He wondered what the people in Richmond were thinking. He had sent a telegram announcing the victory to President Davis, but had not yet received a response. Johnston expected that Davis would consider the Confederate victory at Fairburn a great disappointment, seeing as it was he who had won it. But the rest of the country would see it for the triumph that it was.
Through the trees, a small group of horsemen appeared several hundred yards ahead of them. The captain commanding the cavalry escort shouted a warning and the Texans readied their carbines. Johnston instinctively slowed down, allowing his escort to move ahead and create what amounted to a human shield between him and the unidentified riders.
“Friends!” a man shouted from the group. “Don’t fire!”
“Identify yourselves!” the captain of the escort cried.
“7th Alabama Cavalry!”
“We are the 8th Texas!”
Johnston looked warily down the road, wondering if it was some Yankee trick. The morning reports from his scouts had told him that the area between Fairburn and Atlanta was now empty of Union troops, as Grant was retreating to the northwest and the Northern forces around Atlanta were also pulling back. Still, it was possible that cavalry units were still present, either covering the retreat or scouting for the Confederate forces.
Bravely, the commander of the escort walked his horse forward. At any moment, Johnston expected a shot to ring out, at which point he was supposed to turn Fleetfoot around and kick her into a gallop. A few seconds later, though, having gotten close enough to make a proper observation, he turned his head back to the group with a smile on his face.
“It’s all right, General! It’s the 7th Alabama, sure enough!”
Johnston, Mackall and the escort walked their horses up. When they recognized their commander, the Alabama cavalrymen gave three cheers. The unit was, in fact, only a single company of the 7th Alabama that had been serving as an escort for General Hardee, since the rest of the regiment had gone off on Wheeler’s raid back in July and been cut to pieces. They had been ordered to scout to the southwest and make contact with the rest of the Army of Tennessee. Coming across the commanding general struck everyone as a happy coincidence and a hopeful omen.
The combined party headed northeast toward the city. As they traveled, Johnston questioned the lieutenant commanding the detachment of Alabama cavalry. He learned of the terrible fighting that had raged on the ramparts of the Atlanta defenses for several days, as well as the troubling circumstances that had led Cleburne to place Walker under arrest. The lieutenant could provide no details as to what had caused the massive explosion the day before, although camp rumor was that it had destroyed the railroad bridge over the Chattahoochee. The only thing the man knew about Hardee was that the general’s life still hung in the balance. The more Johnston heard, the more he wanted to speak with Cleburne.
An hour after making contact with the scouting party, Johnston and the rest of them emerged into the cleared area just south of Atlanta’s defenses. There, he was confronted by a horrific sight and had to momentarily restrain himself from retching. Across an impossibly large space, the ground was literally covered with the bloody remnants of what had once been Union soldiers. Confederate soldiers and many slaves with white cloths over their faces were moving about them, gathering them for burial. Johnston had never seen so many dead men in one place in his entire life.
“My God,” he said simply. He turned to look at Mackall, who also had a shocked expression on his face.
“It’s like something out of Dante’s Inferno,” the chief-of-staff added.
“They’re calling it the Blood Bucket,” the lieutenant of the 7th Alabama said.
“The redoubt, you mean?” What had once been a stout and well-built battery had been largely leveled, though the Stainless Banner of the Confederate States still waved defiantly over it.
“Yes, sir.”
“What on Earth happened here?”
“The Yankees made this battery the central focus of their attack. They launched diversionary attacks on the north and west sides of the city, but stormed this battery with everything they had. I only saw it from a distance, but it was terrible. They just kept pouring troops in like a waterfall. The fighting went on for nearly twenty-four hours. A nightmare, I tell you. But we held.”
Johnston put Fleetfoot into a walk and the escort formed up just ahead of him. They passed through one of the gaps in the defenses and emerged just south of where the streets of Atlanta began. Soon, they were moving up McDonough Street toward the Atlanta City Hall, which the helpful lieutenant had told him was the location of Cleburne’s headquarters.
As they headed north through the streets of the city, Johnston looked around in astonishment. Everywhere, houses and buildings lay punctured and shattered by Union artillery fire. He had been told by his scouts that the Yankees were shelling the city, but part of him had refused to believe it until he saw for himself. For a moment, he felt a wave of revulsion against all Northerners, for only a beastly people would wage war against defenseless women and children. He wondered how many civilians had been killed or wounded.
The streets were not empty. Men and women scurried about, baskets in their hands, trying to find food. The Union forces had departed from their siege lines and the shelling had stopped days earlier, but the need to find something for themselves and their children to eat was obviously still a matter of grave concern. The Yankees had torn up the railroads leading to the city and the trains could not run in provisions until they had been repaired.
At long last, they arrived in front of the Atlanta City Hall. Johnston and Mackall dismounted, their horses quickly taken into the care of the Texas cavalrymen. The Alabama troopers stood around uncertainly, wondering what their duties now were and waited for someone to give them orders. Johnston left them where they were and strode into the building.
