Suddenly, Maddox pulled himself into the car, standing by the doorway. He had discarded his carpetbag and was holding his revolver in one hand. He looked winded but excited, as if he were enjoying himself.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” McFadden responded carefully. “Did you place the torpedo?”
“I shoved it between two stacks of powder bags,” Maddox said gleefully. “And I glanced into lots of the other cars. All of them are packed with gunpowder and artillery shells. When the torpedo goes off, the whole train is going to be blown to kingdom come.”
“Good.”
“Well, then, start the train and let’s get the hell out of here.”
McFadden threw the lever and released the brake, just as the Northern engineer had told him to do. With a jolt, the train began to move. Very slowly at first, and then with ever-increasing speed, the engine chugged and pushed the cars toward the bridge over the Chattahoochee.
The sound of gunfire suddenly filled the air. McFadden saw two tiny explosions of red near both of Maddox’s shoulders. With a cry of pain, he tumbled forward onto the floor of the locomotive. McFadden, with every fiber of his being telling him to escape the train, dashed across for the door on the other side.
“McFadden!” Maddox cried. “Help me!”
He thought of the Texas and Kentucky soldiers that Maddox had dispatched as bait, Maddox’s callousness with Private Pearson, and Maddox’s sheer glee in causing death and mayhem. For just a moment, McFadden thought he saw the visage of Cheeky Joe on the man lying on the floor.
“Help yourself, you murdering bastard.”
The train was now moving at a fair clip and continuing to accelerate. Moving to the edge of the doorway, McFadden hesitated only a split second before hurling himself off of the locomotive. He landed roughly, rolling away from the tracks under no willful control of his own. His heart pounded and every survival instinct inside his brain was screaming for him to flee. Despite the punishing landing, despite the pain of his abdomen wound, he stood up quickly and began running down the track away from the train with every ounce of speed his brutalized body could muster, for he suddenly so wanted to live.
*****
Cleburne stood quietly, leaning against the ramparts on the southwestern corner of the Atlanta defenses. He was frustrated at the lack of information and activity. The sounds of battle off to the southwest were clearly audible and he was tormented by the thought that most of the Army of Tennessee was even then fighting for its life against Grant while he and his men were powerless to intervene.
He had done all that he could, of course. He had used Atlanta’s heavy siege guns in sporadic artillery bombardments of enemy positions, while deploying sharpshooters with Whitworth rifles to pick off any Union officers they could spot. A few trench raids had also been mounted, but with so few troops remaining fit for duty these operations were little more than pinpricks.
Cleburne was doubtful if a single regiment of Union troops had been diverted from the south back toward Atlanta on account of his attempts at creating a diversion. He was only slightly comforted by the knowledge that he was attempting to do his duty to the best of his ability and with every available resource he had.
He had sent out scouts at first light, but only two had returned. They both reported a large battle taking place just north of the town of Fairburn. Neither of them had made contact with friendly forces and both had had to scurry back to Atlanta in order to avoid being caught by Yankee patrols.
Cleburne fumed at the lack of cavalry. Had he had even a company of reliable mounted troops, a serious effort at reconnaissance to the south might have been made. Yankee prisoners might have been captured and interrogated, giving a clearer picture of the overall situation. As it was, all Cleburne had was the short note Johnston had dispatched nearly two days before, urging him to hold the city at all costs. Cleburne scoffed. It was almost an insult to suggest he would have done anything less.
These musings were slowly drifting through Cleburne’s mind when they were abruptly interrupted by a bright flash on the horizon off toward the northwest. Instinctively, his eyes turned in that direction. In the far distance, he could see the red glare of what looked like rockets rising into the sky and dark and fiery clouds spiraling away like bizarre tendrils. Moments later, the sound of a titanic explosion punched his eardrums and the ground beneath his feet shook.
Several nearby Confederate infantrymen cried out in alarm. Others quietly snatched up their weapons in case this unexpected noise presaged some sort of Yankee attack. Cleburne quickly pulled his field telescope out of its case and focused on the area where the explosion had taken place. It was impossible to make out any detail on account of the dense woods, but a massive cloud of dark smoke was rising, slowly morphing into the shape of an enormous mushroom. His dead reckoning of the distance placed the plumes of smoke roughly by the railroad bridge over the Chattahoochee River.
The echo of the mighty explosion rolled over the city of Atlanta like a wave over a beach. As it faded and his hearing recovered, Cleburne could hear a sound of continuous rattling, like that of prolonged musketry. It sounded as though a battle were raging near the river, but of course that was impossible.
Major Benham came running up.
“General Cleburne! What the hell was that?”
“If you could tell me, Major, I should be much obliged to you.” He passed the field telescope over to his chief-of-staff.
Benham scanned the area. “Looks like it came from the river. Perhaps a train exploded in some sort of dreadful accident.”
“But that was the most deafening explosion I have ever heard,” Cleburne said in wonder. “It was something much bigger than a train. I would assume that an ammunition depot went up.”
Benham shrugged. “Well, if an accident like that is going to happen, better it happen to the Yankees than to us. Think of how much damage would have been done to Atlanta if our ammunition depot went up.”
