If Clayton were recalled to reinforce the left, the situation could probably be stabilized and the Union advance brought to a halt. But Johnston would certainly have to abandon his position during the night, for his left flank was obviously shattered and the favorable terrain on the ridge compromised. He would probably have to retreat to the southeast. Having driven Johnston away, Grant might easily march back north and resume the assault on Atlanta.
Caution made perfect sense on a certain level. Still, Johnston could also see that the final outcome would be unfavorable, if not disastrous, to the cause he served. Therefore, perhaps the situation called for something other than caution. He thought for a moment of Robert E. Lee, his old friend, classmate and comrade in the Mexican War, for whom he nursed a silent but intense envy even while holding him in the highest respect. Had Lee been cautious at Second Manassas or Chancellorsville?
“Leave Clayton’s division in place,” Johnston suddenly said firmly. “McPherson will advance shortly, in support of Howard’s attack. Our plan for striking his left flank as he advances is as valid now as it was yesterday evening.”
Mackall’s eyes widened in surprise. Nevertheless, he nodded. “Very well, sir.”
“Has there been any word from Stewart’s lines?”
“The Yankees on his front are pushing forward skirmishers, but no serious attack has been mounted.”
Johnston nodded quickly. “Tell him to select a brigade and send it to Cheatham’s assistance at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnston knew he was taking a great gamble. One brigade of reinforcements would not be enough to stop the juggernaut of the Army of the Cumberland. It would help slow them down and give Cheatham’s corps time to reform its lines. If McPherson did not attack in the next few hours, however, his gamble might prove disastrous.
*****
September 29, Noon
Grant listened to the reports coming in from the division commanders of the Army of the Cumberland. The situation at the front was very confused, with units becoming intermingled and losing their sense of direction in the thick woods. Communication was proving very difficult.
Amidst the muddled reports, it was becoming increasingly clear that the Union forces were pushing forward, driving the rebels back in disarray. Large numbers of prisoners had been taken and it appeared that the rebels were having difficulty reordering their lines to meet the attack.
Grant nodded as Howard finished summarizing the latest report from the front.
“This is good news, Howard,” he said slowly. “I don’t want the boys to get too disorganized, though. If Johnston has a division in reserve and is able to launch a counter attack with our forces in such disarray, we could quickly lose all the ground we have gained. I saw it happen in the Wilderness.”
“Agreed,” Howard said simply.
“Send word to your division commanders to halt where they are and reform their lines. You also must ensure that their ammunition is replenished and that batteries are brought forward to those points where clearings in the woods make the use of artillery possible.”
“Very good, sir.”
Grant checked his pocket watch. “It is twelve thirty. I want the reorientation done within two hours. At three o’clock, the attack shall resume.”
“The rebels will use the time to bring forward reinforcements and reform their own lines,” Howard pointed out.
“I know. When your attack goes in again, McPherson shall strike the rebel right. Having struck them a heavy blow already today, we have no doubt shaken the rebel army. A swift attack on both flanks may now crush them altogether.”
Sending McPherson forward was obviously the best course of action. Grant assumed that Johnston was even then stripping units from his right to reinforce the left. A powerful attack by the Army of the Tennessee could break through the lines where they had been repulsed the day before, even if the fortifications were stronger. If McPherson could break the rebels on his front while Howard continued pushing forward on the other side of the battlefield, the rebels would be caught between two overwhelming Union forces. If things went well, the Army of Tennessee might be destroyed. At the very least, it would be driven away from Atlanta in a bloody rout, ruined as a fighting force.
Grant turned to one of his aides. “Is anything happening around Atlanta?”
“No, sir. The rebels opened fire with their artillery this morning and launched some trench raids, but nothing serious.”
Grant frowned. The two corps he had left behind to hold the siege lines around Atlanta had been those which had suffered the heaviest casualties in the recent fighting. Still, he assumed that they were sufficient to keep Cleburne’s men pinned down inside the city and prevent them from providing any aid to Johnston.
Cleburne was a wily Irishman who needed to be treated with extreme caution. However, having suffered such heavy losses in the recent fighting and with his survivors no doubt exhausted, what could Cleburne do to affect the outcome of the battle? Grant assumed that the artillery barrage and raids had been an attempt to distract Grant’s attention from Johnston. Well, he was not about to fall for such a trick. Cautious fools like McClellan might be taken in by such ploys, but not Grant. Like a bulldog, he had his teeth fixed upon Joe Johnston and he would now tear him to pieces, come hell or high water.
*****
September 29, Noon
Pearson was still unconscious but alive as McFadden and Maddox carried his stretcher northwest toward the Western and Atlantic Railroad bridge. As Maddox had anticipated, no one hindered their progress. As far as any of the Yankees could tell, the wounded man lying in the stretcher was a Union officer and the two men with him were carrying him to a hospital. No one recognized the terrible danger that had just entered their midst.
McFadden could see that Maddox had been correct in his prediction that the Union supply depots would get larger the closer they got to the river. On both sides of the railroad track, they passed by dozens of wagons parked side by side, all of them packed with crates containing war material. Some were clearly marked as ammunition wagons, while others carried foodstuffs or footgear.
