He assumed that Johnston had not been able to bring up all of the two corps which had been sent to Alabama. Despite their proven brilliance at improvisation, the railroad engineers of the Confederacy were not supermen and the rails themselves were worn down and ramshackle. They could only move so many men within such a short space of time. Although Cleburne’s men had inflicted terrible casualties on Grant’s army, the Union commander would undoubtedly still be able to bring a much larger force to bear against Johnston than the Confederate commander would be able to field.
The battle that was about to be fought south of Atlanta would surely decide the fate of the city. If Johnston somehow managed to inflict a defeat on Grant, or even fight him to a standstill and remain as a force-in-being somewhere to the south, the Union commander would not be able to return to the assault on Atlanta. On the other hand, if Grant succeeded in smashing Johnston’s army and forcing it to retreat, the Yankees would be able to resume their attack. Cleburne knew his men might be able to hang on for a day or two longer, but with all hope of reinforcement or relief ended the outcome would no longer be in doubt.
He tried to a way in which he could help Johnston. With a mere five thousand men, all of them exhausted and of questionable fighting readiness, and with twice that number of Union troops still ringing the Atlanta defenses, was there anything he could do?
There had been no Union attacks all day, which meant that his men had had a few hours to recover from the strains of the recent fighting. Assuming that the night also passed quietly, perhaps the next day could begin with an artillery bombardment of the Union positions and a few sorties by his troops to keep the Yankees off balance? There was still plenty of ammunition left and the heavy guns in the Atlanta defenses would be ideal for such work.
He nodded. It would be worth doing, but would probably have only limited effect. Grant was not an easily rattled man and would not be fooled into bringing any of his troops back to the north.
Grant might have moved to the south, but the main Union supply depots were still near to Atlanta, deployed along the southern bank of the Chattahoochee around the Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge, which the Yankees had rebuilt as they had occupied the area. Perhaps some sort of strike could be organized against the supply depots?
Thinking on it, Cleburne shook his head. With only five thousand men, he could scarcely spare even a single squad of troops from the defenses of the city. Even if he somehow managed to organize half his men into an attacking column, twenty-five hundred troops would stand no chance against ten thousand Yankees.
He recalled the impromptu “university” that he had established in his division’s encampment during the previous winter, just before the onset of the Atlanta campaign. He and his brigade and regimental commanders had spent several hours a day discussing military strategy and the art of war. One of the ideas he always tried to ram into the minds of his subordinates was never to do what the enemy expected, to always try to keep him guessing, and to constantly seek a way to strike at the enemy’s most vulnerable point.
The enemy’s most vulnerable point within his immediate reach, as should have been obvious, was the reconstructed Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge.
“Major Benham!”
The chief-of-staff looked over at his commander. “Sir?”
“Are you finished writing the circular yet?”
“Just about, sir.”
“Good. When you’re done, I will need you to draw up a new set of orders. We need to get the men ready for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, sir? What’s happening tomorrow?”
“I’ll tell you shortly. But first, there was a man who arrived in Atlanta some time ago. I don’t remember his name, but he delivered a letter of introduction to General Johnston and later tried to see General Hardee. Something about a time bomb.”
Benham looked confused. “A time bomb?”
“An infernal device he had invented. I forget exactly what he called it. In any case, find that letter, or comb through the city until you find the man. I want him here as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Benham said faithfully, though the sound of his voice revealed his doubts.
“Oh, and Major?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me Lieutenant McFadden.”
*****
September 28, Noon
Johnston had set up his headquarters in a small farmhouse just north of the tiny hamlet of Fairburn, about fifteen miles southwest of Atlanta. The staff officers were setting up shop, placing maps on the tables and generally getting comfortably situated.
“The cavalry says it’s good ground, sir,” Mackall was saying. “A low ridge running northwest to southeast, behind a stream called the Pontic Fork.” The cartographer was busy sketching the terrain onto a makeshift map of the area.
“The flanks?” Johnston asked.
“The right flank is covered by thickets, streams, and broken ground. Would be hard to move large numbers of troops around the edges of the ridge very quickly. The left flank is much the same, but rather more passable, they say.”
Johnston thought for just a moment, then nodded sharply. “All right. Deploy the army. Cheatham on the left and Stewart on the right. Tell Cheatham to form his line in such a way as to have his leftmost division facing north rather than northeast, if the ground allows for it.”
Mackall turned and began issuing orders. Clerks frantically copied down what he was saying, before handing the orders over to the couriers, who rapidly mounted their horses and galloped away. At the same time, the small army of staff officers rode off to ensure the proper posting of infantry brigades and artillery batteries. All became controlled chaos in Johnston’s headquarters for the next few hours.
He dictated a telegram to an aide for transmission to Richmond.
President Davis,
The Army of Tennessee is taking up a position near the town of Fairburn, southwest of Atlanta. Grant’s army is marching to meet us. The decisive battle for Atlanta is likely to be fought in this vicinity today or tomorrow. I trust that Almighty God shall grant us victory.
