Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  *****

  July 17, Evening

  The headquarters of the Army of Tennessee was illuminated by scores of candles and oil lanterns, as the officers digested the reports coming in from Wheeler’s cavalry. Columns of Union infantry were snaking their way southwards from the Chattahoochee crossings. There was no doubt any longer that the lull in the campaign was over and that the Yankees were once again on the move.

  Staff officers tried to translate the reports into reality on the maps. Units which had been identified as belonging to McPherson and Schofield were marching southeast toward Decatur. The immense Army of the Cumberland was lumbering directly south toward Atlanta itself. The situation was developing precisely as Johnston had expected it would.

  By themselves in Johnston’s private room, the commanding general and his chief-of-staff sat huddled over a map of Peachtree Creek and its environs.

  “Two corps will make the attack. Stewart’s corps will be on the left and Hardee’s corps on the right. This small stream, the Tanyard Branch, will be the dividing point of the two units, where Hardee’s left should meet with Stewart’s right..”

  “Looks good to me,” Mackall said. “Where will Hood be?”

  “Hood’s corps will be assigned to guard the far right flank, east of the city, keeping an eye on McPherson and Schofield. Furthermore, Hood will send Clayton’s division to Hardee, where it will be positioned as a reserve for the attacking force.”

  Mackall smiled. Johnston’s orders left Hood out of the attack altogether and deprived him of a third of his troops. The man who cared so much for glory on the battlefield would get no glory from this engagement.

  “How many Georgia militiamen have arrived?” Johnston asked.

  “About five thousand, General.”

  Johnston grunted. “Governor Brown promised me three times as many.”

  “I know. He makes many promises he cannot keep. He is certain to go far in politics.”

  Johnston chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Make sure the militiamen are manning the Atlanta defenses themselves and working to improve them as much as possible. I would not risk such units in an open fight with Sherman’s men, but they can at least hold a fortified line. That will allow the movements of the army to be freer and wider as we mount our attack. If anything goes wrong, we can withdraw into the Atlanta defenses.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “Send a message to all corps commanders to join me for a council of war here tomorrow morning. It is time for them to be informed of the army’s plans.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and moments later a staff officer entered. “Telegram from President Davis.”

  Johnston frowned at the sound of the man’s name, but took the telegram and quickly opened it.

  General Johnston,

  The fate of Atlanta is in your hands. May God grant you victory in the coming battle.

  President Davis

  “That’s odd,” Johnston said, passing the telegram over to Mackall. “It’s not like our President to engage in such sentimentality.” Since the chief executive had not asked for a reply of any sort, he set the telegram aside and promptly forgot all about it.

  *****

  July 18, Morning

  Thomas rode at the head of one of his divisions, happy to be moving once again. It had required more than a week to construct the bridges across the Chattahoochee, move the armies across, and bring up sufficient supplies for an extended period of operations. The delay had been unavoidable, of course, but that had not made it any less frustrating.

  His men had taken the opportunity to rest, refit, and write a few letters home. He was glad that his men had had the chance to write their loved ones one last time before moving out. Several thousand of them would never get the chance to do so again.

  Occasional pops of musket fire could be heard up ahead, but the lack of anything substantial told him that they were simply rebel cavalry patrols. This didn’t worry him, as the Army of the Cumberland was so enormous that it would have been futile to attempt to conceal its movements.

  A courier galloped up beside him. “Message from General Sherman, sir.”

  General Thomas,

  Advance your men forward toward Peachtree Creek, but halt a few miles north of it. McPherson and Schofield require more time to reach their positions east of Atlanta. Lack of opposition makes me question enemy resolve to hold the city. I consider an enemy attack unlikely, but if it happens it is most likely to be directed against McPherson.

  General Sherman

  Thomas nodded and barked out the necessary marching orders. Several hours marching would be sufficient to get the army into the position Sherman desired and they would then have all night to entrench. While Thomas agreed with Sherman that a major attack on the Army of the Cumberland was unlikely, it could not be ruled out altogether and therefore the men would be ordered to entrench. The work would take all night, but he knew none of his boys would object. Better to be tired and alive than be well-rested and dead.

  Thomas thought about Sherman’s assessment that Johnston might abandon Atlanta without a fight. Certainly the rebels had not made much of an effort to prevent them from crossing the Chattahoochee, nor had they launched an attack when the Union forces were divided. This flew in the face of all military logic. He wondered if perhaps the Army of Tennessee was weaker than they imagined it to be. By all accounts, however, the defenses of Atlanta were immensely strong and even a weak army could fight well from sturdy fortifications.

  Thomas shook his head in frustration. Johnston was no fool. He had to know that if he drew his army into the Atlanta defenses to withstand a siege, the Federal armies could simply cut the city’s railroads and wait for the Confederates to run out of food. What was Johnston thinking?

