Also in the chief engineer’s portfolio was general oversight of the various pioneer details. These were construction gangs dedicated to road improvements, clearing bridge approaches, and camp preparations. Each corps was responsible for its own pioneer force (which by the end of the campaign would include a large number of blacks), but Poe represented Sherman’s quality control. There was also an amount of scouting undertaken by engineer officers, and when the need arose to destroy some substantial structure or machinery, Poe could expect the call.
“I would be lost without him,” Sherman later said of his chief of engineers.
There was one critically important piece in the mosaic of Sherman’s planning that he could not control, though, characteristically, he thought he could—the weather. The prospect of heavy rains was Sherman’s nightmare, for it would mire his columns as effectively as a major enemy effort. Yet accurate forecasting was much more a folk art in 1864 than a codified science. The concept that weather wasn’t a purely local phenomenon but the product of a dynamic process whose origins could lie many hundreds of miles distant was only beginning to take hold. America’s great generic genius Benjamin Franklin had grasped this on an intuitive level, but until it was possible to record simultaneous weather observations from stations located across the country, it remained an unproven inspired hunch. Telegraphic communication made such a reporting network technically possible, and a scientist at Washington’s Smithsonian Institution named Joseph Henry was taking the first steps in that direction before the war. Henry’s efforts halted abruptly when the military commandeered the whole communication infrastructure for its use.
Most of Georgia’s weather in November and December was generated by systems spawned in the Colorado region, where cold Canadian air tumbled in with warmer Gulf air in a natural spin cycle. A whirling mass acquires motion with steering largely provided by strong upper-atmosphere wind currents that would remain unknown until the mid-twentieth century, when they would be named after a technology of that era—the jet stream. The irony was that had the knowledge base been there, the network of wires was in place for the military to have provided officers like Sherman with weather reporting information that could have aided their prognostications.
Lacking such a knowledge base, Sherman was left to his own understanding as he pondered the all-important question of when to set off. Politics played a part by dictating that he wait until after the election, but how long after? Some nineteen years into the future, one of Sherman’s division commanders in the upcoming campaign, Brigadier General William B. Hazen, would oversee the government’s publication of a national anthology of weather proverbs. In the book’s preface, Lieutenant H. H. C. Dunwoody, widely recognized for his forecasting acumen, had praise for the folk wisdoms, provided they were looking only a short time ahead (“A mackerel sky, Not twenty-four hours dry”), but pure disdain for those predicting several days or weeks in advance. Yet it was upon one such augury that Sherman now timed the beginning of his march.
Sherman shared this meteorological insight with his military secretary, Major Henry M. Hitchcock, who told his wife about it in a November 10 letter. “The rains seem to have ended,—last night’s storm winding up with a bracing wind from the N.W., and this morning being bright and beautiful,” Hitchcock reported. “We hope this means just what the General has been desiring,—that the fall rains should come altogether, early in November, and give us fine weather for some weeks, which is what we want now.” Sherman had already made this clear to his subcommanders on November 8, when he informed them: “This is the rain I have been waiting for and as soon as it is over we will be off.” That same day he told the secretary of war that it “is now raining, which is favorable as the chances are, after it clears away, we will have a long spell of fine weather for marching.”
He was blissfully unaware that hundreds of miles to the northwest the elements were beginning to mix and would soon organize themselves into the first of several rain-producing storms, while well overhead the prevailing steering winds were solidly in place to set the storms on a course directly across Sherman’s route.
CHAPTER 5
“Paradise of Fools”
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1864
The last “up” trains departed today from Atlanta to Chattanooga. Everything that had been deemed unnecessary for the coming operation had been shipped out: camp supplies, animals, people. “It would astonish you to see what the government is doing here in the way of rail roading,” a Michigan soldier in Cartersville wrote his siblings. “As many as seventy-five or a hundred trains of cars pass here every twenty-four hours and every train loaded to its utmost capacity.” A Minnesota infantryman passing through the town remembered seeing “several trains of cattle cars loaded with women, children, household goods, female slaves, etc., all piled indiscriminately together. Even the tops of the cars were covered with black faces pointed toward the North and liberty.”
