Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Private Harrison!”

  “Yes, Sarge?”

  “Take Pearson and Balch and see if you can work your way around those boys. We’ll keep you covered.”

  “Why does Tom get to be in charge?” Pearson asked.

  “Because I said so, dammit! Now move!”

  The three men crawled toward the rear, dragging their rifles with them and staying as low as possible to avoid enemy fire. McFadden ordered his six remaining men to pepper the cluster of trees with shots in order to give their comrades sufficient cover to get a reasonable distance away. He watched them go a few dozen yards, then they stood up and vanished into the trees off to the left.

  A few minutes of tense waiting then passed. Even as enemy bullets continued to thud into the trunk of his tree, McFadden felt reasonably safe. He suddenly realized how tired he was, having been marching or fighting for several hours without a break. He took a quick swig of water from his canteen and was surprised at how full it remained. He had not drunk from it much over the course of the day.

  Ignoring another splattering of bullets against his tree, McFadden tried to read the battle by listening to the sounds around him. The low booming sound of artillery had considerably lessened over the past hour or so. He hoped that this might be because Union artillery batteries were falling into Confederate hands, but he was not about to indulge in such optimistic speculation just yet. Still, near as he could tell, everything was going well.

  “Ready to surrender, Yanks?” he called out.

  The reply came immediately. “Damned if we are!”

  “Plenty of your friends have surrendered already today! You should see all the prisoners we have in the rear!”

  “Go to hell, Reb!”

  McFadden leaned out just long enough to aim and fire his Enfield, though he was not sure whether or not he hit anything. A flurry of bullets hit the tree trunk as he swung back around, proving to him that the Northerners were far from ready to give up.

  He reloaded his rifle, motioning for the rest of his men to do the same. He figured that Harrison and the others would be in position within the next two or three minutes. After all, it had been nearly ten minutes since they had scurried away. Surely that would have given them long enough to work their way around the Yankee position.

  “Leave here or you will all be captured!” a familiar voice shouted. “The rebels are surrounding you!”

  The voice was calling to the federal troops, but McFadden recognized at once that it was Private Balch. The other soldiers had often made fun of his accent, saying it made him sound more like a Wisconsinite than a Texan. He was the perfect man to play such a ruse of war.

  “Who are you?” a Yankee voice shouted.

  “Captain Mitchell! 82nd Illinois!” That was the regiment whose flag had been captured by the 7th Texas.

  “Trick!” one of the Yankees said. McFadden could just barely hear him over the sounds of battle. “It’s a rebel trick! Don’t listen to him!”

  “I’m no rebel, you damn fool! You want to end up in Andersonville? Now let’s get the hell out of here before we all are taken prisoner!”

  Shots were fired near the Yankee position. McFadden couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but guessed that someone had gotten nervous or perhaps one of the enemy soldiers had gotten a good look at Harrison, Balch, or Pearson. One way or another, Balch’s ruse had failed. But perhaps he had created enough confusion among the Union group to give the Lone Star Rifles an advantage for a brief moment. If so, now was the time to take it.

  “Go!” McFadden shouted. He dashed around the tree and darted toward the wooded cluster where the enemy troops had been sheltering. The six other men with him either rose from the ground or dashed around their own trees at the same moment, screaming a primal battle cry. It took only a few seconds to cover the distance to the clump of trees. During that time, McFadden stopped just long enough to discharge his Enfield, then continuing running forward.

  The Union troops fired back. Off to his right, McFadden saw the chest of one of his men explode, spewing out an eruption of syrupy red liquid. Seconds later, McFadden ran through the gap between two of the trees and swung the butt of his musket into the head of one of the Yankees, knocking him senseless. A few confusing seconds of hand-to-hand combat followed. Two of the Yankees were killed by bayonets, five were captured or rendered unconscious, and the remaining three ran for their lives.

  On the ground, McFadden saw Private Harrison’s body, with one enormous bullet hole in his chest and another in his left abdomen. He glanced back over the ground he had just covered, realizing that the man who had fallen during the quick charge had been Private Donald Parker. For a brief moment, he recalled that Parker had a wife and two children who lived in Marshall. He had been some sort of shopkeeper.

  McFadden was now down to eight men. There was no way to continue pushing forward with such a small force, for they would likely be destroyed if they encountered so much as a single intact Federal company. They would have to wait until some other Confederate unit appeared.

  “Reload your rifles,” McFadden barked. “Balch! Pearson! You watch these prisoners here. The rest of you, take position around those trees and keep your eyes peeled to the north. And cover up Harrison and Parker!”

  A group of Yankee soldiers was visible a hundred yards or so to their left, retreating northwards in a hurry. It appeared to be about the size of a regiment, though in considerable state of disorganization. McFadden ignored them. With so few men, he did not want to get involved in a fight with a force so much larger than his own. Besides, they were running away and clearly posed no threat.

  A few minutes later, a Confederate captain appeared on horseback, trailed by a few dozen men. He looked over the survivors of the Lone Star Rifles quickly.

  “Who are you?” the captain asked.

  “Company F, 7th Texas,” McFadden answered. “I’m Sergeant McFadden.”