  Sherman’s belief that an enemy attack, if it happened at all, was likely to be made against McPherson seemed logical enough. After all, as he was advancing toward the city from the east, his left flank would be unprotected. The right flank of the Army of the Cumberland, by contrast, was protected by the Chattahoochee River. It also seemed plausible that the Confederate defenses of the city were strongest on the northern side, where an assault on the city might be considered most likely. In that case, the Confederates might consider McPherson and Schofield’s operations to the east to represent a greater threat than that posed by Thomas.

  Thomas smiled, optimistic about the operations that would take place within the next few days. If Johnston was preparing to evacuate Atlanta, he would hurry the Army of the Cumberland south and attempt to seize the city as quickly as possible. If the rebels sought to attack McPherson, he would do precisely the same in order to relieve the pressure on his comrade. Either way, Thomas expected to be marching at the head of his troops through downtown Atlanta within the next few days.

  He wondered what his sisters would have to say when they learned their brother had commanded the first Union troops to enter the South’s second-most important city.

  *****

  “They’re here, General Johnston,” Mackall said.

  “Very well. Send them in.”

  The commanding general stood up straight and placed his hands behind his back as the four corps commanders of his army entered the room. He eyed them one by one. There was Hardee, the senior corps commander and gifted soldier who, Johnston knew, had felt left out of the army’s councils during the campaign to date. In light of Hood’s machinations, Johnston had resolved to rely much more on Hardee in the future. His plan for the attack at Peachtree Creek was a step in the right direction on that score.

  Johnston glared at Hood, the betrayal still stinging. Up until the revelations of Senator Wigfall, Johnston had trusted Hood more than any other of his senior commanders. Having had the wool pulled over his eyes and then having it pulled away so abruptly had been a bitter experience. After the battle, there would have to be a reckoning of some sort, but that would ha
ve to wait.

  Wheeler was as bad as Hood, Johnston had decided. His performance in the campaign to date had been less than satisfactory, especially in the opening days, when his failure to conduct adequate reconnaissance had nearly led to disaster during the Battle of Rocky Face Ridge. He had obviously been Bragg’s lackey since Johnston had arrived at the Army of Tennessee.

  Then there was General Stewart, the newest corps commander, who had only recently been promoted to take over Polk’s corps. He had made a name for himself as an effective brigade and division commander and no one doubted his bravery on the battlefield. But he was still an unknown quantity. Johnston knew he would have to keep a close eye on him until he had become comfortable at a higher level of command.

  He began. “Gentlemen, I do not exaggerate when I say that the next few days will be the most important of the campaign. We are about to engage the enemy in what may be the most decisive battle ever seen in America. If we succeed, we shall save Atlanta and the Confederacy. But make no mistake. The retreating stops here.”

  Johnston glanced at Hood and Wheeler. Both of them shifted uncomfortably, dark expressions of doubt suddenly clouding their faces. Johnston quickly put the pieces together in his mind. The two of them must have told Bragg that Johnston was going to evacuate Atlanta without a fight. Perhaps they had even persuaded themselves of this. How were they going to explain to Bragg what was happening now?

  Johnston gestured to a large map on the wall, showing Atlanta and the surrounding territory. “According to our latest information, the Yankees are approaching the city from two different directions. General Thomas and the Army of the Cumberland are marching directly toward Atlanta from the north, while Schofield and McPherson are swinging around to the east with the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohio.”

  “What strength?” Hardee asked.

  “Our current best estimates are that Thomas has sixty thousand men coming down from the north, and McPherson and Schofield have a combined strength of forty thousand men swinging around to the east.”

  “And we have but fifty-five thousand men here in Atlanta,” Hardee observed. “It appears that Sherman wishes to catch us in a pincer movement, crushing us between two forces each roughly equal in numbers to our own.”

  “Yes, but the hunter is about to become the hunted.”

  The faces of Hood and Wheeler had both become stony and expressionless.

  Johnston went on. “I believe Sherman expects us to do one of two things. He thinks that we will either evacuate Atlanta without a fight or attempt an attack on McPherson’s vulnerable left flank. We shall do neither, gentlemen.”

  “And, pray tell, what shall we do?” Hood asked, sounding annoyed.

  Johnston tapped the map. “Here is Peachtree Creek. I assume you’ve all seen it. Deep, uneven banks. A difficult natural barrier to any large formation of troops. In order to threaten the city from the north, the Army of the Cumberland will need to cross it.”

  He paused and looked around for a moment, studying the faces of the men. When he spoke again, it was with fierce determination.

  “We shall not contest the crossing, gentlemen. Instead, we shall wait until the Yankees cross to the south side of the creek, then fall on them with the full force of two entire corps. Our goal shall be nothing less than the destruction of the Army of the Cumberland as an effective fighting force.”

  Johnston stopped there, wanting the impact of his words to sink in. He could see skepticism in their eyes, but the expressions of Hardee and Stewart also exhibited cautious excitement.

  After an appropriate period of silence, Johnston continued. “The attack will be made by the corps of Stewart and Hardee, with Stewart on the left and Hardee on the right. General Hood, you will detach Clayton’s Division and place it under the command of Hardee. It shall act as a reserve for the attacking force.”

