Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “William, you say the Union force on our front is withdrawing?” Johnston’s voice sounded much more tired than it usually did.

  “Yes, sir,” Mackall responded sympathetically.

  “We’ve been duped.”

  “I fear you are correct, sir.”

  “Pull Cheatham’s corps out of the line. Get them on the road and march them back to the railroad depot at West Point. We need to get them back into the trains and get them back to Atlanta at once. Have Stewart extend his line to cover the length evacuated. Once the first of Cheatham’s divisions is dispatched, have Stewart withdraw one division at a time and march them to the depot as well.”

  “You believe General Hardee is correct, sir?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Yankee cavalry have been raiding the rail line, sir.”

  Johnston nodded. “Well, we will have to identify the points where they have broken the line and do the best we can to repair them. Whatever must be done to get our troops back to Atlanta as quickly as possible.”

  “Grant may have already seized the railroad at East Point, sir. If he has, our two corps here will be cut off from Atlanta.”

  “I know. I’ve been made to look a fool, William. Right now, even as you and I sit here speaking, Jefferson Davis, Braxton Bragg and Judah Benjamin are damning me to high heaven in Richmond. Hood, wherever the hell he is out in Arkansas, will be telling everyone who will listen how stupid I am and how much better everything would be if he had been given command of my army in July. It’s a disaster, William. A complete and unmitigated disaster.”

  Mackall looked almost offended and pulled himself back to stand bolt upright. “Well, sir, if the Yankees have seen fit to trouble us with their tricks, I don’t see why we shouldn’t repay the favor. And with interest, sir.”

  *****

  McFadden and Collett had counted their losses. During the Union attack, the 7th Texas had lost twenty men killed or wounded. This had reduced it to a mere fifty soldiers, half the strength of what a single company would have been at the outset of the war. In return, they had killed a vast number of Yankee soldiers in front of their defenses and many of the bluecoats who had gotten over the parapet had been marched to the rear as prisoners.

  Every time McFadden moved, a sharp pain tore through his left side. The wound might have been a slight one, but it still felt like a red-hot flame was being shoved up against him. He checked once again to make sure the bandage was secure and tried to ignore the pain.

  “It doesn’t make any sense to keep the old company structure,” Collett was saying. “It has to stay intact on paper, of course. The idiots in the War Department insist on such matters. But as far as we’re concerned, the 7th Texas will be divided into two companies. You’ll take one and Lieutenant Russell with take the other.”

  McFadden nodded. “Makes sense, I reckon.”

  “A major and two lieutenants should be able to handle fifty men, I would think.” He said this with a sarcastic grin. McFadden realized he was attempting to lighten the mood. The only reason they were discussing the reorganization at all was because so many of their friends had been killed.

  “How are the men?” Collett asked.

  “Good,” McFadden answered. “I put them to work repairing the abatis on the far side of the trench. The Yankees pulled a bunch of them down during their attack.”

  “Okay. When they’re done, see if we can get them anything to eat and then make sure they get some sleep. This battle is not over by a long shot. The Yankees are going to try again tomorrow, and probably with greater numbers than they did today.”

  “Any chance of reinforcements?” McFadden asked.

  “Granbury says that Bate’s division has finished deploying on our right. One of his brigades will be in reserve, which we might be able to call on if we get into serious trouble.”

  “I imagine Bate’s men will have problems of their own.”

  Collett chuckled. “Most likely.”

  “I don’t know if we’ll be able to hold them tomorrow, sir. We were barely able to hold them today.”

  “General Cleburne had told us that we must hold this position and hold it we shall. If we lose it, our rail link to General Johnston will be cut and Atlanta will be lost. Make sure your men understand just how serious the situation is.”

  “I will.”

  The dull thudding sound of artillery broke the silence of night. Instinctively, McFadden and Collett glanced at the direction from which the booming came. It was far off to the north, several miles away. A few seconds later, explosions could be heard coming from Atlanta, off to the northeast.

  “What the hell is that?” McFadden asked.

  Collett’s eyes furrowed in confusion. “I think the Yankees are shelling the city.”

  “What for?”

  “Going after the Car Shed station, perhaps?”

  “But there are over a thousand women and children in the city!” McFadden exclaimed in anger. He clenched his fists in a fury. While most civilians had fled the city in early July during Sherman’s initial approach, a few never left and a great many had returned after the Battle of Peachtree Creek.

  “Tell that to General Grant,” Collett said contemptuously.

  “Barbarians,” McFadden spat. “What sort of people would open fire on defenseless women and children?” He thought about the Turnbow family. The thought of Annie being under fire from Yankee artillery sickened and infuriated him. He wanted nothing more than to rush up to Atlanta and find her and her parents, but knew he could not leave his men.

  “The Turnbows will be all right,” Collett said.

  “I hope so.”

  “A city is a big place. The chances of a shell landing anywhere near their house are pretty slim.”

  “The Yankees have plenty of ammunition. By the sound of the firing, lots of guns are involved.”

