“Are any of them coming into these woods?” Clayton asked.
“Some skirmishers deployed as flankers, but the picket line is holding them back.”
“How many flankers?”
“Not many. Maybe a regiment.”
Johnston thought quickly. McPherson was a good soldier and would have tried to get some idea of whether there was any enemy presence in the woods to his left. However, if he was only sending in a regiment, at most a few hundred men, he obviously didn’t consider the matter very urgent. Clearly, he wanted to concentrate all of his strength in the assault on Stewart’s line.
“How long before the Yankee advance is bestride our battle line?”
“Less than fifteen minutes, sir.”
Johnston tried to imagine the situation from the point of view of a bird which could see through the foliage. McPherson’s army was arrayed in a battle line running from east to west, advancing southwards toward Stewart’s similarly set line. The Southerners were fortified on the ridge, but the Yankees were counting on their superior numbers to break through. This advantage had been increased by the need to send reinforcements from Stewart to Cheatham in order to shore up the shattered Confederate left flank. In any case, McPherson’s main objective was merely to pin Stewart down and prevent him from sending any further help to Cheatham. Grant was clearly intending to win the battle with a further attack by Howard against Cheatham. The Yankees did not know the position or intention of Clayton’s division, which was Johnston’s ace in the hole.
He waited. Soon, the sounds of Yankee artillery faded, which meant that their gunners assumed the infantry was getting so close to the Confederate lines that continuing to fire might risk hitting their own men. It was impossible to tell through the woods. The sound of Southern artillery fire went right on, however. The Yankees were obviously getting closer to the front line.
“Shall I move forward?” Clayton asked.
Johnston shook his head. It was not yet time. He wanted the Yankees to impact on Stewart’s line before unleashing Clayton. That would provide the added psychological shock that could throw the entire Army of the Tennessee into rout. Yet every minute that passed was another minute in which the enemy could discover the presence of Clayton’s division.
“I’ll speak to your men, if you please?” Johnston said.
“Of course, General.”
Johnston clambered back into his saddle and, taking the reins, clicked Fleetfoot into a slow walk. He passed between two companies of men and turned to face the entire line. In his field of vision, he could see a few hundred men. He was comforted to know that there were thousands more beyond the obscuration of the trees. The troops he could see were all Georgians and they gave him a single hearty cheer when they saw him. Considering the fighting going on, Johnston was not concerned any longer about the noise. The attack would go in shortly in any event.
He stood up in his stirrups and held his hat high. “Men of Georgia! The eyes of the Confederacy are upon you! The eyes of the world are upon you! Will you be wanting in courage at this moment?”
“No!” came the roaring response from hundreds of throats.
“When you go forward, I want you to give those Yankees cold steel!” Johnston yelled. “We can break the enemy army! We can break them! Here and now, we can break them! We have caught the enemy in a position where we can shatter them! With God’s help, we can drive the enemy from our soil and send these Yankees fleeing back across the Ohio River where they belong!”
The men cheered. It wasn’t merely a polite cheer such as soldiers might give a routine speech, but a cheer from the deepest recesses of their hearts. It was as if an electrical storm were breaking out in the woods around Clayton’s division. Johnston felt his face flush and breath quicken. Fleetfoot sensed the emotional commotion, neighing loudly and momentarily rearing up on his two back feet before Johnston got him back under control.
“This will be the decisive battle of the war!” Johnston roared. “On it shall depend all our hopes for independence! If we win, all of our cherished dreams may come to pass! Go forward, you men of the South! Go forward and free our nation!”
The men cheered again, louder this time. They believed him. More importantly, they trusted him. Johnston felt as though the fervor of his soldiers was infusing him with energy. Part of him wanted to recoil from it, the way a child instinctively yanks his hand away from a fire. Another part of him could not help but lustily embrace it. Johnston felt the earth falling away beneath his feet, as though something were carrying him into the sky.
He stood up in the stirrups again and waved his hat, causing the cheering to rise to a tumultuous crescendo. He kicked Fleetfoot into a quick trot and dashed back behind the lines. Nodding quickly to General Clayton, Johnston heard a series of shouted orders. Within seconds, the men of Clayton’s division stepped forward, led by their officers, the faces of the men filled with determination. Johnston rode slowly behind them, not wanting to interfere with Clayton’s command but wanting to watch the attack go in. He also issued quick orders to a courier to race to General Stewart’s headquarters and inform him that the attack had begun. He wanted to minimize the risk of Stewart’s men accidentally firing into Clayton’s division.
The troops went forward slowly at first, advancing at a walk until they had cleared the thickest part of the woods. Then the officers begin shouting orders for them to advance at the quick step. The movement forward accelerated, but Johnston still saw no Union infantry in his field of vision. The sound of musket fire crackled loudly throughout the woods, but he couldn’t be sure if this was coming from the fighting between the Yankees and Stewart’s line or if some of Clayton’s troops had made contact with the enemy immediately upon attacking. A few minutes into the attack, the woods cleared sufficiently for the officers to order their men to advance at the double quick.
