Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  The sound of the firing was coming from the right of the line, where Stewart’s corps was deployed. He considered this as he rode in that direction. It made sense for Grant to concentrate on his right flank. In the event that his right collapsed, the army would likely be forced to retreat toward the west, pushing it farther away from Atlanta. The left, with its flank refused, was more difficult for the Yankees to approach. Still, Johnston knew that his left would soon come under attack as well, if only to prevent him from shifting troops to the right.

  As he came closer, it became clear that the attack was falling most heavily on Loring’s division. This gave Johnston some comfort, as Loring had fought well during the Battle of Peachtree Creek and the men of his division, a mix of Alabamians and Mississippians, were tough fighters. Johnston was certain that the attacking Yankees were about to receive a nasty surprise.

  The roar of battle grew louder the closer to the front lines he approached. He sensed the hesitation in the trailing staff officers and cavalrymen, but he himself felt no fear. He had been wounded so many times in battles against the Seminoles, the Mexicans, and the Yankees that battle no longer held any terror for him. If he was going to die, he was going to die.

  The line came into view. Loring’s men appeared to be holding their position without too much trouble, for Johnston could see the men still arrayed in well-ordered lines in their shallow trenches, loading and firing calmly and quickly. Several of his men had fallen, killed or wounded, but the line seemed to be holding firm. In front of the line amidst the trees, Johnston could just make out through the smoke a line of Union troops pouring fire toward his men.

  After a few minutes of searching, he located General Loring and rode up beside him.

  “How’s it going, General?”

  Loring saluted quickly. “Fine, sir. The attack started about half an hour ago, but the Yankees aren’t pushing very hard.”

  Johnston glanced back out over the field, ignoring a few bullets that zipped by close enough to hear. He saw immediately that Loring was correct. The Yankees had halted about a hundred yards away, almost at the edge of his vision. There were no fallen bodies of enemy soldiers closer than that. He could see Union officers walking back and forth just behind the line, shouting and exhorting to their men. However, the bluecoats were making no effort to close the distance. They huddled behind trees or large rocks, reloading and blazing away at the Confederate line.

  In a flash, Johnston knew what was happening, for he had seen it before. There was only so much that a soldier, even a hardened veteran, could stand. The officers might urge the men to charge, but the minds of the soldiers simply could not bring themselves to order their legs to move them forward into the hail of enemy fire. Because they had some cover behind the numerous trees, the Yankee soldiers could remain where they were and fire at the Confederates with some measure of safety. That being the case, they would not charge.

  Johnston thought quickly. Grant’s men had spent the last few days launching attacks against the immensely strong fortifications around Atlanta. As these were held by some of the toughest soldiers in the Confederate Army, the Union troops were certain to have suffered heavy casualties and to have been extremely shaken by the experience. Their nerves were likely to be unsteady. With a sudden feeling of elation, Johnston realized that the damaged morale of the Union troops might offset their numerical superiority. If so, the Army of Tennessee had a good chance of victory.

  Johnston remained mounted on Fleetfoot fifty yards or so behind the line, walking the horse slowly between the trees and ignoring the bullets that occasionally zipped by his head. Loring’s men loaded and fired methodically, not rushing and trying to save their strength. The atmosphere was one of calmness amidst the noise and chaos, for these men knew they were holding their position without much difficulty.

  After half an hour, the Union officers on the other side of the line recognized that the attack was not going to ever get moving and withdrew their men out of range. In the distance through the trees, they could be seen reforming their lines and sending wounded men to the rear. Over the heads of the bluecoats, artillery shells began screaming through the air and impacting the Southern lines, causing Loring’s men to lie prone on the ground for better protection. It was clear to Johnston that the Yankees would soon try again.

  “I assume you can handle things here, General Loring?”

  “Yes, sir. If the Yankees attack again, we’ll give them the same treatment.”

  “I will support you with whatever I can if you find yourself in difficulties.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Johnston and Loring exchanged salutes and the army commander was off. For the next hour, he rode along the length of the line, meeting with other division commanders, as well as with General Stewart and General Cheatham. Everywhere, the story was the same. The Yankees were attacking all along the line, but few of the attacks seemed especially threatening. General Cheatham reported that the enemy had broken General Clayton’s line at one point, but a counter attack by his reserve brigade had easily sealed the breach. In most places, the Yankees had not come within a hundred yards of the line. The battle had essentially been a repeat of Kennesaw Mountain.

  Satisfied, Johnston rode back to his headquarters. The fact that he had received no message from Mackall during his excursion to the front line told him that there were no pressing emergencies that required his attention. A glance at the sun told him that a perhaps two hours of daylight yet remained, which meant that Grant might well try again before nightfall. Having repulsed the first attack, Johnston felt confident of repulsing the second.

  It was at that moment that Johnston realized what he had to do.

  *****

  September 28, Afternoon

  McFadden tried to bite through another piece of hardtack but found that, like the one he had had for lunch, it was as hard as granite. He wondered where the commissary got the things, for they were almost impossible to eat. As he had done before, he dropped the large cracker into his tin of water and waited for it to soften.

