Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Granbury nodded as he listened. “A brilliant idea, Patrick. Truly inspired.”

  “Compliment me after we have succeeded. Any question?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. You have ten minutes. Now, get to it!”

  Granbury dashed off without taking the time to salute. Cleburne turned and gazed northward, back toward where the brigades of Warfield and Lowrey were fighting. The steady rolling sound of intense musketry combined with the regular booming of artillery continued to pummel his ears. He wondered if he would be able to hear anything when it was all over.

  He sent a courier to bring the divisional artillery to the position Granbury’s men were expected to take. Their added firepower would pack an enormous punch when the time came. He was attending to their deployment when he saw General Hardee ride up.

  “Stewart’s attack has failed!” Hardee said without preamble. “Our own corps has been halted all along the line. We have to break through here, Patrick. Put Granbury in right away. Clayton’s division will be right behind.”

  “Give me five minutes!”

  “If we don’t break them now, the battle is lost!”

  A wry grin crossed Cleburne’s face. “Watch this, William!”

  *****

  The battle had now been raging for hours, but McFadden had not yet fired his Enfield. Nor had any other soldier in Granbury’s Texas Brigade. Somewhere in front of them, the men of Govan’s and Lowrey’s brigades were fighting for their lives. They had seen a steady stream of wounded men drifting back toward the rear since the commencement of the battle. But despite the obvious fierceness of the fighting, the Texans remained uncommitted. Thus far, their only casualties had been a few men wounded by artillery fire.

  He had tried to follow the progress of the battle by listening to the sounds of the fighting, but had soon given the task up as impossible. Unlike other engagements, in which heavier firing could clearly be heard in one direction and lighter firing in another, this battle simply seemed to be one constant roar of explosive force somewhere up ahead. McFadden felt like he and his comrades were standing on the edge of a volcano.

  “What’s going on, Sarge?” Montgomery asked, his voice betraying nervousness.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Private.”

  “Why haven’t they sent us in yet? I can’t stand this waiting a minute longer!”

  McFadden nodded quickly, trying to appear composed. In truth, his heart was in his throat, his breathing was quickening, and he felt his hands shaking ever so slightly. Aside from his baptism of fire at Valverde, he had never been nervous before going into battle before and he struggled to understand why he should be nervous now. He didn’t want to die, not now. Not after Annie Turnbow had come into his life and allowed him to glimpse the possibility of something other than a bleak future.

  Out of the smoke suddenly emerged General Cleburne, mounted on Red Pepper, staring down at the massed group of Texans with a cool and determined gaze. Over the din of battle, he raised his voice for all to hear.

  “Texans! You are the sons of the defenders of the Alamo! You are about to perform a maneuver that will decide the outcome of the battle! Be brave and hold steady, my Texans! I shall lead you to victory!”

  “We will follow you to the gates of hell, General!” a man in the ranks yelled out. His words were followed by several seconds of wild cheering. Cleburne nodded sharply and rode off.

  Officers began shouting out orders. The brigade had been deployed in a standard battle formation two lines deep facing directly north, with the 7th Texas being one of the regiments in the front line. But to McFadden’s confusion, the orders did not send them forward into the fight as he had expected. Instead, they were directed to shift from a battle line into a marching column. Although perplexed, the men did as they were told quickly and efficiently. Within two minutes, the entire brigade was trotting steadily to the west.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?” Pearson said from somewhere behind him.

  “I don’t know,” McFadden replied, dearly wishing that Pearson would stop asking so many questions.

  They moved west for a few minutes, closer toward the left flank of Cleburne’s division. McFadden was reasonably certain that they were now somewhere behind Govan’s Brigade. He trusted the Arkansas troops, who had fought beside them in so many battles. He couldn’t see any reason for Cleburne to have ordered the Texas Brigade to this particular position. From all McFadden could see and hear, Govan’s men were holding their ground just fine. He began to wonder if they were being sent to another part of the battlefield altogether, perhaps to reinforce Stewart’s corps on the other side of the battlefield. But the words Cleburne had spoken led McFadden to believe that something altogether extraordinary was about to happen.