The forces Sherman had designated for his grand movement into Georgia were gradually converging on Atlanta. Out about sixty-five miles to the northwest were most of the Fifteenth and Fourteenth army corps. Already there were indications of what was to come as squads continued work that had begun on November 10, destroying anything of military usefulness in Rome, Kingston, Cartersville, and points in between. “The Railroad Depots[,] Foundry and every thing of value to the enemy in Rome was destroyed,” noted an Ohio soldier. Other, nonmilitary buildings were torched too, “the work of rowdy soldiers.” “The light of the conflagration gave the skies a brilliant effect, that was visible many miles distant,” reported a correspondent for the Cincinnati Daily Commercial, presumably keeping a low profile. An Indiana boy recalled that his regiment “passed Cartersville and burned both it and Kingston. The rations stored in the latter place was issued out to the men and the depot fired.” This soldier, who had participated in his share of bloody fighting, was glad to see a hard hand applied to southern civilians. “I think forbearance has long ago ceased to be a virtue,” he said.
Closer to Atlanta the Seventeenth Corps was spread out in encampments around Marietta, while the Twentieth Corps was posted throughout the city itself. There, Sherman’s chief engineer, Captain Orlando M. Poe, received the orders he had been expecting to begin destroying the city’s “railroads, depots, steam machinery, &c.” Poe wrote that “Sherman directed me to proceed with my work, but to be careful not to use fire, which would endanger other buildings than those set apart for destruction.” A New York officer out for a ride watched a “detail of men [who] were at work tearing down the large railroad building; another squad were tearing down a large brick school building; others were tearing up railroads.” A different observer, a New Jersey quartermaster, approved “knocking things to pieces generally and making the old Gate City of the South rather untenable for any Army to hold or manufacture in.”
Even as buildings were being felled, amusements were still under way. An Illinois soldier working as a clerk went to one of Atlanta’s theaters that evening. The show he saw “opened with a grand overture by a Brass Band followed by musical performances by the leader of the Band, upon a fiddle and drum. Then came a comic song from ‘perfect used up man’ who promises that whenever he gets up again he’ll stay up if he can. Then a patriotic and sentimental song by a trio of soldiers, and last but not least a Pantomime entitled ‘The Lovers Serenade.’” This final piece featured a mother and her two daughters whose notoriety stemmed from a scarcity of supply: they were among the last women left in Atlanta. The bored soldier’s review: “Did not expect to see much and wasn’t disappointed.”
Other soldiers amused themselves trying to guess what was in the wind. “Perhaps I may prove to be a false prophet,” ventured a Michigan man, “but everything indicates that this part of the country is to be abandoned by our forces.” “It is very evident that some great movement is at hand,” seconded a Wisconsin officer. “Some think we are going to one place, some to another, but we are evidently going to do some
thing and you may rest assured that Sherman will make his mark again.” The speculation was not limited to the Yankee boys. South of Atlanta several Confederate militia and cavalry regiments were monitoring events. Already reports had come in regarding Captain Poe’s activities in Atlanta. The enemy juggernaut was stirring. “Events are shaping themselves,” a Georgia cavalryman observed grimly.
It was around midday when the very last “up” train pulled out of Atlanta on its northward journey. Soon after it passed, soldier details swarmed over the track to dismantle it. Men and officers watched the engine and cars rattle by with mixed feelings. “I remember seeing the last train going north with a full knowledge that we would be cut off from all knowledge of the world for several weeks at least,” recollected a Michigan soldier. An Illinois man felt more anxiety, but not for himself. Among the passengers on that train were “many officers who had resigned, and soldiers whose terms of service had expired,” he explained. “Large sums of money were committed to them by their comrades for delivery to families or friends at home.”