Inside, he saw Cleburne talking urgently to his chief-of-staff, while various other staff officers were busy at tables spread throughout the hall, some writing orders, some placing pins into maps, and others reading reports. Off to the side, along the wall, three men were sound asleep, their snoring providing a rather comic background noise to the headquarters.
Cleburne looked up and saw Johnston enter. A warm smile filled his face and he walked forward with a spring in his step. He stopped just in front of Johnston and saluted. The staff officers rose as one and also saluted, with the exception of those sleeping against the walls, who snored on.
“General Johnston, sir! I am very glad to see you.”
Johnston returned the salute, smiling broadly. “And I, you, General Cleburne. Congratulations on a most magnificent defense of Atlanta.”
“Defending the city would have been for nothing, had you not come back north in time to save it.” Cleburne gestured for Johnston and Mackall to sit down at the table and sent a staff officer to fetch coffee.
“How are your men?” Johnston asked. “What is the overall condition of the corps?”
“We have suffered heavy casualties, sir. We were not able to get an accurate count until this morning, so disordered have our units become. But we believe that there are six thousand, five hundred men present and accounted for who are in condition to fight.”
Johnston’s eyes widened. If Cleburne’s numbers were accurate, the proud corps he had left in Atlanta when he had raced south to Alabama had been reduced to a third of its previous strength.
Cleburne went on to describe the thousands of wounded men suffering in the hospitals, the civilians desperately in need of food and shelter, and other pressing matters. Johnston had Mackall write an urgent message to Richmond, urging them not only to speed repairs on the railroad to Augusta but to rush whatever food and medical supplies were available to the city by whatever means necessary. Mackall took the message to one of the Alabama troopers still waiting outside, ordering him to ride to Fairburn with all speed, as the telegraph line from that town to Lafayette was still intact, and the messa
ge could be forwarded on from there to the capital.
“I was told that two corps of Union troops remained near Atlanta,” Johnston said. “What happened to them?”
“Yes, two corps commanded by General Palmer, or so say the prisoners we’ve taken. Yesterday, they withdrew from their positions close to the city and marched northwest a few miles. According to my scouts, they have dug in on the south bank of the river in a semi-circle, with both flanks anchored on the river itself. They number about ten thousand men.”
“Ten thousand men in two corps?” Johnston asked.
“They were badly beaten up in their assaults on the city’s defenses,” Cleburne said.
“I’ll say,” Johnston replied. A Union corps was typically fifteen thousand strong. Clearly, Grant’s two armies had dashed themselves to pieces against the ramparts of Atlanta. This explained why the fighting qualities of the Army of the Cumberland and the Army of the Tennessee had been so greatly reduced when they had gone into battle at Fairburn.
“How is General Hardee?” Johnston asked.
A look of intense concern crossed Cleburne’s face. Johnston told himself that perhaps he should have broached the subject more carefully, for he was well aware that Cleburne and Hardee were friends.
“His left leg was shattered by shrapnel during a Yankee artillery bombardment. It had to be amputated. I have visited him in the hospital when I have had the chance, but he has been slipping in and out of consciousness and has not yet fully awakened. The doctors say that he remains in danger. When I asked them point blank as to his chances of survival, they said it was fifty-fifty.”
Johnston frowned and nodded. While he did not share Cleburne’s warm friendship with Hardee, he had grown very fond of the man. Unlike Hood, Hardee had been a faithful subordinate to him since the day he had taken command of the Army of Tennessee.
“I shall pray for his recovery,” Johnston said gravely. “Moreover, I shall issue a circular order to the army suggesting that the men do the same.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How many other generals have fallen?”
“Many, I’m afraid,” Cleburne answered. “General Bate was killed in the fighting around East Point. General Gist was killed defending the southern defenses. There are several others. I shall have a report sent to you.
“Thank you. Now, if you’ll forgive another question, General Cleburne, can you tell me anything about the large explosion we all heard two days ago?”
Cleburne nodded enthusiastically and quickly told the story of James McFadden’s mission with John Maddox’s infernal device.
“McFadden?” Johnston asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, then he suddenly remembered. “Was that not the man who captured George Thomas during the Battle of Peachtree Creek?”
Cleburne nodded. “The very man. Really an extraordinary fellow, if you ask me. And he succeeded beyond all expectations. As far as we can tell, the weapon detonated on a Yankee ammunition train as it was crossing the Chattahoochee River bridge. So not only did he destroy an immense amount of Union ammunition, but he destroyed the railroad bridge as well.”
“Most impressive,” Johnston said. “We shall certainly have to arrange for this lieutenant to be promoted.”
Cleburne frowned. “Unfortunately, he has not been seen since the left the city, and that was nearly three days ago. If I had to guess, I would say that he most likely died in the explosion.”
Johnston grunted. “Well, that’s too bad. But it is an honor to die for one’s country. And now, if I may ask, what happened with General Walker?”
“I regret that I had to place Walker under arrest for gross insubordination.” Cleburne spent the next few minutes filling Johnston in on the details.
“Where is Walker now?”
“I believe he was installed in the Atlanta jail, which seemed the most convenient place.”