  “I read in the papers that Petersburg has been shelled every day for the last few months. Relatively few civilians have been killed or injured.” He watched McFadden closely for a moment. “Tell you what. If any of the brigade staff officers go into Atlanta to get ammunition or rations, I’ll ask them to see if they can find out anything about the Turnbows.”

  McFadden nodded. “Thanks, Major.”

  *****

  September 25, Morning

  The steam whistle piercing the early morning air around West Point added to the tumultuous sounds of scarcely controlled chaos around the railroad yard. Thousands of men stood about in great crowds, impatiently waiting for their turn to scramble into the large boxcars which, they had been told, would take them back to Atlanta. More were marching down the road from Lafayette. Angry officers struggled to maintain order, repeatedly shouting the same commands over and over again until they had been understood. The enlisted men, clutching their rifles, spoke with concern to one another, at a loss to explain what was going on or what was soon to happen.

  Johnston had decided to set up his headquarters within the main building of the railway station itself. Properly organizing the transport of his troops back to Atlanta was such an important undertaking that he had felt it necessary to be as close to the scene as possible. Although crisp autumn winds blew outside, the atmosphere inside the office seemed stuffy and stifling. He felt nervous. Indeed, he could not recall ever have been so agitated. If the trains did not maintain a precise schedule, or if there was so much as a single accident or delay, everything might be lost.

  Mackall came into the room at a jog.

  “The first train is off, sir. Manigault’s Brigade is on their way.”

  Johnston walked from the table to the window, gazing out over the rail yard. In the distance, an engine was chugging away, smoke bellowing from its funnel and its wheels slowly accelerating. It dragged a dozen boxcars behind it, carrying a thousand tough soldiers from Alabama and South Carolina. Johnston nodded, relieved.

  He turned to Mackall. “Who’s next?”

  “Benton’s Mississippi brigade, s
ir. I hope to have them on the way in the next hour-and-a-half.”

  “Good. Very good.” Johnston thought hard and swiftly. It would take the trains at least a day to reach Atlanta, but it would inevitably take time to disembark them when they arrived, properly organize them, and march them to their positions. Under ideal circumstances, the men then packing into the boxcars could be in the city’s defenses within forty-eight hours or so.

  Johnston shook his head, for circumstances were far from ideal. Yankee cavalry had struck at the Atlanta and West Point Railroad at various locations between the city and the border with Alabama, tearing up short sections of track. Engineers had already been dispatched on small trains before dawn to locate these breaks and make repairs, but there was no telling how bad the damage was or how long it would take for them to patch it up. Even worse, any flawed repair to the track might result in a derailment, which would not only kill or injure large numbers of soldiers but would cause another unacceptable delay.

  All of this, of course, assumed that Hardee would be able to maintain control of the crucial town of East Point, southwest of Atlanta. If Grant were able to seize control of it, the railroad link to Atlanta would be severed. Judging by the scattered information that had trickled in on the telegraph, the Yankees had already made a heavy attack on the town which had been beaten off by Cleburne’s division. Johnston had no doubt that they would try again. Indeed, he found himself tormented by the idea that the enemy was at that very moment pouring over the Confederate defenses just outside the town. If they did, all his efforts would be for naught.

  A courier came in and handed Mackall a telegram.

  “It’s from the War Department. They demand an update on the situation.”

  Johnston thought for a moment and started to reply, then waved a dismissive hand. “Make whatever response you feel is suitable. I have no time right now to spare for Davis, Bragg or any of those other fools.”

  Mackall glanced around awkwardly Some staff officers and railroad officials had looked up at these words, but the expression on the face of the chief-of-staff persuaded them all to remain tactfully silent.

  “Anything on the Army of the Ohio?” Johnston asked Mackall.

  “No, sir. According to the latest report from the cavalry, which came in about four this morning, they are continuing to march back to the northeast. They’re already about fifteen miles from their earlier position and show no sign of stopping. My guess is that they are on their way back to their starting point at Vining’s Station or going to join Grant’s attack.”

  Johnston pursed his lips. Had he been in Grant’s place, he would have left Schofield in position to pin down Confederate forces in Alabama. However, having moved away from their own railroad supply line, the Yankees could only have as much food as they carried in their supply wagons. Foraging might have subsisted them for a few days, but the surrounding countryside would have quickly become exhausted.

  Of course, it would take days for two entire corps to be entrained and on their way back to Atlanta. If Schofield’s army suddenly turned up once again, whatever forces had not yet begun the movement would be on hand to fight. Johnston decided to stop worrying about it. He had to avoid the temptation of becoming afraid of his own shadow.

  “Send a telegram to Hardee, via Columbus and Macon. Inform him of the dispatch of Manigault’s brigade and give him a general update on the situation.”

  “Of course, sir,” Mackall answered.

  “How long before we expect Benton’s Mississippi brigade to be off?”

  “Perhaps an hour.”

  Johnston nodded, making a decision. “General Stewart and select staff officers will remain here to coordinate the transfer operation. You, General Cheatham, and I will be on the train with the Mississippians. It’s time for us to get back to Atlanta.”