“McFadden?” Cleburne said under his breath, talking more to himself than Benham. Could the Texas lieutenant and his small force have somehow been responsible for the blast? Had the infernal device made by that unpleasant Scottish fellow have done its job better than anyone had expected?
“Might have been McFadden, sir. Maybe he used that infernal device to blow up some Yankee ammunition. That was the idea, right?”
“Stand the men to,” Cleburne said. “Tell the division commanders to be prepared for an attack. And they are to report anything unusual in front of their lines, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”
“Yes, sir,” Benham said. He paused a moment before continuing. “I wouldn’t have thought an explosion within the Union lines would be a cause for concern.”
“It probably isn’t,” Cleburne admitted. “But I do not believe in leaving anything to chance.”
Benham nodded, passed the telescope back to his commander, and departed to carry out his orders. Cleburne again scanned the area of the explosion. Black smoke continued to bellow up from the ground in a thick and sinister-looking pillar. The steady sound of popping continued to flow over the city, which Cleburne assumed were secondary explosions of artillery shells and cases of rifle ammunition. It was becoming increasingly clear that an enormous amount of ammunition had been blown up.
Cleburne had honestly not given McFadden’s clandestine raid much of a chance of success. In truth, he had probably not given the matter more than five minutes thought since he had sent McFadden on his way, for there were so many other things vying for his attention. Cleburne felt guilty about this, for McFadden was obviously a special officer and someone he should keep an eye on.
He wondered what chance McFadden actually had of returning, to say nothing of the dozen or so men he had taken with him. Infiltrating the enemy lines while wearing Yankee uniforms made a certain amount of sense, but it would mean that the men would be executed as spies were they to be captured. Assuming that everything had gone perfectly and th
e torpedo had been used to destroy some valuable target, every Union commander throughout the area was even now issuing orders to hunt down and capture whatever rebel operative had been responsible. Cleburne told himself that McFadden’s chances of survival were slim.
Cleburne wondered if there was anything he could do to help McFadden. He decided that, upon Benham’s return, he would issue additional orders to the men commanding the various sectors of the Atlanta defenses. The artillery batteries were to commence another round of bombardments, while a force of a few hundred troops would be massed on the western side of the defenses and make a demonstration toward the Union lines. Perhaps this would frighten the Yankees into thinking that the destruction of their ammunition was the signal for a major sortie out of the city and cause them to reinforce the front lines. Every Union infantryman diverted to guard against such a phantom threat would be one less soldier looking for McFadden and his men.
Benham returned and Cleburne dictated to him the necessary orders. He rushed off again. After that, the only thing Cleburne could do was wait.
*****
September 29, Night
Illuminated by the light of torches held by members of the cavalry escort, Grant’s normally expressionless face wore a heavy mask of disappointment as he rode Cincinnati slowly northward. The fighting had sputtered out less than an hour earlier due to the encroaching darkness and the mutual exhaustion of both armies. It had become increasingly clear that the Union forces had suffered a heavy defeat.
Johnston’s flank attack had caught the Army of the Tennessee completely by surprise. The division which had borne the brunt of the assault had simply disintegrated, its men fleeing to every point of the compass between due west and due north, having more than a thousand men taken prisoner by the rebels. Although McPherson had done his best and been in the thick of the fight, he had not been able to restore order until his men had been driven several miles to the northwest. Heavy casualties had been incurred, a considerable amount of artillery had been captured, and the Army of the Tennessee had been decisively knocked out of the battle.
As the extent of the disaster had become known, Grant had temporarily hoped that the Army of the Cumberland, on the other side of the battlefield, might turn the tide with a renewed push against the rebels. However, that attack had been sharply repulsed by the rebel corps, which prisoners had identified as belonging to Cheatham. During the morning, a flank attack against a surprised enemy had yielded a temporary advantage, but the afternoon frontal assault against a ready and waiting foe had earned nothing but dead and wounded men.
The Battle of Fairburn was over. Grant and the Union army had lost.
From a tactical perspective, the defeat was not as serious as the disaster at Peachtree Creek. The Union army, now deployed mostly in a line running northeast to southwest with its back to the Chattahoochee River, had mostly retained its organization and was still capable of fighting, despite losing eleven thousand men over two days. But there was no denying that they had been bested by a considerably weaker opponent. Johnston’s rebel troops had fought like lions. All the skill and determination of Grant’s own men had been for nothing.
“General Grant!” Howard’s voice called.
The commander of the Army of the Cumberland materialized out of the darkness and into the illumination of the torches. Though tired, he still seemed energetic and his eyes were hungry for information.
“McPherson is routed,” Grant said laconically. He briefly explained what had befallen the Army of the Tennessee, then described his intentions. “We must pull back to the ferries at Campbellton and Sandtown and then withdraw to the north side of the river. Your men will dig in south of the ferries. McPherson will begin crossing tomorrow and you will go after he has finished.”
A look of surprise crossed Howard’s face. “My men may have been repulsed, sir. But they are still capable of fighting.”
Grant shook his head. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea of retreating, but he saw no other choice. “Did you hear the explosion a few hours ago?” he asked Howard.
