Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Some of his staff officers, taking their cue from their commander, dashed about on horseback, halting and organizing the retreating soldiers back into a semblance of a line as if they were herding sheep. As the precious minutes passed, a thin line of men was slowly strung across the surrounding area. Johnston could only hope that its flanks would connect with steadier Confederate units on either side of them.

  Artillery shells began to fall around them, leading Johnston to conclude that the enemy was moving their guns forward and preparing to mount an even larger attack. Having broken one Confederate brigade, it stood to reason that the Yankees would see this particular position as a weak point and attempt to break through completely.

  He glanced around. The thin line of frightened men his staff officers were struggling to put together could no more resist a determined Union attack than a fragile piece of glass could resist the blow of a sledgehammer. If a fresh enemy brigade charged toward them, the Southerners would be lucky to get off a single volley before they broke and bolted for the rear. At best, they might delay the enemy attack for a few precious seconds.

  He glanced to the southeast, hoping to see Mackall leading the Arkansas brigade into position. There was only an empty field. Johnston quickly said a silent prayer that Mackall had located reinforcements and was hurrying to the scene. If he didn’t arrive in the next few minutes, it might be too late.

  He had begun the battle as the attacker, confident of victory. But now his own army stood on the brink of defeat. For if the Yankees broke through his line, they might split his forces in two. In such a case, Johnston thought he would be lucky if he managed to get back into the defenses of Atlanta with even a portion of his force. His heart turned to ice when he contemplated the very real possibility that the Army of Tennessee was about to be destroyed.

  There was a tremendous cry of alarm from the haphazard line. Looking northward, Johnston could see the first rank of blue-coated infantrymen coming into view. They were advancing at a walk and were not yet charging. He sensed the wavering of his own men and decided to take a calculated risk.

  Looking as serene as he possibly could, and in spite of the fact that his heart was pounding in his chest with the force of a steam engine, he calmly walked his horse out in front of the line formed by Quarles’ men. He pointed his sword at the advancing Union troops but turned in the saddle to face his own soldiers.

  “Men of the South! You must maintain this position! I am bringing up reinforcements! If you can hold your ground for a few minutes, help will come!”

  There was silence from the men. He could still see demoralization in their faces. They had already been through severe fighting and were utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically. Johnston knew from a lifetime of soldiering that there was only so much strain a man could take. He needed to get these tired and frightened men to bear that strain for just a little bit longer. Bullets began zinging by, but Johnston paid them no mind.

  “Will you allow the name of the Army of Tennessee to be disgraced?”

  “No!” a man from the ranks shouted.

  “We will hold, General!” another cried.

  Johnston quickly scanned the eyes of the soldiers. Many were glancing left and right at their comrades, seeking strength and reassurance. Others began calling out to the army commander, expressing their determination to hold their ground and follow orders. It was as if a rope was tying them together and holding them in place. It might yet snap under pressure, but it was better than nothing.

  Satisfied, he nodded sharply and kicked his horse back into a trot. The men parted momentarily to let him pass through the line. As he continued to ride southwards, he began hearing a sharp increase in firing from the spot he had just left. The Yankees were indeed attacking again, hoping to press their advantage, but Quarles’ men were offering a least some measure of resistance. Johnston knew it could not last long.

  His heart leapt as he saw the reassuring form of General Mackall riding up to him at a canter. Even more heartening was the formation of Confederate infantry coming up behind him. Row upon row of hundreds of Southern fighters were coming up at the double-quick. A glance at the battle flag of the lead regiment confirmed for Johnston that it was the Arkansas Brigade of General Reynolds.

  Coming close to the fighting, the officers shouted commands and the men expertly deployed from a marching column into a battle line. The entire maneuver took scarcely a minute. As they formed up shoulder to shoulder, gripping their rifles tensely, Johnston rode up to the front of their line.

  “Men of Arkansas! All before you are giving way! You must advance and drive the enemy back!”

  “We will, General Johnston!” several men shouted simultaneously.

  “I will lead you!” Johnston cried. He trotted to the center of the Arkansas battle line, stopped just long enough to point his sword in the direction of the fighting and kicked his horse into a walk.

  Mackall rode up beside him, a cross between anger and concern in his eyes. With extreme impertinence, he grabbed the bridle of Johnston’s horse.

  “What the damn hell do you think you’re doing, General Johnston!” he demanded. “Get away from here! General Reynolds can lead his own damn brigade in the counter attack!”

  Johnston felt a surge of anger, wondering how his chief-of-staff could dare speak to him in such an insolent manner. “Let go of the bridle this instant, Mackall!”

  “I will not, sir! You must retire to the rear immediately!”

  “Let go!”

  “General Johnston, the army has plenty of brigade commanders, but only one man to lead the army!”

  Johnston’s face flushed. For just a moment, he was white-hot with anger. But his ears heard the cries of his soldiers, calling for him to move behind the brigade. Like raindrops falling onto a campfire, their cries smothered his fury.

  General Daniel Reynolds, the commander of the unit, galloped up. “Please retire to the rear, General Johnston,” he pleaded. “My brigade will counter attack and restore the line, but you must retire at once. The men are refusing to charge unless you are safe!”