  “Captain Ben Randals, 16th Tennessee. You boys are with Granbury’s Brigade, right? Hell, boy, you have wandered over a mile away from your unit!”

  “Confusing battle, sir.”

  The captain smiled. “That it is. You can take those prisoners on back to the rear. My boys will take over here.”

  “With respect, sir, we’d like to continue with the drive forward.”

  Randals nodded quickly and ordered two of his men to take the five Yankee prisoners back to the rear. “That’s done,” he said to McFadden. “Now, organize your boys and follow along with us.”

  “Any idea what’s happening on the rest of the battlefield, sir?”

  “No idea whatsoever.”

  The eight Texans moved on to the right end of the line of the 16th Tennessee, which appeared to have been reduced to roughly fifty or sixty men. They moved forward, holding their loaded Enfields carefully, ready to hoist them to their shoulders at a moment’s notice.

  There was still cannon fire audible in every direction. The steady popping of musketry continued as well, though without the roar that had previously characterized it.

  “What do you think?” Balch asked.

  “I think we’ve broken the enemy line and routed them. They’re now running to the north to try and get away.”

  “Just like Chickamauga!” Pearson said excitedly.

  “Or like Missionary Ridge,” Balch added. “Except the folks doing most of the running that day was us.”

  There was a chorus of laughter among both the Texans and the Tennesseans, which struck McFadden as odd. Jokes about Missionary Ridge were usually sarcastic and bitter, since no one remembered that disastrous day with any fondness. It seemed that the experience of victory was giving the men considerable cheer.

  As they advanced, they came across several Yankee soldiers who had discarded their weapons and simply sat down to await capture, too exhausted to continue running. They also encountered numerous Confederate soldiers who had become separated from their units during the chaos of the advance, most of whom fe
ll in with the ad hoc Texas-Tennessee unit. As they continued moving north, the group grew larger and stronger, while the enemy troops they encountered appeared increasingly stricken with panic.

  *****

  “We should retire to the rear, sir,” the cavalry escort officer said sternly.

  Thomas glared at him with anger. “We are not going one step backwards, Captain! Nor is the Army of the Cumberland!”

  “Respectfully, sir, we are too far forward. Rebel troops are approaching and it is dangerous for us to remain here.”

  Thomas grunted. The captain was correct, of course. But Thomas could not justify retiring to the rear himself when he was trying to prevent his army from doing just that. The few regiments he and his cavalry escort had managed to rally were forming up in a thin line, but the men were disorganized and still shaken. If he and the cavalry troopers departed, the reformed infantry would probably bolt at the first sign of the enemy.

  But Thomas knew he couldn’t afford to stay, either. It would be difficult for dispatch riders to locate him so close to the front line and the first responsibility of an army commander was to exercise efficient and effective control over the entire battlefield. He obviously couldn’t do that if he was doing the job that should be done by a brigade commander.

  Thomas was about to tell the cavalry escort commander to prepare for a departure when a shout of alarm rose from the unsteady infantry line. He glanced up and saw a large formation of rebel troops approaching. He frowned. The enemy unit easily outnumbered his own troops and were doubtless fired up with confidence by the success they had had during the battle. His own men, by contrast, had had their morale shattered.

  If he ordered his men to retreat, they would immediately fall apart in a rout. He also knew that he could not ride off himself, for he could never imagine abandoning any of his men in the face of the enemy. Even if logic dictated that doing so would be best for the Union cause, his own heart and soul would never forgive him. There was only one thing to do.

  Thomas kicked his horse and trotted to a point just behind the center of the line he had created. He pulled his sword and lowered it toward the rebels.

  “Send these traitorous bastards to hell, boys!”

  The officers ordered their men to fire. The volley appeared effective enough at first. Thomas saw several of the rebel troops fall dead or wounded. But the remainder raised their rifles and responded with a volley of their own. When the bullets struck his thin and unwieldy line, his greatest fears were realized. Having been pushed to the breaking point, the Union soldiers broke and bolted for the rear.

  “Stop!” Thomas shouted. “Stop, men! Turn around and fight!”

  They ignored him, continuing their flight. The Southern troops unleashed a fearsome Rebel Yell and charged forward, bayonets lowered.

  Thomas gripped his sword, though he knew that the blade was next to useless against men armed with rifles. Not far away, the captain commanding his cavalry escort was shot through the chest and fell off his horse and onto the ground. The few Union infantrymen who were attempting to resist were shot to death or clubbed down with the butts of muskets. Less than a minute after ordering his men to open fire, the fight was ending less with a bang and more with a whimper.

  “General!”

  Thomas turned and found himself staring down the barrel of an Enfield rifle pointed directly at his head.

  “I must ask you to surrender, sir!”

  He considered swiping at the rebel with his saber. If he were quick, he might be able to slash the man’s face, thus creating an opportunity to escape. But the man would be able to pull his trigger far more quickly than Thomas could swing his sword. At such close range, he wouldn’t miss.

  Thomas sighed. “I suppose I have no choice, do I?”

  “I will kill you if you don’t, sir.”