  They veered slightly to the right and started moving northwest. They had not gone far, however, when Granbury shouted the order to stop.

  “Halt!” Collett repeated.

  “Company! Halt!” McFadden shouted to the Lone Star Rifles.

  More orders were shouted, which McFadden repeated as loudly as he could so that his own men could hear them. The brigade again metamorphosed, going from a marching column back into a battle line, now facing directly to the northeast, at a forty-five degree angle to the position they had been in a few minutes before. But there was no enemy in front of them.

  Scarcely thirty seconds after that had been accomplished, orders were shouted that took McFadden quite by surprise.

  “Lie down!” Collett shouted.

  “Lie down,” McFadden repeated for his own men, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice.

  Exchanging befuddled glances with one another, the men of the Lone Star Rifles did as they were told and lay chest down on the ground. They did not much mind this, as stray bullets from the front lines were continually zipping past them. Being prone provided at least a measure of protection.

  This illusion was quickly shattered. A shell from a Yankee cannon whistled overhead, then slammed down into the ground and exploded amidst the regiment just to the right of the 7th Texas. A horrific and momentary chorus of screams told McFadden that a number of men had been killed together in the same instant.

  “What the hell are we lying down for?” Pearson asked.

  “Cleburne knows what he’s doing,” McFadden snapped back. “Now shut up!”

  Then began several tense minutes of motionless waiting. The battle continued to rage all around them, as if they were in the eye of a tremendous hurricane made of fire rather than water. Bullets continued to zip over McFadden’s head and shells periodically slammed into the ground around them.

  “Something’s happening with Lowrey’s men!” Montgomery cried in alarm.

  McFadden raised his head and glanced over to the right. Sure enough, it appeared as though Lowrey’s men were retreating. For just a moment, rage filled McFadden. The Arkansas men of Govan’s unit were holding their ground, and the Texans themselves had not yet even fired a shot, but it now seemed that the battle would be lost because Lowrey’s men had been unable to stomach the fight. Now that they had given way, the Yankees would come pouring through the breach like a swarm of devils.

  “Cowards!” a chorus of voices from among the Texans cried. “Alabama bastards!”

  McFadden remembered Missionary Ridge, eight months before. All day, their brigade and the rest of Cleburne’s division had fought with all their strength, holding their ground against a vastly superior enemy. But the shameful rout of Confederate units on another part of the battlefield, miles away, had rendered all their sacrifices completely irrelevant. It looked like it was about to happen all over again.

  However, something was not quite right. Even as Lowrey’s men fell back, they did not have the appearance of a defeated brigade. While it was difficult to tell through the smoke and haze, it looked to McFadden as though every man was still holding his rifle. Indeed, he spotted several men reloading even as they jogged toward the south. Usually, the m
en of routed units threw away their weapons in a panic. Equally telling, McFadden could not hear any shouts of alarm. If anything, the men of Lowrey’s brigade appeared eerily calm.

  Suddenly, everything clicked in his mind and he could see Cleburne’s plan as clear as crystal. Lowrey’s men were not retreating. Instead, they were falling back according to a prearranged plan to lure the Yankees into charging forward. When they did so, the enemy flank would be exposed to the fire of the 7th Texas and the rest of the Texas brigade. It was as if Cleburne had just made an unexpected and masterful move on a chess board. McFadden smiled, realizing that he was watching an artist at work on the battlefield.

  He didn’t wait for orders from Captain Collett or anybody else. “Get ready!” he shouted to the Lone Star Rifles. “Load your rifles and fix bayonets!”

  On the very edge of McFadden’s vision off to the right, the officers of Lowrey’s Brigade suddenly stopped and began waving their swords. The gray-clad troops stopped running and quickly gathered into a steady line, turning to face northwards once again. All told, they had probably retreated only six or seven hundred yards.