  Around him, perhaps a hundred and fifty men of what had been Granbury’s Texas Brigade bivouacked under some trees not far from Atlanta City Hall. Cleburne had pulled the men out of the line after their ordeal in the Blood Bucket. As it had turned out, McFadden was one of three surviving officers of the entire brigade, one being a captain from the 10th Texas Infantry and the other a lieutenant from the 24th Texas Dismounted Cavalry. Every single regimental commander had been killed or wounded, as had the considerable majority of the enlisted men. General Granbury himself had survived and was now commanding the remnants of both Cleburne’s division and Bate’s division.

  As they had come in, most of the Texas survivors of the Blood Bucket had promptly laid down beneath the shade of the trees and fallen dead asleep. Rations had been distributed and, for the first time in many days, the Texans would have something to eat when they woke up.

  Without the nervous anxiety caused by stress and combat, McFadden was feeling the physical agony that the last several days had inflicted upon his body. Although it had slowly faded over the course of the day, his head still ached from the blow of the Union infantryman’s rifle butt. The torso wound he had received in the Battle of East Point, minor though it was, still caused him a good deal of discomfort. More than anything else, though, he was simply tired. As soon as he finished eating, he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.

  He knew sleep would not come easily. He tried to distract himself by focusing his thoughts on the needs of his men, but he could not push the image of Annie Turnbow’s incinerated body from his mind.

  There was a different tinge to the way he fought now. He had assumed that, with Annie now dead, his feelings would quickly return to their former state and he would again enjoy killing. If anything he should enjoy it more, as the death of Annie and her parents had been caused directly by the enemy.

  Yet he didn’t enjoy it. He now saw it only as his duty. He
killed Yankees, but it was now more out of loyalty to his men and to General Cleburne than anything else. When he realized that war had turned him into a killing machine, a being of which neither Annie nor his family would not have been proud, he hated the war itself far more than he hated the Yankees.

  “Ah, there you are, McFadden.”

  The man looking down at him was only a darkened silhouette, for he stood directly between McFadden and the setting sun. His murky form set against the yellow glare of sunlight seemed to present a sinister picture, but the voice was friendly. McFadden struggled to recognize it.

  “Major Benham?” he finally guessed. He had met Cleburne’s chief-of-staff a few times previously.

  “Indeed. If you would please come with me, Lieutenant, I would be most obliged. General Cleburne wishes to speak with you.”

  “With me? What for?”

  “Come and find out.”

  Benham turned and began walking toward City Hall. McFadden reluctantly rose to follow. While his loyalty to Cleburne had always been without question, and he had been honored by the recent interest the commander had taken in him, McFadden at the moment wanted to do nothing except go to sleep. He found Benham’s sudden summons annoying.

  Minutes later, McFadden followed Benham through the front door of the building. The interior was strangely subdued. Some staff officers were quietly laboring at the map-strewn tables, writing orders or reports, although McFadden could see several lying asleep on blankets near the walls. He envied the sleepers very much.

  “Ah, McFadden,” Cleburne said, gesturing him over to one of the tables. A man Cleburne didn’t recognize stood by his side, while a strange-looking device lay on the table itself. “How are you?”

  “Tired, sir.”

  “I can imagine. How is the Texas Brigade?”

  “Virtually gone, sir,” McFadden replied, not wanting to sugarcoat it. “Less than two hundred men left.”

  Cleburne nodded sadly, clearly having expected the answer. “Same is true in many other brigades. Finley’s Floridians. Lewis’s Kentuckians. The entire corps has been bled white.”

  McFadden, not really knowing what to say in response, merely nodded. He was very tired and hoped that this interview would not last long.

  “McFadden, this man is John Maddox. He has come to us from the East, where he has been serving as a clandestine operative.”

  He nodded toward the man and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” the man responded in a thick Scottish drawl. “Nice to encounter a fellow Scotsman.”

  “Likewise,” McFadden said, though he didn’t really care.

  “Mr. Maddox has brought to Atlanta an infernal device of his own invention,” Cleburne said.

  “I call it my horological torpedo,” Maddox said proudly. He gestured to the object on the table, which consisted of a large glass jar filled with powder and was topped by a clock with two cylinders on each side. “It is a bomb packed with fifteen pounds of concentrated gunpowder. It is designed to explode thirty minutes after this timing device is started.” He patted the clock.

  “Interesting,” McFadden said, wondering what all of this had to do with him.

  “Mr. Maddox here succeeded in planting one of his devices on a Union supply ship at City Point in Virginia,” Cleburne said. “As the ship was packed with ammunition, it was blown to pieces, destroying much of the dock and causing great damage to the surrounding area as well.”

  McFadden nodded. “I believe I read about the incident in the newspapers.”

  “So, you know a bit about my handiwork, eh? I only wish more people knew that it was my doing. Apparently, the Yankees suspect it may have been some sort of accidental explosion.” He smiled and shook his head. “You should have seen it. It was a thing of beauty.”