  The rational part of his mind quickly realized that Mackall and Reynolds were entirely correct. Leading an infantry charge was not the duty of the supreme commander of the army. He saw that he had acted with gross irresponsibility and potentially placed the army in danger. Allowing his grip on the reins to slacken, he let his chief-of-staff pull the horse away from the fighting and lead him to the south.

  Once their leader was safe, the men of Reynolds’ Brigade wasted no time. They dashed past Johnston and Mackall at the double quick, plunging northwards into the confusion of the battle. The Rebel Yell rose from the throats of a thousand Arkansas soldiers and there was a sudden explosive crackling of musket fire as the two sides collided. Johnston glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see General Reynolds falling out of his saddle, dead or wounded.

  As the fighting behind him increased in intensity, he saw two Confederate artillery batteries rolling up behind the line. The gunners unlimbered their deadly weapons and loaded them with canister. Though they held their fire out of fear that they might hit their comrades, the presence of the eight artillery pieces gave some measure of reassurance to Johnston that this section of the line was now safe. It had momentarily broken, but disaster had been averted.

  Instantly, Johnston’s mind returned to the battle as a whole. Stewart’s attack on the left side of the battle line had obviously been repulsed and all his reserves had been committed merely to prevent the Yankees from breaking through themselves. Thomas and his Army of the Cumberland were fighting ferociously. Johnston had to get to Hardee and discover what the situation was on the other side of the battlefield.

  He thought for a moment that he should immediately order Stewart and Hardee to call off their attacks and retreat at once into the Atlanta defenses. Doing so would save the army and preserve whatever combat power it had left. But doing so would also mean the end of his effort to win a
decisive victory. Sherman would place Atlanta under siege and the city’s fall would become merely a matter of time.

  There remained one ace-in-the-hole for Johnston. Clayton’s division, which he had detached from Hood’s corps, remained deployed to the south as the final reserve for the attacking force. It was a strong force of about five thousand men. If Johnston could find a way to tear open a gap in the Union line, no matter how small, he could send Clayton’s division charging through to the enemy rear, shattering the federal position and driving the Army of the Cumberland into Peachtree Creek as originally planned.

  It seemed a forlorn hope. Yet it was the only chance Johnston had. He was not prepared to give up just yet.

  Johnston, Mackall, and the swarm of staff officers and escorting cavalrymen thundered eastwards. Off to their left, the battle continued to rage. As they moved, couriers from various points of the battlefield rode up and shouted news. Almost all of it was confused and disjointed. Within minutes, two messages arrived from Stewart, one saying that he was having difficulty holding his ground and the other saying that he was about to resume the attack. Which message was most recent was anyone’s guess. The only thing that seemed certain was that the fighting was severe all along the line and that the casualties were already heavy.

  Johnston and his party splashed across the small stream running down the center of the battlefield, which had been designated as the dividing point between the corps of Stewart and Hardee. Twenty minutes later, they located General Hardee.

  “What is the situation?” Johnston asked quickly after the customary salute.

  “We pushed them for a mile or so. We’ve taken many prisoners and half a dozen battle flags. We also captured a battery of Yankee artillery. But resistance has stiffened since the first hour of the attack. I haven’t been able to push forward an inch for some time. Lost of a lot of men.”

  “Stewart’s attack has been repulsed. The enemy broke his line at one point before a counter attack sealed the breach. We need to find a way to get the attack moving again.”

  “Can I put Clayton in?” Hardee asked.

  Johnston thought quickly. He had considered dispatching Clayton to Stewart’s front in order to shore up his obviously shaky line, but that was a move designed to prevent defeat rather than to achieve victory. And it was victory that Johnston was after.

  His original plan had called for both Stewart and Hardee to drive the Yankees back to Peachtree Creek in a single, sweeping assault. But as usually happened, the chaos of actual battle had created a situation in which the original plan no longer applied. Instantly, Johnston’s mind drew up a new plan. Stewart would continue to press his assault if at all possible, but from now on Johnston would consider his attacks to be a diversion, designed only to keep the Yankees occupied on the west side of the battlefield and prevent them from dispatching reinforcements to the east side. In the meantime, Clayton’s division would be released to Hardee, who would use it to try a last-ditch effort to break the Union line.

  “Yes, put Clayton in,” Johnston said decisively. “Where to deploy him is a decision I leave to you.”

  “Very well, sir.” Hardee saluted and, with a kick to his horse, was off.

  Johnston watched Hardee go. With him, Johnston thought, went the hopes of the Confederacy.

  *****

  Unlike the ground to the north of Atlanta, the terrain east of the city was largely barren and empty of trees. Much of the woods in the area had been cleared for lumber to be used in the fortifications which protected the city. Indeed, the most prominent elevation in the area was known simply as “Bald Hill” because of its complete lack of foliage.

  Atop Bald Hill, Hood stared out to the east with growing alarm. Enormous formations of Union infantry were visible from his position, formed up for battle and marching directly on Atlanta. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but Hood thought he counted four divisions. Behind them, great clouds of dust rose from the ground, indicating the presence of yet more marching columns. It appeared to Hood that the entire Army of the Tennessee was heading directly for him.

