“This is easier than wringing a chicken’s neck!” someone near Cleburne shouted.
Suddenly, Cleburne saw a mounted Federal officer emerge from the woods. His formidable-looking black horse reared up as they saw the Confederate blocking position, which the officer coolly surveyed for a moment. Cleburne couldn’t tell if he was a major, colonel, or maybe even a general, but the look on the man’s face was not one of fear. It was one of both rage and determination.
“Form up!” the Union officer shouted in a thunderous voice. “I don’t give a damn what regiment you belong to! Form up!” Cowed by the ferociousness of his words, which Cleburne could clearly hear even a hundred yards away, the frightened bluecoats rallied around the man and his horse.
“Right!” he said, satisfied. He drew his sword and pointed it straight ahead. “Now, charge!” The last word was shouted with a force Cleburne had never heard before. The man kicked his horse into a gallop and the mass of Union men surged forward. Cleburne had never seen an avalanche before, but he imagined that this was how it felt to be standing at the bottom of a mountain while one comes directly at you.
The Confederates fired furiously. The Union officer leading the attack was killed instantly. At such close range and with such a large mass of men as their target, every bullet they fired killed or wounded someone. But the sheer size and momentum of the enemy continued to drive forward.
Cleburne pulled his pistol out of its holster and blazed away, firing six shots in quick succession. As the Yankees reached the base of the bridge, hand-to-hand fighting erupted. Men jabbed at one another with bayonets, swung the butts of their rifles as clubs, or dropped their weapons altogether to grapple with their bare hands and teeth. Quite a few of his men carried bowie knives, which now did bloody work. Officers, what few there were, slashed with their sabers and fired away with their revolvers. For just a moment, the roar of musketry slowed and be replaced with the clanging sound of metal against metal that might have characterized a medieval battle.
Private John Hatch, who had faithfully followed Cleburne all day while bearing the divisional flag, had set the flag down to take his own place in the firing line, taking up a rifle from one of the fallen. As Cleburne watched, a bullet tore through Hatch’s neck. He dropped his weapon and fell backwards with a pathetic cry, but was held up by the press of men behind him, who were pushing forward to discharge their rifles into the Yankee ranks. Hatch instinctively tried to stop the bleeding by holding his hand up to his neck, but it was no use. Every time his heart beat, a thick shower of blood spewed forth. Hatch panicked and began to flail about with his other arm, but his comrades ignored him, intent on the battle. As Cleburne watched helplessly Hatch sank to the ground and fell forward. Almost immediately, another soldier stepped on him, pushing his still moving body into the soft ground.
A shearing pain tore through Cleburne’s left leg, just a few inches above the knee. He cried out in pain and clutched at his leg, remaining on his feet only with difficulty. Glancing down, he saw the fabric of his pants torn and blood seeping out from between his fingers. The wound did not appear serious, as the bullet had just grazed his skin. A mere inch farther to the right and the bullet would certainly have shattered the bone. That would have meant at least the loss of his leg and very possibly an excruciating death. He tried to force the pain from his mind and focus on the battle.
Cleburne’s men maintained their discipline. Some of them, without orders, stepped back from the line and began reloading rifles to pass toward the men in front. This allowed at least a low level of fire to be maintained during the harrowing minutes of hand-to-hand combat. As he viewed the fighting, Cleburne struggled to reload his pistol. He noticed some of his men falling after being struck by bullets in their side. Glancing left and right, he was horrified to see the banks of Peachtree Creek crowded with Union soldiers as far as the eye could see. The shouting and screaming he could hear was almost as loud as the continued firing of muskets and the smacking sounds of rifles butts being swung against one another.
Another sound suddenly rolled across the creek valley. He strained his ears to make sure he actually was hearing it and that it was not just a trick of his mind. But yes, he could hear the high-pitched yipping of the Rebel Yell. Thankfully, it was coming closer. Relief was near.