General Johnston
The message was brief and to the point. The President was always complaining about a reticence in his communications, but Johnston considered such pestering to be irrelevant and annoying. He told the President what the President needed to know. What else was there for him to say?
A courier arrived and handed a message to Mackall.
“Cavalry reports Union infantry a mile north of Pontic Fork,” he said simply.
“In what force?”
“At least a division.”
“There will be much more behind them. Can they identify them?”
“They say nothing about unit identification.”
“I do wish our cavalry would be more thorough in their reports,” Johnston said with irritation. His mounted troopers had been too heavily influenced by Wheeler, who had focused much more on obtaining good newspaper headlines through useless skirmishes than doing the hard but necessary work of reconnaissance.
More reports came in over the next hour. The approaching Union force was very large, with at least two infantry corps and assorted cavalry. It quickly became clear to Johnston that it was the main body of Grant’s army. It was headed directly for Fairburn, which suited his needs just fine. The more troops Grant was bringing south, the fewer there were around Atlanta. The city was safe, at least for the time being.
“Is Fleetfoot saddled up?”
“Yes, sir,” Mackall replied. “I took the liberty of getting him ready half an hour ago.”
“Good man. I would like to inspect the front line.”
Minutes later, Johnston and Mackall rode out from the farmhouse northwards, trailed by a squad of cavalrymen from the 8th Texas Cavalry. The road was now mostly cleared of infantrymen, but artillery batteries and ordnance wagons continued to clog up the route. Johnston and his coterie stayed mostly to the side of the road to prevent any unn
ecessary encumbrance.
He paid close attention to the faces of the artillerymen he passed. They seemed anxious but determined, clearly anticipating a major battle in the near future and knowing exactly what he expected of them. There might have been some fear in their faces as well, for the last time these men had faced an army under Grant had been at Missionary Ridge, when the Army of Tennessee had been shattered.
As they approached the front line, they encountered the final infantry brigades coming off the road and deploying to their positions. Finally, they reached the ridge. In a long, continuous line, Confederate infantry was arraying itself in a formidable position facing northeast toward the enemy. The men were busying themselves digging trenches, but as they passed by each regiment in turn, the soldiers stopped what they were doing long enough to give Johnston a hearty cheer.
Looking out to the northeast, there was not much to see, for the ground was heavily wooded. Men were out there with axes, hacking away at the trees in order to provide clear fields of fire, but Johnston was not sure if they had enough time to make much progress. The stream of Pontic Fork was clearly visible at certain intervals a few hundred yards in front of the ridge. This would be a benefit, as having to wade through the water would slow down any attacking Union force. Moving northwest to southeast, Johnston noted that the ground in front of the rightmost portion of his line was more heavily wooded than the rest.
Johnston pointed. “The woods here are thicker, William.”
Mackall squinted in the sunlight. “Yes, sir.”
“How large a force could be concealed there?”
Mackall thought a moment. “Perhaps a division? Maybe more?”
“I want pickets posted there. Grant might use it to conceal an advancing force.”
“I shall notify General Stewart right away, sir.”
Johnston looked at the woods for some time, lost in thought. Something about them seemed troubling, yet also promising. He filed the thought away in his mind for future reference.
Somewhere out there in the distance was the Union army. It would take several hours for it to march the remaining distance and to properly deploy for an attack. By then, the Southerners would have finished constructed rudimentary earthworks and be in a solid defensive position. Grant might attack during the evening, in the hopes of driving his men off the ridge before their defenses became too strong. But there would not be much daylight left by then and the Yankees would be tired from having marched such a great distance.
If Johnston had been facing Sherman, he would have expected no attack at all. Sherman would have simply closed up to the Confederate position and launched a few probing attacks to pin him down while seeking to maneuver around his vulnerable flanks. Grant was more likely to confront him directly, seeking to crush him in an overwhelming attack.
That was exactly what Johnston was counting on.
*****
September 28, Afternoon
“It’s a strong position, sir. But the rebels have only arrived within the last few hours. They have not had much time to entrench.”
Grant nodded to the reporting scout and glanced over at McPherson, wordlessly asking his opinion. The commander of the Army of the Tennessee looked at his pocket watch.
“It’s almost three. We could attack within the hour with plenty of daylight remaining. I would think we should try to knock them off that ridge before they have time to properly entrench. If they are still there when the sun goes down, then next morning they will be so strongly fortified that an attack would be inadvisable.”
Grant nodded. McPherson didn’t need to say what was obviously true. Having spent the last several days hurling themselves against enemy fortifications around Atlanta, the men might shrink from doing so again. Grant had seen the veterans of the Army of the Potomac hold back from energetic attacks at Petersburg after the nightmarish slaughter at Cold Harbor. It could easily happen here in much the same way. If an attack was to be mounted, it would have to be before Johnston had had time to entrench.
Grant turned to Howard, nodding for him to speak.
