Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  He kept having to duck below the parapet to avoid the attention of the repeating rifles, but he stole enough quick glances to see axe-wielding Yankee pioneers hacking away at the abatis to clear a path through for the oncoming assault column.

  McFadden waved to get Horwood’s attention. “Fire the Napoleons!” he cried. “Canister fire!”

  Horwood energetically shook his head. “Not yet!”

  A sudden human roar filled McFadden’s ears and he realized that the main assault column had broken into a charge. The enemy skirmishers were still filling the air with bullets like so many swarms of angry bees and the Texans were having difficulty returning the fire. As he watched, one of the Texans raised his head over the parapet and attempted to aim his Enfield but was unable to fire before his head exploded like a watermelon dropped from a great height. The blood and brains of the man were scattered over the soldiers on either side of him, who cried out with disgust and irritation.

  McFadden couldn’t understand why Horwood refused to fire the Napoleons. A quick burst of canister fire from the eight guns would sweep away the skirmishers and end the troubling fire of their repeating rifles. The infantry could then focus its fire on the oncoming assault column.

  Shells began landing on the parapet once again, which surprised McFadden. With the assault column so close, the Union gunners should have ceased fire in order to avoid hitting their own men. That they were so intent on keeping the defenders pinned down as to risk the lives of their own soldiers showed how determined they were that the attack succeed. Two or three of the Yankee shells fell amidst their own men and exploded, scattering clumps of dead and wounded men in every direction. Horwood must have noticed the Union gun crews in the distance preparing to fire, which was why he had yet to unleash his Napoleons.

  More of his men were falling dead or wounded as they attempted to fire back at the skirmishers. During the quick glances he was able to steal beneath the head-log, McFadden was gratified to see several of the enemy soldiers lying dead or wounded. At least some of his men were finding their targets.

  As the main assault column reached the chopped up remnants of the abatis, Horwood finally ordered the crews of his Napoleons into action. The men braved the fire of the skirmishers to tear away the bundles of dirt and straw, then ran the guns out of their ports. Aiming directly into the mass of the Union troops, Horwood gave the command.

  “Fire!”

  The eight guns fired almost at the same instant, sending forth a wave of canister that swept through the Union column like a manifestation of death on earth. Scores of Northern men were killed instantly, literally cut to pieces as McFadden watched, while many others fell to the ground with bloody wounds, shrieking in agony. The acrid smell of gunpowder smoke filled the air.

  The first rank of the assault column faltered at the loss of so many men. McFadden spotted one man on his knees, instinctively picking his left arm up from the ground as though he would be able to reattach it to the bloody stump where it had once been. But the halt was brief and the endless ranks behind the front of the column continued to push forward. Weaving their way through the paths cut in the abatis by the pioneers, the blue-coated troops came on.

  Ignoring the fire of the repeating rifles of the skirmishers, the Texans poured forth as heavy a fire as they could manage, while Horwood’s men loaded and fired the eight Napoleons as quickly as they could. The Brooke rifled cannon were put to use as anti-personnel weapons as well, although their mounting made it difficult to aim them at the infantry. Some of the gun crews were struck down by the bullets and flying shrapnel and McFadden was gratified to see some of his own men drop their rifles and run over to help serve the artillery.

  The skirmishers kept up a steady fire with their repeating rifles as the men of the assault column plunged into the trench and dashed up to the parapet. Hearing a sharp cry of pain, McFadden turned to see that one of his men had been struck in the face by a bullet, his eye now dangling out of its socket like some sort of grotesque child’s toy.

  McFadden unloaded his revolver into the mass of Yankees at the edge of the trench. It occurred to McFadden that Horwood was likely to concentrate his fire on the men of the main assault column now getting into the trench. It would be better, McFadden thought, to sweep the ground just behind the trench clear of the skirmishers and their annoying repeating rifles. He turned to call this to the attention of Major Horwood, just in time to see the artillery commander be struck in quick succession by two bullets, first in the shoulder and then instantly afterwards directly in the chest. He was thrown backwards and was dead before his body reached the ground.