A few Yankees now abandoned the idea of pushing over the bridge and, throwing away their weapons and kits, jumped down into the ravine of the creek. It was a drop of about eight or nine feet, but the chance of getting hurt seemed an acceptable alternative to staying at the bank to be shot or captured.
Cleburne fired off his last round. He stepped back from the firing line, knowing that he could do nothing more to influence the course of the battle. The incoming fire seemed to be slackening in any event. He glanced westwards, looking up the basin of the creek for several hundred yards, and saw the most horrible and terrifying sight he would ever witness in his life.
The first few dozen Yankees who had jumped down into the basin ran across to the other side, splashing through the waist-high Peachtree Creek as they did so. As they began to struggle up the high and steep north bank, gripping exposed tree roots and rock outcroppings in an effort to pull themselves upwards, more Federal troops dropped down into the basin in an effort to do the same thing. Panic-stricken, they grabbed at the feet of the men above them, inadvertently dragging many of them back down into the basin. Only a very few were able to pull themselves up the bank and run off northwards toward safety.
More and more Federal troops were dropping into the basin and attempting to escape by scaling the north bank. Some went unwillingly, knocked into the ravine by the crush of men cramming the bank of the south side, some of whom were still firing back at the advancing Confederates. Finally, as if a dam had suddenly broken, hundreds of Union troops seemed to simultaneously realize that their only hope for escape was to get into the ravine, cross it, and scurry up the other side. The result was a tragedy of nightmarish proportions.
To Cleburne, it seemed like Peachtree Creek had suddenly become a roaring river of blue-coated men, all of them scrambling wildly to get up the bank and shouting in confusion. A few lucky ones made it. Most did not. Crammed into a small and confined space, they got in each other’s way, hindered one another’s movements, and turned the basin of Peachtree Creek into a confused mass of screaming, terrified men.
They were right to be terrified, because as the south bank of the creek slowly emptied of Federals, it filled with Confederates. After hours of brutal battle, there were no longer any qualms about the morality of shooting defenseless men. Officers ordered their soldiers to pour fire down into the basin, and volley after volley of musketry raked the mass of Yankee soldiers. Most of the blue-coats had thrown away their muskets to ease their escape, so there was scarcely a shot fired in return.
The screams of the Yankees were like nothing Cleburne had heard in more than three years of war. They were not just the shrieks of the wounded, but the terrified cries of men who knew they were about to die and could do nothing about it.
Not all the dying in the ravine was caused by Confederate bullets. In the rush to get across to the north bank, many unlucky Federal soldiers found themselves shoved under the waters of the creek by the weight of their comrades. There, they flailed about even as other men ran over them, unthinkingly pinning them down until they stopped moving, either drowned or crushed.
The south bank of Peachtree Creek seemed to be in flames for hundreds of yards, as the Confederate soldiers fired again and again into the terrified, huddled masses of Yankee troops. Almost without thinking, they fell into a dreadful routine, reloading and firing again and again.
Cleburne could hear voices crying from the ravine.
“Please don’t shoot!”
“We surrender!”
Many of the blue-coats were raising their hands, but most were still stubbornly trying to scale the bank to safety, and so the shooting went on. Frenzied Southern officers were shouting to t
heir men.
“Keep firing!”
“Kill them all!”
Cleburne had seen combat do this to men; the nightmare of battle had transformed them into animals.
There were no longer any Yankees trying to push over the bridge. The men of Lowrey’s brigade lined the sides of the structure and blazed away to both the east and west, adding their fire to the slaughter. Cleburne stood and watched in horror as the scene of butchery unfolded as far as he could see. A few minutes before, Peachtree Creek had been a clear trickle of crystalline water, but now was rapidly filling with blood to the point where it was turning purple.
He wanted to shout for the firing to cease, but something held him back. Every enemy soldier they killed was a victory for the Confederate cause and would mean one less rifle trying to kill his own men. He thought of his friend Govan, out there dead on the field somewhere. He did not want to see what he was seeing, but it was war. How could it have been otherwise?