  Looking back to the north, McFadden could now just make out a large formation of Union troops, perhaps an entire division, racing southward, imagining themselves to be in pursuit of a defeated foe. He could hear the distinctive low and steady battle yell of the Northern troops and felt a momentary loss of courage. He had fought the Yankees on enough battlefields and, loathe them though he did, he knew that they were brave and determined fighters. He gripped his Enfield tightly and glanced around at his men. On their faces he could see the same combination of momentary doubt and fierce determination that he himself felt.

  “Stand up!” the booming voice of Captain Collett shouted over the din.

  The Lone Star Rifles rose to their feet, as did every man in Granbury’s Texas Brigade. The Yankee division was continuing to advance at the double quick, its formation now in disorder, probably unable to clearly see either Granbury’s Texans or Lowrey’s brigade because of the thick smoke. McFadden speculated quickly that the gray and butternut colors of the Confederate uniforms helped conceal them in the midst of the swirling smoke, while the dark blue uniforms of the Yankees made them much easier targets.

  As the Northerners continued forward, their right flank seemed to present itself like a gift to the men of Granbury’s Brigade. The Texans were in a perfect position to pour fire into the Union formation at its most vulnerable point, being able to concentrate all their fire at the right end of the Yankee line. Bullets fired from Granbury’s lines would sweep the Union formation lengthwise, while few of the Northerners would be in a good position to shoot back. As far as tactical advantages went, the situation was close to perfect.

  “Ready!” Collett shouted.

  The men of the Lone Star Rifles raised their Enfields to their shoulders. McFadden waited for the order of his captain, glancing back and forth. Ahead of him and slightly to the right, he could see the men of Lowrey’s Brigade swiftly reforming. Their obvious discipline made him consider the possibility that he might have been wrong in his earlier estimation of Alabama and Mississippi troops. As far as McFadden could see, they were behaving with great steadiness.

  “Right flank!” some of the Union troops were shouting in a panic. “Watch out on the right flank!”

  “Aim!” Collett shouted. The same order was repeated by every other regimental commander in the Texas Brigade at the same time. They aimed their rifles directly into the right flank of the Union formation.

  “Fire!”

  Instantly, the line of the 7th Texas exploded in an eruption of musket fire. The sound momentarily deafened McFadden. The blunt shock of the butt of his rifle kicking back against his shoulder was no less uncomfortable for its familiarity.

  An instant later, he saw the effect of his regiment’s volley. Scores of Union troops were cut down in an instant, as though a scythe had slashed through their lines. Those who remained standing appeared staggered and stunned at receiving such a deadly barrage at close range from an unexpected quarter. At the same moment, the other regiments of Granbury’s Texas Brigade were opening fire as well. Seconds after them, the reformed units of Lowrey’s Brigade unleashed their own devastating volley into the ranks of the Northern troops.

  Faced by Granbury’s men to the southwest and Lowrey’s men directly to the south, the Northerners were caught in a deadly crossfire, as volley after volley tore through their ranks from two different directions. A few Yankee troops returned fire, but many had not reloaded their weapons during their charge and the officers seemed confused as to the direction in which they should direct the fire of their men.

  As he reloaded and fired again and again, McFadden watched as the Union division melted away. Several frightened men in the enemy ranks threw down their weapons and fled back to the north, unwilling to stand against the ferocious fire that seemed to come from all sides. Compared to the rolling volleys being delivered by the Confederates, the return fire of the Yankees was minimal.

  “Charge bayonets!” Collett shouted.

  The men of the Lone Star Rifles reloaded one final time, then thrust their Enfields forward like spears, their bodies tense as they awaited the order that they knew would follow.

  General Granbury rode out in front of them, gripping his saber and glaring fiercely at the enemy. He waved his saber over his head a few times, then pointed it straight at the Yankees and kicked his horse into a canter.

  “Charge!” he yelled. The cry was immediately taken up by every officer in the brigade.