  McFadden sensed that what had happened during the second day of fighting around East Point was about to happen once again. For all the valor of his men and the strength of their fortifications, they were to be overwhelmed by the sheer force of irresistible Yankee numbers.

  There was a sudden swarm of Union soldiers through the gun ports of the disabled Brooke gun and one of the Napoleons. The crew of the Napoleon was killed very quickly by rifle shots at point blank range, but one man stayed on his feet long enough to yank the lanyard a final time, sending a last blast of canister directly into the mass of Yankee attackers. At such close range, ten Northern men were simply erased from the earth in a shower of shrapnel, blood, and torn flesh. But others came right after them, pouring through the gun port like water through a break in a dam.

  “The guns!” McFadden cried. “Right wing! Fire at the guns!”

  Half his men redirected their fire toward the guns. Within seconds, half a dozen Yankees were killed or wounded, but more continued to pour through. Forbiddingly, he could see some of the Yankees attempting to turn the Napoleon around, clearly intending to use it against its former owners. To be subjected to canister fire at such close range would certainly mean a very quick and bloody death for him and his men.

  He was about to shout an order for withdrawal when he heard a loud battle cry from the rear area of the battery. McFadden turned to see a row of Confederate soldiers advancing into the redoubt at the double quick. A glance at the flags revealed that they belonged to Finley’s Florida Brigade, come to reinforce the redoubt. They charged forward into the fight, screaming the Rebel Yell.

  *****

  September 27, Afternoon

  “Calm down, Lieutenant!” Cleburne said loudly. He tried to keep his voice from rising to the level of a shout. “What is happening at Battery Bate?”

  The question was very important, as the sounds of battle had been roaring from the general direction of Battery Bate for the past three hours. Clearly, the Army of the Tennessee was making a heavy attack all along the southern sector. Unable to get any solid information from the officers on the scene, Cleburne had dispatched Lieutenant Magnum to see for himself.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, sir!” Lieutenant Magnum replied, his tone a mixture of excitement and fear. “I’ve never seen so many men fighting in such a small space! It’s a slaughterhouse, sir!”

  “I don’t understand,” Cleburne said, feeling frustrated. “Have the Yankees been repulsed or not?”

  Magnum shook his head. “No, sir. At least, I don’t think so, sir. The fighting is still going on. The Texas and Florida troops are all in, but the Yankees just keep pouring more men in, too. The Yankees can’t push out us, but we can’t push the Yankees out, either!”

  Battery Bate was one of the most important positions on the southern sector of the city’s defenses. If it fell into Union hands, the entire Confederate position in Atlanta would be compromised. It had to be speedily reinforced. If the worst had already happened and the position had already been taken, a counter attack would have to be mounted to recapture it.

  He looked up at his chief-of-staff. “Major Benham? Has there been any response from General Walker?”

  Benham shook his head. “No response at all, sir.”

  Cleburne let out a deep, heavy sigh. Walker’s division had not been strongly attacked, nor d
id there appear to be a serious threat on the northern sector. Cleburne’s own division had been all but shattered, Finley’s division had been badly cut up, and Maney’s division was now heavily engaged on the western sector. Yet Walker retained all of his three strong brigades in their relatively comfortable positions despite repeated orders to dispatch one of them to reinforce the south. With Battery Bate clearly on the edge of capture, the situation was critical. It was no longer a matter of honor and obeying the proper chain of command, but of saving the city of Atlanta.

  “Very well,” Cleburne said. “Let’s put our plan into effect.”

  He rose from the table, pausing to grab his sword and pistol belt and carefully putting them on. Major Benham, Lieutenant Magnum, and two other staff officers did the same. Around them, the other corps officers looked on with knowing expressions, even as they continued to do their work.