Cleburne couldn’t tell how long the slaughter lasted. Ten minutes? An hour? It seemed to last forever. At last, some officers managed to regain control of their men, calling on them to hold their fire and yelling across the ravine for the trapped Yankee soldiers to come back to the south bank and surrender. Many did, but others continued their efforts at escape. Using piles of their own dead and protesting wounded as grotesque staircases, they ascended the steep bank and ran off to the north. Perhaps exhausted from all the killing they had done, the Confederates no longer fired on them.
The noise gradually faded from that of a storm of screaming and gunfire to a pathetic collective moan of thousands of wounded men. For as far as eye could see, Peachtree Creek was choked with the bodies of dead and wounded Union soldiers.
*****
July 20, Night
“It’s over,” Mackall observed.
Johnston nodded, patting Fleetfoot tenderly on the neck. The sound of musketry and artillery had continued to roll over the ground south of Peachtree Creek even as the sun vanished beneath the western horizon. But they had begun to fade with the coming of night and now had almost vanished altogether. Johnston was glad of it. There had been more than enough killing for one day.
For the past half hour, staff officers he had sent to Stewart and Hardee had returned. The tidings they brought were beyond Johnston’s wildest dreams. Although both corps had suffered heavy casualties, they had essentially obliterated the Union divisions facing them. Both corps commanders were reporting that thousands of Union prisoners had been taken, as well as vast quantities of artillery, battle flags and other prizes of war. The ground south of Peachtree Creek, according to Stewart’s message, was so covered with Yankee dead that a man could walk two miles stepping from one corpse to the next, without his feet ever touching the ground.
Cleburne’s brilliant breakthrough in the center had marked the turning point of the battle. By punching a hole in the Union line and sending his brigades crashing into the exposed Federal flanks and rear, Cleburne had unhinged the entire Army of the Cumberland and allowed the other divisions to drive forward as well. Stewart and Hardee had continued to push north until the Army of the Cumberland was backed up against Peachtree Creek, where untold thousands of Northern soldiers had been slaughtered.
There were many things Johnston did not know. He could not tell how much of the Army of the Cumberland had successfully escaped to the north bank of the creek, nor did he know the whereabouts of McPherson and Schofield. These questions would need to be answered before he could devise his next course of action.
Dispatches from Hood said that McPherson’s army had drawn itself up in battle lines as if to attack, but had subsequently marched away to the north. Nevertheless, Hood was still petulantly demanding reinforcements. Reinforcing Hood made a certain amount of sense, as it was possible that Sherman might attack on his front the next morning. Consequently, Johnston had ordered Hardee to send Bate’s division to Hood. This unit had emerged from the battle with its organization more intact that the other divisions. Clayton’s division, which technically belonged to Hood’s corps, was far too disorganized to be quickly assembled for a march to the southeast.
Johnston’s body told him that he was tired and needed sleep. But his heart and mind were all afire. He was consumed by the knowledge that he had won the Confederacy’s greatest victory of the war. He clicked Fleetfoot into a walk, heading north in the fading twilight, with no particular destination in mind. He felt the need to be near his soldiers, to bask with them in the aura of the victory that they had achieved together.
As he rode forth, he saw the lead elements of Bate’s division marching southwards in column, away from the battlefield. They were led by men bearing torches, with other torches interspersed among the column itself. It was one of his finest divisions, composed of tough and brave soldiers from Kentucky, Florida, Tennessee, and Georgia. They had fought very well throughout the day and had to have been exhausted, yet they marched with a swagger and confidence that told Johnston that they were ready to follow any orders he might see fit to give them.
When they saw Johnston approach, the men began to cheer. Some took off their hats and waved them wildly. The marching column, without any orders from their officers, halted in its tracks as the men continued cheering.