  McFadden found the smile on Maddox’s face distasteful. He wondered how many of those killed by the agent’s bomb had been innocent dock hands rather than armed soldiers. Many of the fatalities were likely to have been freed slaves. The idea of killing people from a distance with explosives seemed somehow dishonorable.

  “If I may ask, sir, what does all of this have to do with me?”

  Cleburne nodded. “I want you and a small group of men from the Texas Brigade to lead Mr. Maddox toward the Union supply depot on the south bank of the Chattahoochee by the Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge, find a suitable place to plant this bomb, and inflict whatever damage you can.”

  McFadden took a deep breath. Aside from his own incursion into the Union camps to find Cheeky Joe, he had never been involved in a clandestine operation of this sort.

  “Why me, sir? I could do with some rest, I don’t mind saying.”

  “You penetrated the Union lines before. Your Scottish accent will help disguise the fact that you are a Confederate. Besides which, you are a reliable, quick-thinking fellow. Just the sort of person for this kind of work.”

  “I would have thought you had other men for such a mission. Partisan rangers and such.”

  “Oh, we did. But most of them are dead.”

  McFadden pursed his lips in frustration. He had no desire to undertake what could well be a suicide mission, but he knew he couldn’t say no to Cleburne.

  “I won’t order you to go, McFadden,” Cleburne said with a sincerity that was clearly genuine. “But I very much want you to.”

  “I will go,” McFadden said simply. He wondered if he had just signed his own death sentence.

  *****

  September 28, Evening

  “It’s no use,” McPherson said firmly. “The men are just not up to it.”

  Grant could see the truth of what his subordinate was saying. The regiments within their field of view looked utterly exhausted. Many men, with no wounds evident, sat silently with their backs resting upon trees, having fallen into a deep sleep. The bluecoats of his two armies were approaching the limits of human endurance.

  A rare expression of irritation crossed Grant’s face. The attacks had been launched on schedule all along the line, but nowhere had they been pressed with much vigor or energy. A momentary break on the enemy’s left had briefly raised his hopes, but somehow the orders for the reinforcing brigade to exploit the breach had gone awry and the men of the advance division had been unable to hold their gains.

  Grant sighed in exasperation. “How many men have you lost?”

  “Not sure,” McPherson replied. “Reports from my division commanders are still coming in. But I would guess about fifteen hundred.”

  Grant assumed that the same would be true for the Army of the Cumberland, though he’d have to wait for a solid confirmation from Howard to be certain. If so, the three hours of fighting had brought losses of three thousand men and gained no advantage. The Southerners had suffered comparatively light casualties. While it had not been a defeat on the scale of the slaughter at Cold Harbor, it had certainly been a frustrating setback.

  “Do you wish me to prepare another attack, sir?” McPherson asked. By his tone, it was clear that he hoped the answer would be in the negative.

  Grant glanced upwards through the trees to see the sun. “Only about an hour of daylight left. Probably not enough time for another attack.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” McPherson said with relief. Even if they could get another attack together and seize a portion of the rebel-held ridge, the approaching darkness would make it almost impossible for reinforcements to find their way to the breakthrough, allowing the enemy sufficient time to organize and mount a counter attack.

  “No more attacks today,” Grant finally said. “Let the men be. They’ve been marching and fighting all day. See to the distribution of rations and pull the men back from the rebel line. I want them to have some rest. Tomorrow, after all, will see more bloody work.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grant admitted. “The rebel position will become much stronger during the night, so another frontal attack is inadvisable. Better to try
to smash one of the enemy flanks.”

  “Their right seems difficult to approach,” McPherson offered. “The ground is very bad and broken there. Our brigades would have difficulty remaining in formation if they moved in that direction.”

  “The enemy left flank is more vulnerable, or so Howard says at any rate.” Grant thought for a few moments. “Perhaps the best course of action would be to mount a attack with one corps on Johnston’s right while using the other three to smash his left. Considering our greater numbers, such an attack would have a good chance of success, providing that our boys have a decent rest during the night and some food in their bellies.”

  McPherson nodded. “Probably the best course of action available to us. But perhaps we might wait for additional reinforcements?”

  Grant shook his head. “No, we must smash this army of Johnston’s without delay, then hurry back north to take Atlanta. We have no time to lose. The election is barely a month away. If we don’t win a victory here, within the next day or so, our cause may be lost.”

  McPherson looked at Grant in some confusion. While the upcoming election was on the minds of every general officer in the army, who supported Lincoln almost to a man, it was unusual for Grant to speak about it so openly. Somehow, correlating military operations with politics seemed inappropriate, perhaps even sordid. Grant knew better. To speak of them at the same time was simply a concession to reality.

  “I will pull my boys back, then,” McPherson said. “I’ll have them dig shallow earthworks in the event that Johnston decides to attack, but I’ll not keep them at it for an unreasonable amount of time. As you say, they need their rest.”

  Grant nodded. “Be at my headquarters at ten o’clock. We’ll go over tomorrow’s plans then.”