  “Go, boys!” McFadden shouted. Screaming like banshees, the Lone Star Rifles dashed forward, with all the rest of the brigade charging forward with them. All the tension of the endless waiting vanished in an instant, exploding in a burst of furious energy. It was like a taut rope had just snapped.

  It took only a matter of seconds to cross the distance to the Yankee line. Already staggered by the ferocious fire coming from the Southern ranks, the Union resistance broke quickly. Many Yankees dropped their rifles as they turned and fled. A few, braver than the others, held their ground, swinging their weapons like great clubs or stabbing forward with their bayonets the moment the Southerners reached them. It was no use. Stunned, outnumbered, and already having lost most of its strength, what was left of the Union formation swiftly collapsed. Most of the Yankees fled northwards. The few who stood and fought were swiftly killed or captured.

  “After them!” Collett and other officers were yelling, gesturing with their swords toward the fleeing Union troops. “On their heels, men! Forward! Charge!”

  McFadden tried desperately to keep his company together. Glancing around, he could already see a few faces missing, but he couldn’t be sure if they had been killed or wounded or if they had simply become separated from the company in the confusion. In the midst of trying to hold his unit together, McFadden loaded and fired his weapon at the few Union soldiers he could see who were trying to stand their ground. A few Union officers were trying to rally their men into ad hoc formations to deliver fire at the oncoming Confederates, but these small batches of men were quickly and easily dispersed by a handful of volleys.

  As the men continued to advance northward, they passed over a field covered with the corpses of Northern soldiers and the assorted detritus of battle. McFadden momentarily halted his company to reorganize the men and give them time to take ammunition from their dead foes. Over the sound of constant firing, McFadden could hear a sudden upsurge in cheering and shouting from off to the left. Looking in that direction, he saw a large formation of gray-clad soldiers which he hadn’t seen before, joining the attack. An Arkansas flag told him that it was Govan’s Brigade.

  As he glanced about, McFadden suddenly realized that Cleburne’s division had punched an enormous hole in the center of the Union line and that all three brigades were now charging through it. He and the Lone Star Rifles were right in the thick of it.

  *****

&nbs
p; After watching Hardee depart, Johnston had considered riding back to the other side of the battlefield to check on Stewart. But it had become clear to him that the outcome of the battle would be determined on Hardee’s front, so he had decided that it would be best to remain where he was.

  Couriers and staff officers found it easier to locate him when he was staying in one place. Within a few minutes, a captain he recognized as belonging to Hood’s headquarters galloped up, an expression of alarm on his face.

  “General Johnston, sir!” he cried, snapping a salute.

  “Report!”

  “General Hood reports that the enemy is advancing in superior force against his lines to the east. He urgently requests that General Clayton’s division be sent to his assistance.”

  Johnston’s heart skipped a beat. He ordered the man to repeat the message once again. After he had done so, Johnston glanced nervously at Mackall.

  “It appears our enemies on the east side of the city are moving faster than we anticipated.”

  “But who is it?” Mackall asked. “McPherson, Schofield, or both?”

  Johnston turned back to the courier. “Can you identify the Union formation?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t know, sir. All Hood said was that the force was considerably superior to his.”

  Mackall fumed. “So like Hood to give such little information.”

  Johnston pursed his lips and considered what to do. He had already told Hardee that Clayton’s division was released to be deployed when and how he saw fit. But if the Yankees were really about to attack Hood’s lines with greatly superior numbers, Sherman might force his way into Atlanta from the east. This would not only result in the city’s fall, but would trap the Army of Tennessee between Thomas in the north and McPherson and Schofield to the south.

  Then again, if he acceded to Hood’s wishes and sent Clayton’s division to the eastern defenses, any chance of achieving a decisive victory over the Army of the Cumberland would be lost. He would have to pull Stewart and Hardee back into the defenses of the city. After that, the Army of Tennessee might hold Atlanta for a few weeks, but inevitably Sherman would cut the railroads and he would be forced to retreat.