Suddenly, emerging into his field of vision through the trees as though from a fog, Johnston spotted Union infantry. He couldn’t tell how large a formation it was, but they were desperately trying to turn about to face the unexpected attack of Clayton’s men. It was no use. The Confederate officers ordered their men to open fire, and a few well-delivered volleys cut the bluecoats down. The return fire was confused and light, but still accounted for some Southern soldiers falling, dead or wounded.
There was firing off to the north as well, and Johnston knew that it could only be coming from Clayton’s other brigades. Contact with the Yankees was being made all up and down the line and the Confederates were driving forward. Johnston was elated. His flank attack had caught the enemy exactly in the manner he had planned.
He had walked Fleetfoot forward, trailing two dozen yards behind the advancing infantry. There were more Yankees ahead, trying to form themselves into battle lines, and the Georgia troops were shrieking the Rebel Yell as they pitched into them. The forward momentum was clear, like an avalanche tumbling down a mountainside.
Johnston turned back and rode over to General Clayton, who was advancing on foot behind his own troops.
“You seem to have everything under control, General Clayton,” Johnston said with a smile.
“Indeed, I do, sir!”
“Good. I shall leave you now and ride to Stewart. Push the enemy as hard as you can. Do not let up for an instant.”
“We will drive them all the way to the Great Lakes if you tell us to, sir!”
Johnston saluted and kicked Fleetfoot into a trot, heading south. The guide previously provided by Stewart led him back to the corps commander’s headquarters, for he wanted to consult with Stewart as quickly as possible.
During the twenty minutes it took to ride to Stewart’s headquarters, the sound of battle to the north massively increased. Obviously, Clayton’s division was now heavily engaged and pushing the Yankees back. Johnston noted that the sound of Yankee artillery fire had sharply diminished, which meant that the batteries were either being overrun or that the Yankee gunners were repositioning to open fire on C
layton. He prayed that it was the former rather than the latter.
Johnston reined in at Stewart’s headquarters. He didn’t bother to dismount, since he wanted to be off to see General Cheatham as soon as he spoke with Stewart. The corps commander dashed out of his tent as soon as an aide told him of the commanding general’s arrival.
“Clayton has gone in!” Johnston shouted.
“Very good, sir!”
“The attack was making good progress when I departed half an hour ago. As Clayton’s division advances, it will push the Yankees away from the line of your corps. Like a broom sweeping away debris, you see? As the front of each successive brigade is cleared, you shall advance the said brigade north, wheel to the left, and advance to reinforce Clayton. You understand what I mean, General?”
Stewart’s eyes reflected fast and intense thought. He nodded sharply. “Yes, sir!”
“Good. I shall ride to Cheatham now! And make sure your artillery fire does not fall on Clayton’s men!”
The two generals exchanged salutes. Johnston jabbed Fleetfoot in the belly with his spurs, and the commander of the Army of Tennessee was off again, still trailed by his color bearer and staff officers.
*****
As they had continued northwest, the number of Union men had remained relatively constant but the number of armed soldiers had actually decreased. Well over half of the people McFadden could see were unarmed railroad engineers or other people involved in logistics in one way or another. There were still hundreds of armed Union guards scattered about, but none of them seemed particularly alert.
Still, McFadden was worried. They had not seen anything resembling a hospital for the last hour and it had occurred to him that the subterfuge of carrying a wounded man in a stretcher was becoming increasingly tenuous. If any notice were to be taken of them by an officer, or even an astute common soldier, they would be directed to the nearest place where the wounded man could receive medical treatment. If they did not go there immediately, suspicions would inevitably be aroused, their mission would fail, and he and Maddox would probably both be shot as spies.
They set the stretcher down at a spot somewhat more heavily wooded. Although there were several blue-coated soldiers within view, none of them were looking at the trio of Southerners.
“We should leave your man here and continue on without him,” Maddox said simply.
McFadden looked down at Pearson, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness but was still breathing. He still believed that the wound he had sustained was almost certainly mortal, but could not be entirely sure.
“We should go back to one of the hospitals, then.”
“No time. It’s already after four o’clock. If we’re going to accomplish our mission, we need to do it in the next few hours.”
It had not occurred to McFadden until that very moment that they would still be within the Union lines when night fell. Even if they started back for Atlanta right away, which they could not do as they had not yet placed the bomb, they would not have enough time to reach it. The sun would set in perhaps three hours and it would be impossible to navigate back to the city through the woods.
Even assuming that they successfully deployed the horological torpedo and escaped the detonation, they would have to find a place to hide during the night. Presumably the Yankees would be searching for them, but even in the rear areas of the Union army there were vast woods in which a man might conceal himself. How could they do that with Pearson on the stretcher?
“Wake up, McFadden,” Maddox said harshly. “Pearson has served his purpose in getting us this far. It’s time to leave him behind.”
McFadden glared up at Maddox but said nothing.
“There’s no help that you can give him, anyway,” Maddox said. “If anything, carting him around on the stretcher is making his death more likely. Better that he be allowed to lie somewhere still.”