  Cleburne and his men walked outside and quickly mounted their horses. Nearby, twenty or so other mounted men, Kentucky troops of the Orphan Brigade, had been patiently waiting. He would have preferred using men from his own division, but all of them were now fighting on the southern defenses. Could he count on the Kentuckians to support him over Walker? As Cleburne spurred his horse into a canter, Major Benham waved for the Orphans to follow. Commander, staff, and soldiers all rode off to the north, leaving a cloud of dust in front of the Atlanta City Hall.

  As they rode northwards, Cleburne could hear the constant roaring of battle to the south around Battery Bate. He thought of his men fighting for their lives inside the imperiled position and his anger toward General Walker increased.

  Thankfully, the city streets were mostly empty. Artillery continued to pound the city and many buildings they passed had been reduced to rubble. With fighting raging all around them, most of the good citizens of Atlanta were holed up in their own homes.

  Only a few people were spotted. A few slaves could be seen dashing about, perhaps having been sent by their masters to find food or run some other errand. Conceivably they were trying to take advantage of all the confusion to escape.

  It took about twenty minutes to arrive at Walker’s headquarters. Compared to the headquarters of the other three divisions, Walker’s command post looked remarkably clean and tidy. The uniforms of the men remained clean, the horses appeared to have been recently brushed and washed, and there was even a pig roasting over a fire in preparation for dinner. This sector had seen less artillery fire than the others and the attacks made against the line by the Army of the Cumberland paled in comparison to the intensity of the attacks made by the Army of the Tennessee on the south and west.

  “General Walker!” Cleburne cried.

  A minute passed. Cleburne tensed up. Was it possible that Walker was not even going to acknowledge his presence? It was something he had not anticipated and for which he had no planned response.

  The tent flap was pulled back and Walker emerged, an irritated look on his face.

  “What do you want, Cleburne? We’re rather busy here.”

  “You are ordered to dispatch the brigade of General Gist to Battery Bate at once. It is under heavy attack and needs reinforcements immediately.”

  “Yes, well, as I told you before, why don’t you look after your sector of the line and allow me to look after mine?”

  “Are you refusing to follow my orders, General Walker?”

  Walker laughed. “I don’t acknowledge your right to give me orders, Cleburne. I take no orders from abolitionists.”

  Cleburne calmly nodded to Benham, who walked his horse a few steps forward.

  “General Walker, on the authority of General Patrick Cleburne, commander of all Confederate forces in Atlanta, you are under arrest. If you will please come with me.”

  These words created a commotion. There was an uneasy rustling and low shouting throughout the headquarters. Cleburne’s heart began pounding as he watched some of Walker’s men grab their rifles. Many stepped forward to defend their chief. Cleburne and his staff officers, as had been decided earlier, remained still and impassive, but behind them the mounted troops from the Orphan Brigade quietly and calmly readied their weapons.

  After a minute of tumult, silence descended. Both sides stood uneasily, watching one another. Cleburne was more nervous than he had ever been in the midst of a battle, for it would not take much for the situation to blow up into full scale violence.

  Walker stared up at him, rage and hatred filling his fiery eyes.

  “You’re arresting me, Cleburne?”

  “I am. Your insubordination and refusal to follow my orders has left me no other choice.”

  “You know what the newspapers will say about this? You will be damned from one end of the Confederacy to the other.”

  “Are you going to go with Major Benham or do you intend to resist?”

  “My men will protect me if I ask them.”

  “And then you, rather than me, will be the one damned from one end of the Confederacy to the other. You would be known as the man who ordered his troops to open fire on their fellow Confederates while the Yankees were beating down the door to Atlanta.”

  Walker looked around at his men, who were staring expectantly at him, their hands gripping their rifles. Clearly, Walker was telling the truth when he said that his men would resist if he asked them to do so. Neither Walker’s men nor the Orphans pointed their weapons at one another, which reassured Cleburne. He was willing to employ the threat of force, but he had already made the decision that he would not actually use force if it came to that.

