Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Let me go!” McFadden yelled. “Let me go!”

  He pulled himself up and turned to look at whoever had pulled him down. He came face-to-face with Private Pearson, who looked back at him with an almost childlike expression.

  “How dare you!”

  “You would have been killed, sir!”

  “Mind your business, damn you! Get back to the firing line!”

  Pearson said nothing and did not move for an endless second. Then, he picked his rifle up off the ground and took his position on the fire-step, quickly entering into the repetitive process of loading and shooting.

  McFadden stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. His men remained focused on firing , but McFadden caught quick side glances from Private Montgomery and a few others, who eyed him warily. He picked his pistol up from the ground and put it back in his holster. Then, he began slowly walking up and down the lines.

  “Keep up your fire, men!” he called. “Pour it into them!” He attempted to make his voice sound as authoritative and enthusiastic as possible.

  It took a conscious effort to control his breathing. He tried to understand what he had just done. He had to keep his mind clear, to concentrate on his duties as an officer. Cleburne and Granbury had told him that he was in charge of the 7th Texas, because he was the only officer who was not either dead or a prisoner. He had to remain focused, otherwise his leaderless men would lose their discipline and probably their lives.

  But he couldn’t keep his mind clear. He felt like he was on fire, like something was trying to eat him alive from the inside. The Yankees had killed his beloved, the woman he would have made into his wife. He had seen the charred and blackened remains of what had been her body inside the house, which itself had been shredded and burned by exploding shells. His mind could not stop imagining the terror and confusion that her last moments on Earth must have been like.

  The agony that coursed through him was too terrible to be contained within a human soul.

  “Sir!” Montgomery called. “They’re pulling back!”

  He shook his head vigorously, then turned toward the fire-step. Peering under the head-log, he saw that Montgomery was correct. The Union officers, having given up on getting their men to mount a charge and unwilling to endure further casualties, had ordered a withdrawal. The Yankee bugles were blaring the notes for a retreat.

  He glanced up and down the line. One of his men was holding a bloody cloth up to the side of his head, a look of anger and irritation on his face. Aside from him, though, there did not seem to be any casualties. He ordered the man to the rear and hoped for the best. McFadden knew from experience that head wounds often looked much worse than they actually were, so he was optimistic that the man would be back in the ranks in a few hours.

  Some of his men were still shooting at the Yankees as they pulled back. He considered ordering them to cease fire, as it was unlikely they would hit anything at such a range and it was a shame to waste ammunition. However, Cleburne had said that there was plenty of ammunition in the Atlanta depots. The simple act of having his men continue to fire on the bluecoats was pleasing to him. Eventually, as the Yankees continued to pull back and the range became impossible, his men stopped firing on their own account.

  Silence descended on the portion of the line held by the Texans. Off to the north, they could hear the steady booming of artillery and the rattle of musketry, indicating that the Yankees were attacking other portions of the Atlanta defenses as well. McFadden speculated for a moment that perhaps the assault the Texans had just repulsed had merely been a diversion. It certainly would explain why it had not been pressed home with much enthusiasm.

  The quietude did not last long. As the Union infantry pulled back out of range, two enemy artillery batteries opened fire and shells began to burst in front of the trenches. McFadden ordered his men to the ground to shield them from the storm of shrapnel. Private Montgomery crawled over to him.

  “Lieutenant, are you all right?”

  “Yes, private. I’m fine.”

  “Sir, the way you jumped out onto the parapet like that. I just-“

  “I’m fine, Montgomery. Don’t worry about it. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  Montgomery nodded, then crawled into a better position.

  McFadden looked over his shoulder at Private Pearson. The man had been an irritant to him for a long time, but had just risked his own life to save McFadden’s. He nodded stiffly and Pearson nodded back.

  *****

  September 26, Night

  The train lurched to a halt as it neared the overhang of the rail depot in Palmetto. The second it came to a complete stop, Johnston stepped out from the car and onto the platform. Almost as quickly, officers and depot workers were sliding open the boxcars, out of which began pouring hundreds of Confederate soldiers. Others had made the trip from Newnan to Palmetto on the train’s roof; these men patiently waited for the ground below them to clear before they began climbing down. Slaves stood about with torches to illuminate the area.

  “General Johnston!” a waiting staff officer cried, waving. “This way, please!”

  Johnston nodded and followed, with Mackall close behind. The man guided the two of them to a large tent that had been set up a few hundred yards away from the train depot. Inside, a dozen staff officers were hard at work. The headquarters post of the Army of Tennessee had been set up shortly after the previous train had arrived, with an efficiency that impressed and pleased Johnston.

  “Where are Grant’s forces?”

  “Here, sir,” an officer said, indicating the map. “All his forces are concentrated around Atlanta. The southern, western, and northern portions of the line are invested and we believe that enemy cavalry have seized the railroad to Augusta as well.”

  “Has there been any effort to communicate with General Cleburne?”

  “No, sir. The telegraph lines have all been cut. There does not seem to be any way to get in or out. The city is completely surrounded.”

  Johnston shook his head. “God help them.”