  “And where shall my corps be positioned?” Hood asked, confused.

  “You will take up position on the east, to keep an eye on McPherson and Schofield, should they attempt to come to the aid of Thomas or move directly on Atlanta.”

  “You want me to face the combined forces of McPherson and Schofield with only two divisions?”

  “Wheeler will deploy a few brigades of cavalry to assist you. You will also be reinforced by the Georgia Militia, which numbers five thousand men.”

  “Those are old men and young boys!” Hood protested.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, General Hood. If the Yankees to the east mount a major attack at the very moment we are attacking Thomas, you need only to delay them for a few hours and then fall back into the Atlanta defenses. Surely you should be able to do that, yes?”

  “Two divisions and a bunch of militiamen against two entire Yankee armies?”

  “You’ll be fine, General Hood. All you’ll need to do is show us some of that fighting spirit of the Army of Northern Virginia that you are always going on about.”

  Hood’s face became flushed with anger as Hardee and Stewart chuckled at what they assumed to be a good-humored jest. Johnston smiled slightly, though not nearly enough to be justified by the elation he felt inside. He reminded himself to maintain his composure.

  “When shall this operation take place?” Hardee asked.

  “Timing will be the key to success. The Army of the Cumberland is already moving south, though at a slow pace. Thomas is always slow. I believe that they won’t start crossing the river until tomorrow evening, and that the bulk of their forces will not move across until the morning of July 20.”

  “That seems to be the thinking of my scouts, General Johnston,” Wheeler said. The cavalry commander’s voice sounded more respectful toward Johnston than it had for many weeks, but this made no impact on Johnston. As far as he was concerned, Wheeler had burned his bridges and it was far too late to try to repair them.

  “Good,” Johnston said, deciding he might as well make some use of Wheeler for the time being. “In the meantime, make sure your men delay the Yankees as much as possible until tomorrow night, then withdraw them all to the south bank of the creek.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  He spoke again to all the generals. “We have to hit them at exactly the right moment. If we attack too early, not enough troops will have crossed to make the assault worth the risk. If we attack too late, the enemy will have had a chance to entrench and bring up enough troops to outnumber us. If we are right and the Yankees begin crossing the creek in large numbers on the morning of the 20th, I believe we should attack at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  Hardee nodded quickly. “Yes, that would seem like the most likely moment for the conditions you have outlined to be met. It will also allow us plenty of time to position our own divisions for the attack, and the wooded areas south of Peachtree Creek will provide excellent cover for us to do so unobserved.”

  “Indeed,” Johnston said, happy to see Hardee so enthusiastic. “I want both you and General Stewart to carefully reconnoiter the ground tomorrow morning. Memorize every hill, every stream, and every grove of trees. Have every member of your staff do likewise. When we advance against Thomas, I will need you to have a clear picture of the ground onto which you are leading your troops.”

  “Of course, sir,” Stewart said, as Hardee nodded agreement.

  “As I said, Sherman likely believes that we are evacuating Atlanta, and it serves our purposes to make him think so. Mackall has already sent selected enlisted men toward the Yankee lines, who will allow themselves to be taken prisoner or feign desertion, and who shall give misleading information to the Yankees about troops being loaded into trains heading south. At the same time, we shall move large numbers of empty trains south along the railroads to the south and southwest, hopefully causing Sherman to give more credit to such reports.”

  “A fine idea, General Johnston,” Hardee said.

  “Yes,” Hood said. “And considering all the strong positions we have abandoned without a fight since the onset of
this campaign, he may well fall for such a trick.” His voice was that of a petulant schoolboy.

  Johnston ignored Hood’s comment. He could have retorted that the majority of those positions were evacuated on Hood’s own advice, but he thought it best to let it go. For the moment, all that Johnston cared about was that Hood was sidelined and could do nothing to squander their chances of success in the upcoming battle. After the fate of Atlanta had been decided, Hood could be properly dealt with. Until then, he could be safely ignored.

  Johnston looked around at the generals. “Mackall will provide written copies of the orders in about two hours. They shall specify the details of deployment. Does anyone have any questions?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Very well. We shall meet again tomorrow evening. In the meantime, return to your commands and inform your division commanders. Keep word of the operation from brigade commanders until tomorrow night, and regimental commanders until the morning of the 20th.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said as one, and quietly filtered out of the room.

  Johnston saw them go, and a staff officer closed the door, leaving Johnston alone in the room. He was pleased, feeling that he had encouraged Stewart and Hardee, partly marginalized Hood, and moved Wheeler to a place where he could still be useful to Johnston. His objectives for the meeting had all been achieved.

  He recalled the famous phrase from the Suetonius he had read when he was a cadet at West Point: Alea iacta est: The die is cast. The Roman historian was describing how Caesar had reached the point of no return when he ordered his troops to cross the Rubicon, starting the civil war against Pompey and the Roman Senate. Johnston, too, had now set in motion events which he would do his best to control, but which he had to acknowledge would be largely determined by fate.

  And fate was a fickle mistress.

  *****