  Cleburne was bluffing. He just hoped Walker wouldn’t call his bluff. If he did, then Cleburne would be humiliated and his ability to exercise effective command in Atlanta would be at an end. So would his career and, very possibly, whatever chances the Confederacy had of obtaining its independence.

  An endless minute of silence passed, broken only be the distant sounds of battle to the south. Then, Walker frowned and took a deep breath. He looked over at Benham.

  “Major, that damned abolitionist commander of yours has ordered my arrest. I am to go with you, yes?”

  “That’s correct, General Walker,” Benham replied.

  Walker turned to one of his own staff officers. “Get my horse, Captain.”

  Cleburne still didn’t move, even as the captain slowly strode over to the headquarters stable. Walker continued to glare up at him.

  “What else do you want, Cleburne? I’m going with your man, just like you asked.”

  “General Gist’s brigade,” Cleburne said simply.

  “Ah, yes.” Walker turned to another staff officer. “Lieutenant, take a message to General Gist. He is in command of the division and he is to report immediately to General Cleburne for further orders.” He turned back to Cleburne. “Satisfied now?”

  Cleburne said nothing, but merely nodded.

  Walker mounted his horse and, without a word, walked it over to Major Benham. “Lead on, Major.”

  Benham and Cleburne nodded at one another. Benham rode off, followed by Walker and the men of the Orphan Brigade. Cleburne looked around at the men of Walker’s division, who were staring up at him with a grudging respect. His bluff had succeeded.

  General Gist appeared a few minutes later. Cleburne informed him that he was now in command of the division and that he was to send his brigade down to Battery Bate without delay. That task done, Cleburne rode back toward his headquarters at the Atlanta City Hall, a much relieved man.

  *****

  September 27, Evening

  “Please tell me you know something new about the situation in Atlanta,” Davis said, his voice sounding like a plea. “Any news would be very deeply appreciated.”

  Seddon sadly shook his head. “I wish I had something to tell you, Mr. President. But we have had nothing new since this morning’s telegram from Johnston. Atlanta remains under attack and the Army of Tennessee is being assembled at Palmetto.”

  Davis sank back into his chair and fumed. He looked up
at the military map yet again, having done so hundreds of times already. He paid no attention to Petersburg, or the Shenandoah Valley, or the Trans-Mississippi. His eyes fixated on the colored pins around Atlanta and on them alone.

  He shook his head in frustration. “I must say, Mr. Seddon, that this endless waiting is the worst aspect of being in my position. Though I am safe here in Richmond, I find myself envying Cleburne in Atlanta and Johnston at Palmetto. They, at least, are active and busy. By contrast, I can do nothing but wait for the next telegram. It is intolerable, I must say.”

  “I understand, sir,” Seddon replied.

  “No, I do not think you do, Mr. Seddon. Unlike you, I do not have the soul of an administrator. The day they told me that the Montgomery Convention had selected me to be the president of our Confederacy was a dark day in my life. I had hoped and expected to be chosen as commander-in-chief of the army. In that position, at least, I could have taken an active part in the war. I could have commanded troops in the field, rather than push endless amounts of paperwork back and forth across this damn desk!” Davis slammed his fist down onto the desk so hard that it sounded as though a gun had been fired.

  Seddon waited a moment before replying. “The Confederate Constitution says that the President is commander-in-chief of the army. Washington led troops during the Whiskey Rebellion while he was serving as President of the United States, as I recall. There is nothing preventing you from taking the field yourself. And you would undoubtedly make an outstanding field commander, sir.”

  Davis didn’t respond. Although he was sadly susceptible to flattery, he had heard such sycophancy from Seddon often enough to have learned to recognize it for what it was. What Seddon said reminded him of words John Bell Hood had said to him nearly a year before, when the man had been in Richmond convalescing from his wounds. It had been largely because of such statements of support that Davis had come so close to giving Hood command of the Army of Tennessee.