  “The sounds of battle are never-ending, sir. The city is under constant attack and bombardment.”

  Johnston walked quickly outside the tent, staring intently to the north and listening carefully. Although Atlanta was more than twenty miles away, he could distinctly hear what sounded like a low roar rolling over the Georgia countryside. The booming of artillery was clearly audible, carried by the wind. The sound was almost pleasant, like a distant thunderstorm on a summer day, but he knew that the sound signified death.

  Mackall had walked out beside him. “We’ve got to help them,” he said simply.

  “Indeed, we do, William. And not just for their sakes, but for the sake of our cause. If the Yankees take Atlanta, the game may well be up.”

  They went back inside and bent over a paper-strewn table. Johnston looked over at the chief-of-staff.

  “Well?”

  “Manigault’s brigade arrived before we did, as you know. Its regiments are deployed around Palmetto to ensure security. Benton’s brigade is unloading now. The telegraph boys have managed to reconnect the line between here and Newnan.”

  “They did? That’s impressive.”

  Mackall shrugged. “It’s a miracle that any of our telegraphs are working these days. I’ve long since started to chalk it up to divine favor.”

  Johnston smiled and waved for Mackall to continue.

  “The rest of General Brown’s division is going to arrive during the night, assuming everything goes well. After him will be Stevenson’s division, and Clayton’s division is third.”

  “How long?”

  “I think we can have Cheatham’s entire corps here by nightfall tomorrow. Then we can start bringing Stewart’s men up.”

  “The trains will be busy,” Johnston noted.

  “They will be, sir. They’ll be steaming up and down the railroad between here and West Point for the next two days. It will be difficult, but we’ve done
it before.”

  Johnston nodded. Despite the ramshackle nature of Confederate railroads, the South had become adept at moving large numbers of troops by train since the beginning of the war.

  “So, in a best-case scenario, Cheatham’s corps will be fully up in Palmetto by tomorrow night, and Stewart’s corps perhaps two days after that?”

  Mackall nodded. “That sounds about right.”

  “We have only two brigades here at present. If Grant catches wind of what we’re up to, he could descend on Palmetto with an entire corps and have us for breakfast.”

  “Well, there is no indication that he knows we have arrived here as yet. And we will have all night to bring in the rest of Brown’s division. Palmetto will probably be defensible when the sun rises.”

  Johnston nodded. “In any event, every division we can get Grant to deploy against us is one less division attacking Atlanta.”

  Mackall nodded. “And suppose Grant either does not notice us here at Palmetto or elects to ignore us and continue the assault on Atlanta? What then?”

  “Why, we shall march to the rescue of our comrades, of course.”

  *****

  Cleburne dismounted his horse and handed the reins to one of Walker’s staff officers without a word. Lieutenant Learned Magnum, his personal aide-be-camp now that Lieutenant Hanley was dead, reined in behind him and remained on his horse, watching as he stormed toward Walker’s command tent. Cleburne was not normally a man given to anger, but the furious look on his face was clear for all to see.

  “General Walker!” Cleburne yelled as he ducked under the flap of the tent.

  Walker, with three of his own staff officers around him, looked up from his table. “Ah, General Cleburne! How kind of you to visit my headquarters. May I offer you some whiskey?”

  Cleburne fumed. Walker knew perfectly well that he was a teetotaler. He held up a piece of paper.

  “Would you be so kind as to explain this?”

  “I would, if you would tell me what it is.”

  Cleburne wanted to shout, but managed to keep his tongue. “On three occasions, I have ordered you to send a brigade to reinforce our troops on the south side of the city. The only reply I have received from you is this single note, refusing the order and asserting that you are not under my command.”

  “I’m sorry, Cleburne, but that Irish accent of yours makes it difficult for me to understand you. Perhaps you could speak more slowly?”

  “You heard me very well,” Cleburne responded firmly.

  “Oh,” Walker said, indifference evident in his voice. “Well, my own troops have been rather hard-pressed today and I felt I needed all my men here. Simple enough explanation, I should think.”

  “General Walker, you will obey my orders or I shall have you arrested for insubordination. I would have thought that had been made clear by my last message.”

  “Well, let me make something clear to you, Cleburne. If you think I’m going to follow the orders of abolitionist scum like you, you are even more stupid than I thought. I would no sooner follow your orders than I would kiss the ass of Abe Lincoln.”

  Cleburne tensed. Things were rapidly getting out of hand. He realized his mistake in coming to Walker’s headquarters. First, it gave Walker the psychological upper hand, as he had forced Cleburne to come to him rather than have Walker come to Cleburne. But if Cleburne had summoned Walker to his headquarters, he obviously would have refused to come. Cleburne’s second mistake was in coming with only a single staff officer. His threats to have Walker arrested were meaningless unless he had the means to carry them out.

  He glanced around the headquarters tent. Most of the men there looked at him with the same sort of contemptible sneer as Walker. If it came to any kind of showdown, he realized instantly than these men would side with Walker over him. He wondered if the same might be true of Walker’s brigade and regimental officers.

  His pulse quickened. The Union assault was over for the night, but on many points of the defenses they had come close to breaking through.