“Well, I am sure he will submit a request for a proper court martial. I would recommend that you and your staff record in writing your recollections of the events surrounding the incident.”
“I will, sir.”
Johnston shook his head. “I do not like this rancor between my generals,” he said simply.
“Nor I,” Cleburne replied.
Johnston almost responded by saying that Cleburne might have avoided the entire situation had he never written his proposal, but thought better of it. Such words would only exacerbate the situation. He thought the feud between Cleburne and Walker was a great shame, for it had created nothing but trouble for the Army of Tennessee.
He wondered what would happen with the issue now that Cleburne had performed so brilliantly and gallantly in defense of Atlanta. Would Davis and his cronies in Richmond still crow for Cleburne’s head or would they now allow the issue to quietly drop? What would the newspapers say when word spread that the man who wanted to free the slaves and hand them muskets had been the very man who beat back Grant’s grand assault on the Confederacy’s second most important city? Only time would tell.
Johnston knew his own mind, at least.
“General Cleburne, when matters have settled down, I shall send a message to the War Department urging them to promote you to the rank of Lieutenant General.”
“Thank you, sir.”
*****
October 1, Afternoon
Marble looked happily at the copy for the next day’s paper. The headline said it all.
GRANT DEFEATED IN GEORGIA!
RETREATING NORTH OF THE
CHATTAHOOCHEE!
The story itself would contain all the juicy details, summarizing the military events that had taken place in and around Atlanta since Grant had crossed the Chattahoochee River two weeks before. In the fighting around East Point, the assaults on Atlanta itself, and the final Battle of Fairburn, the two armies under Grant’s command had suffered roughly thirty thousand casualties. It had all been for nothing. Atlanta remained in rebel hands and Grant was pulling back to his original positions on the north side of the river.
Marble could not have been happier.
“Can you have the text focus more on the heavier casualties sustained by the regiments from Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois?” Marble asked the copy writer who was working on the story.
The man shrugged. “I suppose so, sir.”
“Do it, then.”
The man went to follow his instructions. Marble wanted the story to dwell on the heavy losses among troops from those states, for it would help turn what few remaining undecided voters there were to cast their ballots against Lincoln in the upcoming election. Not that there was much of a need for such measures now. With the Union defeat at the Battle of Fairburn and the withdrawal of Grant back across the river, there was no longer any chance of a Republican victory in November. The Democrats were surely in and the Republicans were surely out.
Still, every little bit helped. Lincoln’s credibility in New York and Pennsylvania, already weak when the year had opened, had been crippled by the huge numbers of casualties among regiments from those two states during the fighting between Lee and Grant in Virginia back in the spring. Now, the casualties suffered by units from the western states in the fighting around Atlanta would serve the same purpose.
Word of the debacle in Georgia had reached New York City that morning. Marble and the rest of the staff at the New York World had been scrambling to make the most of it in the hours since. Of course, everyone had known that desperate fighting was raging around Atlanta, with the Southern defenders inside the city holding out against the Union host led by General Grant. The arrival of Johnston and the remainder of the Army of Tennessee had added a certain dramatic flair to the story, which Marble, being a journalist, certainly appreciated.
During the past two days, Marble had slept in a cot at the office, waiting for the telegraph machine to start clicking. Like everyone else, he had been on pins and needles. If Grant had emerged victorious and Atlanta had fallen, the resultant relief and exhilaration that would sweep
the nation could well sway a sufficient number of voters to make the difference in key states like Pennsylvania and Illinois. McClellan might then still win the popular vote, but Lincoln would have had a chance at victory in the Electoral College, which was all that really mattered.
The first news to arrive had been confused and disjointed. Atlanta was still in rebel hands, but a fierce battle was being fought south of the city at the small town of Fairburn, which the New York World staff had struggled to locate in their atlas. It was obvious even to Marble, a man who knew next to nothing about warfare and military science, that whoever won the battle would emerge the victor of the campaign.
When the dust had settled and the telegraph had begun clicking again, the news was that the victory had gone to Johnston. All had been hectic chaos in the offices of the New York World since then.
Even as Marble and his underlings struggled to perfect their copy for the next day’s stories about the fiasco at Fairburn and the political situation around the North, there were other stories which were continually catching his attention. He assigned one of his other writers to put together a story on the big rebel offensive taking place in Missouri and Arkansas, which seemed likely to capture Little Rock and was even placing St. Louis itself in danger. Another writer was assigned to write up a summary of the political changes taking place in the United Kingdom, which might soon have an impact on affairs in North America.
As he reveled in his newspaper work, Marble could occasionally spare a moment to contemplate how marvelous life was. Grant had lost, which meant that Lincoln would also lose. McClellan would win, which meant that he himself now would also win. The brief fright concerning the Confederate agent and the unfortunate list of names was over, thanks to the unexpected assistance of none other than Benjamin Butler.
“Mr. Marble?” one of the errand boys meekly asked. “This came for you, sir.”
Dear Mr. Marble,
Shattered Nation Page 105