“I did. The whole army did, I expect. What was it?”
“It was most of our ammunition reserve going up in smoke.”
Like tens of thousands of other soldiers in and around Fairburn, Grant had distinctly heard the cataclysmic explosion hours earlier and wondered what it was. His first thought was that the forces he had left outside of Atlanta had somehow become engaged in battle with Cleburne’s men. The field telegraph soon brought news of a much more ominous development.
As he explained to Howard, dozens of railroad boxcars had been destroyed in the explosion, which had reportedly been caused by rebel sabotage. Survivors who had been near the train before it had gone up reported gunfire and shouting as unidentified men had sought to seize control of the locomotive. Each boxcar had been loaded with artillery powder charges and shells, crates of rifle ammunition, and various other explosive supplies. A large portion of his ammunition had been destroyed in the blink of an eye, including most of what he had intended to bring down to Fairburn the very next day.
Making the disaster even worse was the fact that the railroad bridge over the Chattahoochee, which had been rebuilt only with great difficulty and effort, had been utterly destroyed. Even the stone pillars had been knocked to pieces, making immediate reconstruction impossible. Two of the nearby pontoon bridges had also been smashed to splinters by the blast’s shock wave and the cascade of debris which had rained down upon them.
“Can we not replace the ammunition from our depots at Allatoona and Chattanooga?” Howard asked, incredulous. “Surely more can be sent from our logistical hubs at Nashville and Louisville.”
“We could, but not for several days. The loss of the bridges will involve more delay. As it is, here at Fairburn we have only enough ammunition for one more day of heavy combat, if we’re lucky.”
Howard slowly nodded, understanding the point Grant was making. If they did remain and fight and the result was anything less than a crushing victory, both the Army of the Cumberland and the Army of the Tennessee would be at Johnston’s mercy. Without ammunition, an army could not fight. If they remained south of the river, they risked having every soldier in both of their armies becoming rebel prisoners.
“We will withdraw,” Grant said. “You will secure your wounded and your artillery and begin pulling back to the northwest, toward the river. Those too badly wounded to be moved will have to be left behind. Dig in a mile southwest of the river. You will remain in position tomorrow to allow the Army of the Tennessee to cross to the north bank first, then commence your own crossing during the night.”
“And after we cross back to the north bank of the river?” Howard asked. “What then?”
Grant thought that this was an excellent question, but one for which he did not have an immediate answer. Obviously, there was nothing now to prevent Johnston from linking up with the rebel forces inside Atlanta, which would place the two weak corps he had left outside the city in grave danger. He intended to send orders to General John Palmer, who commanded the troops nearest the city, to pull back from his present lines and fortify himself in a strong position just northwest of the city, rebuilding the destroyed pontoon bridges as quickly as possible.
“General Grant?” Howard asked.
“I’m sorry,” Grant said, suddenly reminded that he had not answered Howard’s earlier question. “Once we’re on the north bank of the river, we shall march back to our former camps around Smyrna and Marietta, there to rest and resupply the men.”
That was the logical course of action, but his mind offered him no suggestions for what he might do after that. The men of all three armies were exhausted, casualties had been enormous, much of the ammunition had either been expended in battle or destroyed, and everyone from the highest-ranking general to the lowliest private was utterly demoralized.
His forces under his command were in a pitiful state and it would take some time to restore th
em to anything resembling fighting readiness. Weeks, at least. Perhaps over a month. The Union cause did not have that much time.
For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he simply crossed the river with his most reliable troops and launched a final frontal assault on its defenses. But such an effort had failed when only Cleburne’s men held the defenses. Now the entire Army of Tennessee, reunited under their beloved commander, would be manning the ramparts. Any such attack would be suicidal. Indeed, Grant would not have been surprised if many of the regiments would erupt in mutiny and refuse to fight if given such orders.
What else could he do? The weak and muddled state of his forces precluded any effort to launch a campaign of maneuver against the Atlanta railroads. Even if it didn’t, the coming of winter would soon bring active campaigning to an end. His forces were far too weak to commence a regular siege against Atlanta and there was no time for such an operation to be successful anyway.
The more Grant thought about it, the more obvious the truth became. Johnston and Cleburne had won. He had lost. Because of that, the Union was going to lose the war.
It was over.
Chapter Twenty One
September 30, Morning
Lincoln was beginning his morning by sipping on a cup of coffee and reading a letter from Minister Charles Adams, his chief diplomat in London. It had arrived the previous evening, having been dispatched from England eleven days earlier. The letter from Adams contained the latest accounts of what was happening in Parliament, as well as rumors of a new rebel commerce raider which was thought to be near completion in a British dockyard.
The threat of another Southern commerce raider roaming the high seas was not to Lincoln’s liking. The destruction which had been wrought by other rebel cruisers, especially the CSS Alabama before it had been sunk back in June, had cost the Northern economy millions of dollars and diverted naval resources which would otherwise have been devoted to the blockade. He scribbled a note in the margin of Adams’s letter indicating that it should be sent to the Navy Department at once.
Shattered Nation Page 103
