a few dozen, and then scores of men running together. Something on the front line had obviously gone terribly wrong.

  Johnston sent a courier galloping back to Stewart to tell him something was amiss, but he knew that it would take too long for the message to reach the corps commander and for proper action to be taken. Although he hesitated to interfere with the chain of command, he knew he had to intervene personally. He kicked his horse northwards, riding into the midst of the retreating soldiers.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Turn around! Don’t run like cowards!” To give his words added emphasis, he drew his sword.

  Most of the fleeing troops continued running as though they had not heard him. Only a few of the men stopped, looking up at him in confusion.

  “What brigade are you from?” he demanded.

  “Quarles’ Brigade, sir! Walthall’s division!”

  Johnston’s mind instantly recalled that the brigade was a hodgepodge of regiments from Alabama, Louisiana, and Tennessee. The crowd of retreating Southerners was growing larger.

  He spotted a corporal whose eyes seemed intelligent. “What is happening?” he demanded of the man, pointing toward the front with his sword.

  “The Yankees wheeled up two batteries of artillery and blasted us, sir! Then a whole new brigade of Yankees showed up and charged at us!”

  Johnston pursed his lips in anger. He turned to Mackall.

  “William, if I am not mistaken, General Reynolds’ brigade of Arkansans was designated as Walthall’s reserve. Find him and bring him up at once.”

  Mackall nodded sharply and was gone in an instant, disappearing off to the south. Johnston began walking his horse back and forth, waving his sword over his head to gain the attention of the fleeing soldiers.

  “Halt!” he shouted. “The men of the Army of Tennessee do not run!”