  “I command all Confederate forces in Atlanta,” Cleburne said sternly. “You will obey my orders.”

  “I’d sooner rot in hell.”

  “What is the date of your commission as major general, Walker?” Cleburne asked sternly.

  “I’m sure you’ll remind me.”

  “I will. Your commission dates from May 23, 1863. My commission dates from December 13, 1862. I am senior. I am in command.”

  Cleburne knew Walker would not care a whit about commission dates. He was saying this in the hopes that they would have a beneficial effect on the men watching in the tent and, no doubt, listening from the outside. If the men of Walker’s command realized that they were participating in what amounted to a mutiny, they might reconsider their support. Everyone knew the penalty for mutiny. What worried Cleburne was that, at the moment, he lacked the ability to enforce the implied threat.

  Walker, to Cleburne’s fury, simply shrugged as though their respective ranks were a matter of no concern to him. “Considering what the newspapers have been saying about you of late, I doubt that the good men in Richmond will pay much attention to the date on your commission paper. More likely that you’ll be cashiered out of the army altogether. We are fighting a war to ensure the supremacy of the white man over the black man. The South does not take kindly to those who believe the respective positions of the races should be reversed.”

  “The laws of the Confederacy are clear, General Walker. If you do not follow my orders, you shall be guilty of mutiny. And if any of your men choose to follow your orders that are in conflict with mine, they shall be guilty of mutiny as well.”

  For the first time, Cleburne thought he sensed hesitation, a dark uneasiness, in the faces of the staff officers. There was an uncertain rustling.

  Cleburne continued. “We are in the midst of the most important battle of the war. Your insubordination is threatening our ability to fight effectively. Is your pride and arrogance such that you would willingly endanger not only our army, but the survival of the Confederacy itself, simply for the sake of spitting in my face?”

  Walker smiled and shrugged. “Might I simply suggest that you look after your sector of the line and allow me to look after mine?”

  Cleburne felt he had done all he could. He had made his position clear to Walker and had hopefully introduced some element of fear into the minds of his men. As for Walker himself, no words would ever be able to persuade a man with such a poisoned mind.

  He turned and ducked out of Walker’s tent. Lieutenant Magnum was still waiting on his horse. Cleburne mounted and rode away without another word. He would let Walker think he had won for the time being. Foolishly, he had hoped the man would see reason, but that clearly had been wishful thinking. Cleburne’s mind was already turning over a new idea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 27, Morning

  The fierce red glow along the eastern horizon clearly announced that sunrise was imminent. Grant, McPherson, and Howard, along with a smattering of corps commanders and staff officers, huddled together under the immense command tent that had been set up not far from the banks of the Chattahoochee River just to the northwest of Atlanta.

  The Union army had moved into the area just hours after the rebel troops had withdrawn into the Atlanta defenses. Since then, they had been very busy. Three pontoon bridges had been erected and more were already being constructed. An endless stream of supply wagons were now crossing over, bringing vast quantities of food, ammunition and other supplies from the railroad depots at Smyrna and Marietta. As the Union generals debated the course of the coming day’s battle, they were drinking coffee that had been sitting in a Chicago warehouse only five days earlier.

  The engineers were already in the process of laying track over the stone pillars which were all that remained of the old Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge. They had told Grant that the first trains should be able to use the bridge within the next few days.
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br />   Securing both river banks across from Vining’s Station and throwing the bridges across the Chattahoochee meant that the fords and crossing points downriver near Campbellton were no longer necessary. These accordingly had been abandoned and the men who had been assigned to guard them had been brought northeast to join the main force.

  Sitting amidst the generals and staff officers, Grant calmly smoked a cigar and whittled away on a large stick with a knife. One who did not know him well might have assumed that he was paying no attention to the ongoing discussion, though in fact he was listening intently.

  “The rebels are proving unexpectedly resilient,” Howard was saying. “None of my attacks have been able to penetrate their defenses and we have suffered heavy casualties.”

  “My troops have broken the rebel lines in a few places, but in each case we were driven back by enemy counter attacks,” McPherson replied.

  “They are fighting like devils, these blasted Southerners,” Howard said.

  Grant chucked, as the adjective Howard had used to describe the rebels was the nearest he had ever heard the man come to swearing. Still, what the commander of the Army of the Cumberland was saying reflected a pattern Grant had noticed. The rebel troops on the north side of Atlanta seemed to be fighting more effectively than those on the western and southern sectors. A plan had been forming in Grant’s mind since late the previous evening and he now took the opportunity to explain it.

  Tossing away his half-shredded stick, Grant rose from his chair and stood over the map. Using his fingers, he described what he wanted.

  “Howard, you’ll leave one corps on the north side of Atlanta to keep the rebel troops there pinned down and to protect our depots from any sudden enemy sortie. You’ll move your two other corps to the west side of the city and launch an attack there. McPherson, I want you to move all the troops you currently have on the western sector to the south. When that is done, we shall have two corps of the Army of the Cumberland attacking the west side and all three corps of the Army of the Tennessee attacking the south side.”