The commander of the Army of the Cumberland shook his head. “I don’t like it, General Grant. Even unfortified, the position on the ridge will be strong, and the rivulet running along the base of it will be an impediment. Why not pin the rebels in place with my force and send McPherson around the enemy left, which appears vulnerable?”
Grant considered this. It certainly was what Sherman would have done in Grant’s place. Howard, ever the Christian gentlemen, did not want to expend the lives of his soldiers if he could see any possible alternative. What he was suggesting could at least force Johnston to abandon his position and fall back to the southwest.
Simply forcing Johnston to retreat would be meaningless, though. So long as the Army of Tennessee remained a force-in-being outside of the city, Grant would not be able to focus on the assault on Atlanta. Even forcing Johnston to retreat a hundred miles would not matter, for so long as the rebel force remained formidable it could simply return to its previous position the moment the Union armies returned north to resume the attack on Atlanta. Grant made up his mind and pointed southwest toward the enemy position.
“It’s not about forcing them to retreat, gentlemen. We have to smash Johnston’s force. Nothing else will do. Therefore, we must attack at once. Deploy your men. Howard on the right, McPherson on the left. I want the attack to commence within the next two hours, gentlemen. By nightfall, we must have possession of that ridge. Understood?”
Both men nodded.
“Get to it, then,” Grant said simply.
The two commanders saluted and departed, kicking their horses into quick trots and being followed by their respective staffs and escorts.
It seemed a lifetime ago that Grant had led his two armies across the Chattahoochee River, though in truth it had been only a week. During that time, he had won a clear victory over the rebels at the Battle of East Point and had launched a succession of heavy attacks on Atlanta itself. For all this, he had paid the price of roughly twenty thousand casualties.
He didn’t flinch from the price in blood, which was sadly the nature of modern warfare. It was not the loss of life in itself that troubled Grant, but rather its political implications. Grant was not a politician, but he was aware that suffering such heavy casualties was a serious political blow to the Lincoln administration. Unless he could obtain a decisive victory, every Union casualty was another argument for the Northern public to vote the Lincoln administration out in the upcoming election.
Quite calmly, Grant told himself that the situation was more critical than any in which he had previously found himself. He had to defeat Johnston here at Fairburn. After Johnston was beaten and Atlanta captured, news of the twin victories would spread over the telegraph wires across the North in a matter of hours, completely transforming the political situation and hopefully ensuring the reelection of President Lincoln. The defeat of the Confederacy would then be a mere matter of time.
On the other hand, if Johnston somehow avoided defeat, it was possible that Atlanta would not fall before the election. If November came with Atlanta in rebel hands and the Army of Tennessee undefeated, Lincoln would suffer a heavy defeat at the polls. Grant didn’t need to remind himself what that would mean.
Colonel Wright, the engineering office in charge of bridge construction, rode up and saluted.
“The Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge has been rebuilt, sir.”
“Already?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You amaze me, Colonel Wright. You and your men are truly miracle workers.”
Wright shrugged, neither wanting nor needing the compliment. “It wasn’t that hard. The stone pillars of the old bridge were still in place, obviously. It was a simple matter to lay the track across.”
“Still, you are to be commended.”
“Thank you, sir. The first train should be moving across within the next hour or so. I believe Colonel Anderson is already a
rranging for the main supply depot to be transferred from Marietta to the south bank of the river.”
Grant nodded, greatly relieved. During the fighting around East Point and Atlanta, his two armies had expended a massive quantity of ammunition. Although the wagon trains using the pontoon bridges were able to keep the troops supplied, Grant did not feel entirely secure with the Chattahoochee River between him and his main ammunition reserve. As it was, he had only enough ammunition for a few days of severe fighting. Now that he was about to fight a major battle against Johnston, bringing the ammunition reserve onto the south side of the river was a matter of urgency. The rebuilding of the railroad bridge had therefore come not a moment too soon.
Grant turned Cincinnati and, without a word to the dozens of staff officers and cavalry escorts who had been silently watching him think, headed back to his headquarters. The battle was about to begin.
*****
September 28, Afternoon
Johnston had mounted Fleetfoot the moment he had heard the sound of musketry. The Union artillery had begun shelling their positions twenty minutes earlier, but the sound of infantry fighting meant that the enemy attack had begun. The shelling had been briefer and lighter than normal, which told Johnston that the Yankees had not yet been able to bring up all of their artillery. Leaving Mackall to manage things at the army headquarters, Johnston rode north toward the front lines, determined to show himself to the troops at the scene of danger.
He was not surprised that Grant was proving so aggressive. It only made sense for Grant to try to smash the Army of Tennessee before it had time to firmly entrench. As it was, his men had had time only to construct rudimentary earthworks, consisting mainly of shallow trenches and low parapets. The ground in front of the line had not yet been cleared of trees, so the enemy would have a reasonable amount of cover as they approached. Although the ridge on which the army was deployed would give the Southerners an advantage, Grant’s superior numbers were likely to make the battle a near-run thing.
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