McFadden did not want to abandon Pearson. He had saved McFadden’s life and, with Montgomery unaccounted for, was the last fellow survivor of the Lone Star Rifles. Although he had disliked Pearson intensely for most of the war, the idea of giving him up now seemed to McFadden like abandoning the company in which he had fought so many battles and faced death so many times. It would not just be abandoning Pearson, but turning his back on every other member of the company, the closest thing he had had to friends over the past few years. Had it not been for the men of the Lone Star Rifles, and the 7th Texas Infantry as a whole, McFadden was certain that his grief and rage would long since have pushed him over the edge into insanity.
McFadden saw Maddox watching him carefully. He noticed that the clandestine operative always kept his right hand free, which could allow him to pull his revolver out of its holster without any warning. This could simply have been a precaution against the sudden appearance of enemy soldiers, but McFadden also sensed that Maddox was just as likely to use his weapon on him.
“We have our mission, McFadden. Let’s not let Cleburne down.”
He glanced back up at Maddox, who was still looking intently down at him. For the first time, McFadden thought he detected a hint of hesitation and uncertainty in the murderer’s eyes. That reassured him.
“We’ll leave Pearson here,” McFadden said carefully. “But only on the condition that we come back and get him after we have placed your bomb. Then, we all go back to Atlanta together. Agreed?”
Maddox arched his head slightly upwards for just a moment, then nodded.
“How long does that clock on your device run before the bomb explodes?”
“About half an hour, give or take.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
They walked without a word toward the river, which was a half mile to the north. A few hundred yards off to their left were the tracks of the Western and Atlantic Railroad, which they used as their guide to lead them toward the bridge. As there were still innumerable Yankees moving about, McFadden felt more vulnerable. Guards who would not have stopped two men carrying a wounded officer were more likely to stop two soldiers moving about at random.
Maddox appeared unconcerned, grinning like a schoolboy as they continued their trek. He obviously relished the thought of the mass slaughter he was about to unleash. McFadden wished he had kept a stern expression, as his foolish smile was more likely to catch the eye of a Yankee soldier than a completely blank face.
The sound of a steam whistle broke over the land once again, much closer this time. McFadden realized that whatever train was emitting the noise had to be on the south bank of the Chattahoochee.
“Interesting,” Maddox said. “Not only have the Yankees completed laying tracks over the bridge, but they’ve already started running trains over them.”
“Perhaps we should have a look,” McFadden said, thinking aloud. “If we can plant the bomb in the locomotive, it would put a crimp in Grant’s logistics.”
Maddox snorted. “A minor one,” he said dismissively. “How many locomotives do you think the Yankees have? Scores of them. Maybe over a hundred. Wrecking just one of them won’t cause Grant more than a minute’s concern.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I think we should stick to the original plan of placing the infernal device in an ammunition depot. That would be the way to cause the most damage, I would think.”
“Perhaps the train is carrying ammunition?” McFadden said. “Didn’t you think of that?”
Maddox’s eyes narrowed. “That is a possibility.”
“If it is, and if we place the infernal device inside of it, we could wreck a Yankee train and destroy a large amount of ammunition at the same time.”
Maddox nodded. “Yes, you’re right. It’s worth looking into, at any rate.”
“Come on, then.”
They started to the west. They spent several minutes passing through an area of heavy vegetation before they emerged into an opening completely devoid of trees. Trains habitually set off a large amount of sparks as they traveled, which often caused fires
in dry brush. As a result, the state government of Georgia had mandated that the area for several hundred yards on either side of the railroad be cleared of any vegetation that might provide kindling for wildfires. It was as though they had emerged from a cave into the bright light of day.
Sitting on the tracks, with steam still rising from its engine, was a locomotive to which were attached a dozen boxcars. Some of them had their side doors open and large numbers of workmen were busy unloading crates from the cars and placing them on wagons.
Maddox pulled out a small telescope and scanned the train. “We’re in luck, McFadden. It is an ammunition train. A damn big one, too. I’d wager every one of those boxcars is full to the brim with artillery shells and crates of rifle cartridges.”
An image suddenly filled McFadden’s mind. If they placed the bomb in one of the boxcars, it would certainly cause all of the ammunition in the car to explode the moment it detonated. This massive explosion, in turn, would cause the ammunition in the adjacent cars to go off as well. A chain reaction would spread like lightning down the length of the train, setting off every single shell stored inside and utterly obliterating the train as well as the ammunition.
“Let’s go,” Maddox said, stepping forward.
McFadden followed, but his mind was still racing. “Half an hour, you said?”
“About that, yes. Why?”
McFadden stopped. He suddenly realized a way in which they could use the fifteen pounds of gunpowder inside Maddox’s infernal device not only to destroy a train and a large store of ammunition, but to inflict an incalculably more severe blow to General Grant and the Yankee army.
Maddox stopped and turned to look at him. “What is it, McFadden?”
“Don’t you see, you fool! If we place the torpedo in one of those ammunition cars, start the clock, and put the train into reverse at the right time, the infernal device will go off when the train is halfway over the bridge.”
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