The passage of the final train left an indelible impression on a senior member of Major General Howard’s staff. He never forgot how “slowly but majestically the great driving wheels turn over—the huffing of the engines is heard—the air is made brilliant by bright sparks—the bands play—the men shout themselves hoarse and swing frantically their hats. Good bye! good bye! is heard on every hand as the train moves slowly off. We watch with throbbing hearts and possibly with trembling lips and moistened eyes this last link that binds us to home and friends and all we hold dear. It fades away and disappears at a sharp bend in the road near by, and the whistles shriek their last farewell.”
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1864
To those around him, William Tecumseh Sherman appeared in fine fettle, a staff aide describing him as being “in good spirits and chatty.” The general’s bonhomie masked some serious anxieties about his family. Sherman had learned from his wife that his youngest, Charles, was very sick. Writing to his daughters Minnie and Lizzie, he expressed the hope that the infant “will live long and take poor Willy’s place in our love.” In a last letter to his wife Sherman made it clear that no one could ever take Willy’s place. “I may be in error,” he confided, “but with him died in me all real ambition and what has come to me since is unsought, unsolicited.” When he composed his closing epistle to his great friend, Ulysses Grant, Sherman made light of the uncertainties ahead. “I will not attempt to send Couriers back [to report my movements,] but will trust to the Richmond papers to Keep you well advised.”
In Atlanta, Captain Poe’s program of destruction continued apace. “Our men under orders have, and are, destroying all public Buildings, all Mills, shops, Hospital buildings and all private buildings that can be turned into machine shops,” explained a Minnesota bandsman. “They are also destroying the depots, turn tables and all other fixtures of a large Rail Road Terminus. They are also taking up the rails and ties and destroying them.” Already Poe’s orderly scheme was being modified by soldier arsonists. A Wisconsin officer was observing the battering down of a heavy stone railroad roundhouse when a “fire suddenly burst out in the opposite side of town somewhere on the Chattanooga Railroad.” The thickening smoke drew a crowd of curious, including this officer. “It proved to be the gas works,” he commented. “Some soldiers had thrown in a [fire] brand to ‘see how it would burn.’” The blaze spread to several nearby foundry buildings, attracting even more spectators, including General Slocum, who simply made sure that any undamaged machinery was destroyed.
That same day the formidable railroad bridge across the Chattahoochee River was smashed. “A cable was attached to some part of the bridge,” recalled an Illinois man on the scene. “A regiment pulled at the cable, giving the work a swaying motion that increased to a pendulum-like swing, until at length it began to give way; then huge beams swung loose in the air, iron rails struck fire as they fell upon the stone piers, and several spars came crashing down into the turbulent river.” North of the river, the town of Acworth suffered the fate of Rome, Kingston, and Cartersville. “It is evident that our soldiers were determined to burn, plunder, and destroy everything in their way on this march,” noted one horrified Federal officer.
South of Atlanta, a small man wearing general’s stars and his escort rode into Jonesboro, then the headquarters for Confederate regional operations. Major General Joseph Wheeler, who stood five feet five inches tall, was described as “very quick and alert in his movements.” He would need to be both, as he found himself the officer in charge of all the regular Confederate cavalry units assigned to oppose the enemy south or east of Atlanta. His mounted corps had been part of Hood’s army until Beauregard, in a rare exercise of command authority, ordered it to maintain contact with Sherman’s forces even as Hood’s main body was slipping away to the west. Hood agreed, but only because he got Bedford Forrest’s cavalry in exchange.
Wheeler was a West Pointer who graduated two years ahead of the Yankee he would be facing, H. Judson Kilpatrick. He shared a lot of characteristics with his classmate. Like Kilpatrick, Wheeler was at his best when he could see his enemy and charge. Like Kilpatrick, his after-action reports usually read more favorably than the results warranted. Facing an immediate crisis, Wheeler was active to the point of recklessness, very aggressive, and personally courageous. When he had to manage a broader strategic operation, he was often out of his depth.