Scores of artillery pieces sat together in assembly areas to either side of the railroad. McFadden found this surprising, as he would have expected all available artillery to have either gone with Grant southwards to take part in the battle against Johnston or to have been deployed against the defenses of Atlanta. In the Confederate Army, every available gun had long since been pressed into frontline service. Seeing such vast Union firepower waiting quietly in reserve demonstrated to McFadden yet again the immense material superiority of the enemy.
Union soldiers milled about, talking amiably and sharing cigars. Many were unarmed, leaning against trees a considerable distance away from their stacked arms. It was apparent that the last thing any of them expected was the appearance of the enemy.
“Plenty of good spots for our bomb,” Maddox said quietly, glancing about like a hungry man in a meat market. “If I can get it into one of those ammunition depots, hide it behind a crate or something, the whole place will go up like Mount Vesuvius.”
“But we’re carrying a wounded man,” McFadden protested. “If we set him down and start puttering around in an ammunition depot, it will look suspicious.”
“True. We might as well find a place to set him down, then go about our business.”
“A hospital, you mean.”
Maddox shrugged, indicating his utter lack of concern for Pearson’s life.
“He’s one of my men. We will leave him at a hospital. There is bound to be one nearby.”
“It would appear strange if we left him anywhere else.”
“What are you talking about?” Pearson asked weakly.
McFadden was jolted by the sound of his voice. Quickly motioning for Maddox to put the stretcher on the ground, he quickly cradled his hands behind Pearson’s head.
“We’re taking you to a Yankee hospital. You’ll be all right.
”
“Better you keep me with you.”
He shook his head. “No. If you don’t get to a doctor soon, you’ll die.”
“You need me for your disguise. If you’re not carrying my stretcher, someone will stop you sooner or later. And when they find the bomb, you’ll be shot as a spy.”
“Your man is right,” Maddox said. “The longer we continue to carry him, the longer we shall not attract the notice of the enemy.”
“I’m dead, anyway,” Pearson said. “Won’t last another hour. You know that.” As if to emphasize his words, Pearson coughed roughly, blood trickling out the corners of his mouth. “Better my death be useful.”
The sharp sound of a train’s steam whistle pierced the air. McFadden was distracted from his tormented thoughts by the noise. Had the Yankees managed to rebuild the railroad bridge since securing control of the ground northwest of Atlanta? If his memory served, the rebels had burned the bridge when they had withdrawn from the north bank of the Chattahoochee back in July, but the massive stone support pillars were still standing. The Yankee railroad engineers had progressively rebuilt the Atlantic and Western Railroad as they had slowly advanced south from Chattanooga. The capabilities of their engineers were legendary, so McFadden supposed they might have been able to build a bridge over the surviving structure and lay railroad track across it.
He felt uneasy. He looked around at the vast amounts of war material all around him, the artillery, the ammunition, the immense piles of food and fodder. All of it had been brought across the Chattahoochee by boat or pontoon bridge. If the Yankees had succeeded in rebuilding a railroad bridge over the river, they would be able to bring forward vastly greater quantities of men and material.
“Let’s carry Pearson north toward the bridge,” Maddox said. “If the Yankees have trains coming across the river, better we target it for destruction rather than an ammunition depot.”
“Sure,” McFadden said skeptically. “But fifteen pounds of gunpowder will scarcely put a dent in a bridge. Any damage that is done will probably be repaired by the Yankees in less than an hour.” McFadden stomping an ant pile to pieces when he was a child; returning twenty minutes later, he had found the ants hard at work putting it all back together.
“We’ll find a way,” Maddox said with determination.
*****
September 29, Afternoon
Leaving Mackall to direct things at the headquarters as best he could, Johnston had swiftly departed as soon as he had finished issuing the orders for the new dispositions Cheatham’s corps was to take on the left flank. Now, he was flying back to Stewart’s corps on the right flank as swiftly as Fleetfoot could carry him. He took with him only a single color bearer and a handful of couriers.
The Army of the Cumberland had stopped its advance, at least momentarily. This shouldn’t have been unexpected, but it nevertheless had taken Johnston by surprise. His worst fear was that Howard’s divisions would simply keep driving on, rolling up the entire line of the Army of Tennessee from west to east. When battle took place in such heavily wooded terrain, it was inevitable that any attacking force would find its organization in disarray after a few hours of fighting. Grant had obviously ordered a temporary halt to the attack so as to allow Howard some time to reorder his formations and resupply his men with ammunition.
The realities of fighting a battle in the midst of a pine wilderness had provided Johnston with a priceless hour of time. Cheatham was reforming his two divisions into a new line facing west rather than north, while a brigade of reinforcements from Stewart’s corps was arriving to shore up the line. Johnston had also ordered his reserve artillery batteries into the nearby clearings, from which they could lob shells into the general area through which the Yankees would now have to advance. When the Union attack resumed, he hoped his forces would be able to present a stronger resistance than they had earlier.