  *****

  Grant, McPherson, and Howard stood around a map-strewn table in the headquarters tent Grant’s staff had erected on the Sandtown Road just south of Utoy Creek, west of Atlanta. Outside, in numerous other tents, a small army of staff officers went about their business, while a regiment of the United States Colored Troops, made up of freed slaves, stood guard. Autumn had clearly arrived, for the air was crisp and fresh. There was not a cloud in the sky.

  A few hundred yards away, two four-gun batteries of 20-pounder Parrot rifled cannon occasionally thundered, firing their explosive shells across two miles toward the center of Atlanta. Of course, no one knew what sort of effect they were having inside the city, but the simple fact that they were striking at the rebels was a pleasing thought to the Union troops.

  “The plan for today is simple, gentlemen,” Grant said gruffly. “James, you’ll deploy your army with two corps up front and one in back, like so.” He indicated what he was saying on the map. “It doesn’t look like the rebels have more than two divisions in the defenses of East Point, and each of your three corps has more than that. It will cost us some casualties, but our force will be overpowering. You are to swamp the rebels with both forward corps, drawing on the divisions of the third corps for reinforcements as needed. I want East Point under our control by the time the sun goes down. I don’t care how many men it costs us. The more that die now the fewer will have to die later.”

  McPherson nodded. “It will be done, sir.”

  Grant turned to Howard. “The Army of the Cumberland will demonstrate against the defenses on the western side of Atlanta, and against the division holding the line between the city and East Point, here. If you break through, all well and good, but the important thing is to tie down rebel forces in these parts so as to prevent them from going to the aid of the divisions holding East Point.”

  Howard nodded. “With God’s help, we shall succeed.”

  “Have you secured the south bank of the Chattahoochee below the railroad bridge?”

  “Yes. The rebel division that had been deployed there has withdrawn into the defenses of Atlanta and Twentieth Corps is now crossing over. There are no longer any rebel troops on the Chattahoochee at any point, so far as I know.”

  “Very good,” Grant said. “How is the Twentieth Corps?” The formation had been virtually destroyed at the Battle of Peachtree Creek and much effort had gone into rebuilding it.

  “I am pleased, sir,” Howard replied. “It has spent the last two months resting and reorganizing. We have received substantial reinforcements. I do not think the men will flinch from combat. If anything, I think they are determined to exact revenge from the rebels for what happened two months ago.”

  “Do we have any information on whether the rebels are receiving any reinforcements?” McPherson asked.

  Grant shook his head. “We can’t be sure. Our cavalry have torn up sections of track along the Atlanta and West Point Railroad and we know for a fact that no trains have passed from Alabama to Atlanta in the last few days. There do seem to be some trains coming into the city from the direction of Augusta, conceivably bringing in some new troops. Not many, but some.”

  “It’s possible they are bringing in reinforcements from the Atlantic coast,” Howard said. “I believe they still have large numbers of troops around Charleston.”

  “And they cannot bring in too many of them without risking the loss of that city,” Grant replied. “At most, only a few regiments are arriving from the east. Not enough to affect the overall situation.”

  “The fact that they are receiving reinforcements at all disturbs me,” McPherson said. “And Johnston cannot be sitting idly by in Alabama, either.”

  “Of course,” Grant replied. “That is why we must not tarry. We must press on as fast as possible. Tomorrow will be the big day, gentlemen. Having captured East Point, McPherson will move against Atlanta from the south, while Howard will attack from the west. It will be bloody. Very bloody, in fact. But we shall succeed. I expect us to have captured the city within the next three or four days.”

  *****

  “You look awful, William!”

  Cleburne
intended the comment mostly as a joke, but it was not a lie. Hardee and his staff, who had just arrived at Cleburne’s divisional headquarters, looked exhausted and disheveled. Some of the men were covered in soot.

  “Sorry I could not wear my best dress uniform,” Hardee said apologetically as he dismounted and stepped inside Cleburne’s tent. His tone then turned serious. “Fires are burning throughout the city. The damn Yankees have not stopped shelling since yesterday. I had to task a whole regiment of Georgia militiamen to serve as firefighters.”

  “And the good citizens of Atlanta?” Cleburne asked.

  “Mostly hunkered down in their homes, thank God. Some of them fled to the area south of Five Points, expecting that the Yankees would avoid shelling that part of town due to the large number of churches there. No such luck. If you ask me, the Yankees are using the church steeples as targets for their guns.”

  “My God,” Cleburne exclaimed. “Have the Yankees no shame?”

  Hardee shrugged. “They’re doing it to hinder the arrival of our reinforcements. Were we in their place, would we not do the same?”

  Cleburne drew his head back in surprise, for he would never have considered firing artillery into the midst of a civilian population. But he knew that the same could not be said for many of his comrades.

  “Now, to business,” Hardee continued. He looked down at the map on the table. “Your division still holds the line protecting East Point. A telegram arrived from Johnston just before I departed headquarters. He says that the first brigade of reinforcements has departed West Point. Yankee cavalry have torn up track at various points on the railroad, though, and it may take some time to repair these breaks.”