Once he arrived in Jonesboro, Wheeler was handed the first of his new problems. The officer formerly in charge had not given sufficient attention to intelligence gathering, so while everyone knew that the enemy was busy burning things in Atlanta, the composition or size of the Union forces involved was unknown. Wheeler immediately set to work assigning scouting patrols with orders to identify the enemy units. He set to his task with a professional determination not shared by all those serving under him. Reflecting on these times, one Kentucky trooper recalled that he and his comrades “were convinced that the end [of the war] was near.”
William T. Sherman and his staff reached Marietta about midday. Riding as part of his entourage was Major Henry Hitchcock, a thirty-five-year-old Saint Louis lawyer and acquaintance who, though protected from the draft by his status and employment, wanted to see something of the war before the fighting ended. His application to join Sherman’s staff had been accepted, and Hitchcock had caught up with his new boss on October 31. Learning Sherman’s ways was turning into a series of eye-openers for the newly minted military secretary.
As the command party entered Marietta, Hitchcock was shocked by the wholesale vandalism he witnessed and, even more unsettling to him, Sherman’s seeming indifference to obvious violations of his orders. The last straw came when flames erupted from the town courthouse. The aide confronted the general, pointing out that the building was doomed. When Sherman answered that there was nothing he could do, Hitchcock began to wonder if he had intended all along to destroy it.
A short time later Sherman took Hitchcock aside to point out some passing soldiers. “There are the men who do this,” he explained. “Set as many guards as you please, they will slip in and set fire…. I never ordered burning of any dwelling—didn’t order this, but can’t be helped. I say Jeff. Davis burnt them.”
Later that afternoon, Sherman came up to Kilpatrick’s cavalry division, where he received an impromptu review. An Indiana trooper present remembered that the army commander “was greeted by cheers from the men all along the line,” while a Pennsylvanian in the mounted ranks recalled it as “a beautiful sight.” Major Hitchcock was also caught up in the pageantry of the moment and thought the whole affair was “superb for picture.” But when he raised his gaze to the horizon, the smoky columns marking Marietta lingered, making for a “terrible commentary on this display and its meaning.”
The same sights provoked a very different impression from a Pennsylvania trooper. “The railroad in our rear was completely burned up,” he observed. “We were isolat
ed, and spent the night in sleep, or sitting by our fires thinking of friends at home, from whom we were now entirely separated, and [making] conjectures upon the route to be traveled, where our new base was to be, and when we would reach it. For miles around, as far as the eye could reach, great blazing fires lit up the heavens with a glow of magnificence. The work of destruction was going on.”
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1864
The scouts Wheeler had dispatched returned today with much-needed information. They identified three Union Army corps—the Fifteenth, Seventeenth, and Twentieth—and Kilpatrick’s cavalry division. Also noted was the railroad wrecking and the fires still burning in Atlanta.* What all this information meant was something else again. A flurry of messages clattered out from Wheeler’s headquarters. To officials in Richmond he merely noted Yankee camp rumors that “Sherman will move forward.” Reporting the same to General Hood, Wheeler allowed the possible targets as “Augusta and Savannah.” His message copied to Lieutenant General Richard Taylor, whose command area lay to the south, designated the possible threats to “Mobile or Savannah.” The list of those receiving Wheeler’s report underscored a critical flaw in the entire Confederate defensive scheme.
The region south and east of Atlanta consisted of a number of defensive zones centered around built-up areas. From his headquarters in Charleston, Lieutenant General Hardee was responsible for Savannah and Augusta. Richard Taylor, based in Selma, Alabama, worried about a thrust toward Mobile. Macon was Howell Cobb’s watch, while another officer looked after Columbus.* It was Jefferson Davis’s hope that these officers would collaborate for their mutual interest, but in practice few were willing to risk weakening their already inadequate resources to assist a neighbor. To further complicate the situation, all the areas outside these defensive zones were someone else’s problem. Beauregard had been brought in to break down these administrative barriers, and how well he did his job or failed to do it would be an important factor in the coming campaign.
Southern Storm: Sherman's March to the Sea Page 8