He doffed his hat to the column, which caused the shouting to escalate. The men broke ranks and began swarming around Johnston. They shook their rifles in the air, reached out to shake his hand, shrieking the Rebel Yell as loudly as their throats could bear it. Johnston had not expected this and was momentarily apprehensive, for he distrusted large and undisciplined crowds. Underneath him, he could feel Fleetfoot tense, as the horse did not understand what all the clamor was.
The men didn’t notice. If they had noticed, they wouldn’t have cared. The men continued chanting their favorite nickname for Johnston so loudly that it must have been heard for a mile around.
“Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!”
His heart soared. He stood up in the stirrups, raising his hat over his head and waving it about frantically, not wanting the moment to end. He had won. He had beaten Sherman. He had shown Jefferson Davis, Braxton Bragg, and John Bell Hood how wrong they were. He had proven himself worthy of the trust and devotion his men had always shown him. The cheering went on and on and he drank it in as though it were wine.
He didn’t want to get carried away. He remembered how Roman generals celebrating a triumph were assigned a slave whose sole job it was to whisper in their ears that they were mortal.
He put his hat back on his head and took firm hold of the bridle. Kicking his horse into a brisk walk, he passed through the crowd of troops, continuing to wave. They kept cheering, but slowly returned to the ranks of their marching column. Fifteen minutes after they had charged forward to cheer their general, they resumed their march to the southeast.
The war was not over. Johnston knew that the coming months would bring more challenges and probably more bloody battles. He also knew that he would cherish the memory of the Battle of Peachtree Creek for the rest of his life. And so would the Confederacy.
Chapter Seven
July 20, Night
Sherman sat heavily in the saddle, riding slowly westward through the darkness, his shoulders drooping, his usually ramrod-straight posture beaten down by the events of the day. Schofield, McPherson and a small army of staff officers behind him kept their distance. They felt it was better for Sherman to be left alone.
Sherman felt nauseated, like a strong fist was clutching his stomach. He also felt dizzy and had to grip his saddle tightly with his legs to maintain his balance. He tried to focus his thoughts and recover his composure, but found himself unable to do so. He could tell that his hands were shaking and hoped that the men trailing behind him were far enough away that they would be unable to see it.
With his trembling hands, Sherman pulled out his pocket watch and held it up against the light of the lanterns and torches carried by some of the escort troo
ps. It was nearly midnight. The day that was ending had been the most disastrous of his life and he was glad it as finally coming to an end.
He remembered from his West Point history classes the names of the decisive battles of history. Cannae, Hastings, Blenheim, Saratoga. The names of the defeated commanders in those battles were remembered with disgrace and dishonor. Was the name of Sherman to be counted now among the great losers of military history?
He found himself thinking of his miserable early service in the war, when he had effectively been kicked out of the army under suspicion of insanity. He recalled the seemingly endless days he spent in bed at his home in Ohio, tenderly cared for by his wife after he had attempted suicide. The demons which had tormented him then were now reaching for him again, their dark hands gripping him and attempting to pull him down into purgatory.
He felt his mind going.
Sherman closed his eyes tightly, then forced them open again. He told himself that he had to remain calm, maintain his composure, in this the greatest of all possible tests. He willed his mind away from the demons and tried to focus on military realities. If he failed, he knew his mind would fall apart.
He wasn’t sure whether General Thomas had been killed or been captured. Sherman certainly hoped he was alive, but it made no difference from a practical point of view. What mattered was that what was left of the Army of the Cumberland didn’t have a commander. Despite how much Sherman personally detested General Hooker, he had to admit that he had done a credible job rescuing as much of the Army of the Cumberland as he could after Thomas had disappeared.
But what remained of the Army of the Cumberland? When the morning had begun, it had been a strong and confident force of over sixty thousand men, the heart of the combined Union armies of the West. In less than twelve hours, it had been reduced to a shattered body perhaps half that size. Many of its men had lost their weapons and all were traumatized by their disastrous defeat.
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