Johnston could see things from Grant’s perspective as well as his own. It would be obvious to Grant that Johnston would use the momentary halt to restore order to his own lines. Consequently, when the attack resumed, it would need additional support. Grant would also want to ensure that the Southerners would be unable to dispatch troops from their right to shore up their left. Because of this, Johnston was certain that the Army of the Tennessee would be sent forward in a supporting assault at the same time the Army of the Cumberland resumed its attack.
Clayton’s division, four thousand tough warriors, remained concealed in the heavy woods just northeast of Stewart’s corps. As far as Johnston could tell, the Yankees were unaware of their presence. They had made no effort to push skirmishers into the area, for they knew that the broken ground and small rivulets made it poor terrain to push through if they wanted to get around the Confederate flank. Grant’s mind was so fixed on attacking the Army of Tennessee that he had not considered the possibility that the Army of Tennessee might attack him.
Johnston reached Stewart’s headquarters. As he dismounted, several men sprang forward for the honor of holding Fleetfoot’s reins. He strode immediately into the command tent.
“Well?” Johnston asked as Stewart saluted.
“You were right, General,” the corps commander answered with a smile. “The picket line has sent back word that McPherson’s men are forming for a major attack.”
“Excellent!” Johnston exclaimed, unable to keep the delight out of his voice. He restrained himself, embarrassed at exhibiting such an emotional display in front of the men. “Clayton’s division is ready?”
Stewart nodded. “Yes, sir. His last report came in an hour ago. A few Yankee skirmishers were feeling their way into the woods, but were held back by his picket line. Nothing in the dispositions of the Army of the Tennessee leads me to believe that the Yankees are aware of his presence.”
Johnston thought quickly. He remembered the fiasco at Cassville, where a similar plan of ambush had come to nothing because Hood had pulled back the attacking force at the critical moment. Of course, Johnston had since become convinced that Hood had deliberately botched the attack, but that wasn’t important now. Hood could no longer trouble him, being far away on the other side of the Mississippi River. Clayton was an efficient and patriotic officer, the antithesis of John Bell Hood. He could be counted upon.
Still, the memory of Cassville haunted Johnston. He might rightly blame Hood, but he also could admit to himself that the ambush might have still succeeded had he provided closer supervision to the operation.
“I shall go to Clayton myself,” Johnston said.
Stewart’s eyes betrayed only a hint of surprise. “Of course, sir. I shall provide a guide to lead you directly to him.”
Five minutes later, having hurriedly discussed the position of Stewart’s corps to face the coming assault, Johnston was back in the saddle. He trotted eastward as quickly as he could, until he reached the right flank of Stewart’s line. Then, led by Stewart’s guide, he turned north into the deep forest. It took twenty frustrating minutes, but he soon arrived at Clayton’s makeshift divisional headquarters, which consisted of a mere two tents with a medium-size table set up between them.
“General Johnston!” Clayton said, snapping to attention and giving a salute. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“I hope I am not intruding?” Johnston said as he dropped out of the saddle.
“Not at all. Has there been a change in my orders?”
“No. You are to attack the enemy flank the moment his advance movement crosses your front. It is all just as we discussed last night.”
Clayton nodded sharply. With such simple orders, it would not have been unusual for a Confederate division commander to resent the presence of the army commander, especially in as touchy an outfit as the Army of Tennessee. As a grown man might resent the presence of his father at his workplace, the subordinate might assume the visit indicated a lack of confidence. Johnston hoped that this was not the case with Clayton, but could not think of any tactful or appropriate way to ask
.
There was a sudden increase in the tempo of artillery fire in the distance. Johnston’s experienced ears listened to the high-pitched ringing sound and realized the cannon being fired were Confederate. The guns he had sent to reinforce Cheatham had presumably opened up against the Army of the Cumberland. This meant either that the Union attack had been resumed or that the Southern artillerymen assumed that it was about to.
“Your men are ready?”
A mischievous grin crossed Clayton’s face. “They are ready and eager for the fight, General.” He gestured toward the woods just ahead of the command post.
Johnston looked, and saw through the trees a thick line of men, some standing and some kneeling on the ground. All gripped their muskets tightly, looking forward toward the ground over which they expected to soon advance. The hundreds of men in his field of vision were but a small part of Clayton’s division, stretched in a line half a mile long. He considered going before them to speak words of encouragement, but he knew that the appearance of the commanding general might induce the men to cheer. The sounds thus created might serve as a warning to the Yankees that they were about to be attacked.
There was another crash of artillery fire, this time much closer. Several cannon fired all at once. He heard the distinct ringing sound of Southern gunpowder as well as the lower booming sound of Yankee guns, meaning that a gigantic artillery duel was taking place. From the closeness of the fire, it could only be between Stewart’s corps and McPherson’s army. Clearly, the Yankee attack was about to happen.
Half an hour passed. A captain rode breathlessly up to Clayton’s command post.
“The Yankees are coming, sir!” he said hurriedly, trying to catch his breath. “I think every damn Yankee south of the Ohio River is on the move, heading straight for Stewart’s line.” He stiffened and saluted when he noticed General Johnston.
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