  “In that case, I surrender.” He pulled his saber back and carefully took hold of the blade. He then extended it toward the soldier, whom he noticed wore sergeant’s stripes.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in confusion and he took the sword awkwardly, sticking it into the ground. He then nodded sharply and backed away, careful to keep his weapon pointed at Thomas.

  “Please get off your horse, General.”

  Thomas dismounted. “To whom am I surrendering?”

  “Sergeant James McFadden. 7th Texas.”

  “One of Cleburne’s men. Bloody hell.”

  “Are you who I think you are?”

  He drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. “I am General George Thomas, commander of the Army of the Cumberland.”

  “I thought so.”

  Thomas eyed the man warily. He would have expected a rebel noncommissioned officer to holler for joy upon learning that he had captured the commander of the enemy army. Instead, this man simply kept his rifle pointed at him without wavering, looking at him as though he were some sort of potentially dangerous animal. There was fire in the man’s eyes, though.

  “Who’s this?” a rebel captain said, walking up.

  “It’s General Thomas, sir!” McFadden replied. “The enemy commander.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “He is telling the truth,” Thomas said. “I am General Thomas.”

  The captain reacted the way Thomas would have expected. He took off his hat, waved it in the air, and whooped loudly enough for all nearby to hear. Word quickly spread through the Confederate unit that had shattered his line, all of whom were soon cheering wildly. A large group formed a circle around him, looking at him as though he were one of Darwin’s apes at some sort of public exhibition. Thomas felt a vast darkness closing in around his soul.

  “No dishonor in it, sir,” McFadden said.

  “What?”

  “No dishonor in being taken prisoner, I mean. Happens to lots of soldiers.”

  “Oh,” Thomas replied, surprised that the sergeant had spoken. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  “Better than being dead, sir.”

  Thomas considered that for a second, thinking of his reputation, his sisters, the humiliation he was certain to endure in the very near future. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, sergeant,” he finally replied.

  *****

  July 20, Evening

  “Pat! Are you all right?”

  Cleburne turned in the saddle to see Hardee and three of his staff officers ride up.

  “Yes, William, I am fine. And you?”

  “No holes in me, though two bullets passed through my jacket.” He pointed to the spot on the left side of his uniform coat. Cleburne’s eyes widened for a moment when he saw how close his friend had come to being hit. Wounds in that area of the body were almost always fatal and those who suffered them did not die pleasant deaths.

  “You should take better care of yourself, my friend,” Cleburne observed. “It doesn’t do for corps commanders to move so close to the fighting.”

  “Don’t worry. The bullet that will kill William Hardee has not been cast!”

  Cleburne frowned when he heard these words. The grin on Hardee’s face reflected the exaltation of victory, but Cleburne felt it was unwise to tempt fate.

  “What’s happening on the rest of the battlefield?” Cleburne asked.

  “It’s all going splendidly, Pat! Your breakthrough in the center changed everything. When you sent Govan’s brigade into the left flank of the Yankees facing Stewart’s corps, their entire line started collapsing. Stewart’s men are now driving the enemy north up to the creek. On our front, Bate’s men have already reached the creek on the east side of the battlefield and taken one of the Yankee bridges. Cheatham and Walker are pushing hard north, driving the enemy before them. We’re herding them toward the creek like a bunch of sheep.”

  “We have to keep the pressure on,” Cleburne said anxiously. “They’ll crowd the bridges across the creek. Everything will be confused. If we push hard enough, we can wreck their whole damn army!”

  “I know, Pat. I know. How is your di
vision doing?”

  “We’ve suffered heavy losses. General Govan has been killed. But we’re still pushing forward and we’ve got the Yankees on the run. Peachtree Creek is only about a mile further on.”

  “Well, then, let’s go forward together!”

  The two men kicked their horses into a trot. Half a dozen staffers and two color bearers followed them. As they moved north, the sounds of fighting grew louder. All around, Confederate units were advancing in clusters or ragged lines, maintaining only a minimal amount of organization as they pushed on. Some Union formations were occasionally visible, but most of them seemed focused on pulling back to the north rather than standing and fighting.

  As he rode north, Cleburne realized that he heard little or no artillery fire. Many of the Yankee batteries had fallen into Confederate hands and Cleburne figured that most of the rest were being pulled back across Peachtree Creek as quickly as possible. He smiled at the thought. Those big guns would no longer be killing his men and the withdrawal of the enemy cannon served as yet another confirmation of the Southern victory.

  As they trotted north, they passed over a landscape covered with dead and wounded soldiers of both sides. Some of the wounded were missing legs and arms, while others were shot through the stomach and crying piteously for water. Most of these men would not last much longer. Cleburne hardened his heart and kept riding.

  One of the staff officers pointed at a cluster of a dozen or so Confederate troops, marching some prisoners to the rear. “General Hardee! General Cleburne! Look there!”

  Cleburne squinted. The fading light made it difficult to make out the men. One of the Union prisoners was a strong, gruff-looking man with a gray beard.

  “My God!” Hardee exclaimed. “That’s General Thomas!” He kicked his horse and cantered over to the group. Cleburne, astonished and somewhat disbelieving, followed quickly.