  He lowered his telescope and glanced northwards from Bald Hill. Since Johnston had taken Clayton’s division away from him, Hood had only two divisions manning the fortifications on the eastern side of Atlanta, those of General Brown and General Stevenson. All told, he had perhaps eight to ten thousand men in line. Even behind stout fortifications, Hood wasn’t sure how long they might be able to hold against McPherson’s twenty-five thousand men. Moreover, Schofield was also out there somewhere with fifteen thousand more.

  He heard the scattered popping of musket fire, and trained his telescope in the direction of the sound. The advance elements of the Union infantry were just now coming into contact with the skirmishers he had deployed out ahead of the fortified line. Ordinarily, this was done to force any advancing enemy to deploy into a battle line, thereby buying time for the troops in the main line to get ready. But the Yankees were already deployed in a battle line, so little was achieved besides a few minutes delay and a couple dozen casualties on each side.

  Hood figured that the Union infantry would reach his line within the next half hour. They would then perhaps take a short time to study the defenses before forming up for an attack. At most, Hood had perhaps an hour-and-a-half before his men would be called upon to withstand an enemy more than twice their number.

  He turned to an aide. “Captain, you are to ride as fast as you can to General Johnston. Tell him that an enemy force considerably superior to my own is advancing upon my position. I must have Clayton’s division returned to my command at once or I will be overwhelmed.”

  “Yes, sir!” The man saluted, kicked his horse, and was away.

  *****

  Cleburne rode eastward behind the line of his division, feeling the hot and angry wind of the battle raging just a few hundred yards away. Red Pepper was becoming increasingly tired and upset, neighing his protests more loudly than before. Cleburne gently patted the animal’s neck and spoke words of reassurance, but Red Pepper wasn’t much comforted.

  He had more important matters to worry about than the agitation of his mount. Cleburne knew he had to act quickly if his plan to break the Union line was to have any chance of success. He knew it was a good idea, but it would depend on many different factors falling into place at exactly the right time. Above all, it would depend on his ability to keep his division under control in the midst of a ferocious battle, a difficult if not impossible task.

  Just minutes earlier, he had given the necessary orders to Colonel Warfield, temporarily in command of Govan’s Brigade following Govan’s death. Warfield was a good regimental commander, but Cleburne wasn’t sure if he would have the stomach to assume command of the whole brigade. There was no time to worry about it. Cleburne had to trust that Warfield would be able to do what he had asked him to do.

  He approached Lowrey, who was continuing to frantically direct his regiments. The brigade commander saluted sharply as Cleburne approached. He wasted no time with small talk.

  “General Lowrey, when I give the command, your brigade is to fall back!”

  “What?!” Lowrey shouted. “Why? I may not be driving the Yankees, but as God is my witness I’ll not let them force me to retreat!”

  “We’re not retreating, Lowrey!” Cleburne shouted over the din of the musketry and artillery fire. “I don’t have time to explain it! We’re going to trick the Yankees into thinking that you are retreating! When I give the word, pull your brigade back six hundred yards or so, then halt!”

  Lowrey’s face did not betray fear, but it did betray anxiety of a sort. Every soldier of any experience knew that a orderly withdrawal in the face of a superior enemy in the middle of a battle was the most difficult and dangerous maneuver imaginable. The slightest hint of confusion could send the men into a panic. If even a single company lost its composure, its fear would instantly spread to the rest of its regiment, and from that regiment to the entire brigade. The en
tire unit might then disintegrate into a confused and frightened mass of men and tumble into a headlong rout. Cleburne had seen it happen before.

  Cleburne was gratified when Lowrey finally nodded, kicked his horse, and went to find his regimental commanders. A lesser officer might have demanded further clarification or angrily disagreed. It spoke volumes about Lowrey’s confidence in Cleburne that he did neither of these things. Nor did Cleburne remain to oversee Lowrey’s movement, instead simply counting on him to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.

  Cleburne turned and kicked Red Pepper into a gallop, heading south. Moments later, he came upon the steady ranks of Granbury’s Texans, not yet committed to battle. Granbury, mounted on a gray mare, sat stoically in front of them, patiently waiting. To Cleburne, he seemed like nothing so much as a steady Roman centurion, commanding a cohort of heroes. Indeed, the very sight of the Texas soldiers, gripping their Enfield rifles, gave Cleburne a feeling of superb confidence.

  “How’s it going, General?” Granbury asked, as naturally as if he were discussing a horse race.

  “Govan’s dead. Warfield’s taken over command of his brigade.”

  Granbury nodded. He and Govan had been friends, but he betrayed no hint of sadness. “Well, that’s too bad. Leading from the front, no doubt.”

  “The attack is stalled, but I want to get it moving once again. I want you to move your brigade a few hundred yards to the left, and prepare to attack in a northeasterly direction.”

  “Northeast?” Granbury asked. “Pray tell, what is it you have in mind?”

  “Lowrey’s going to pull back a few hundred yards. The Yankees will think they have broken the line and will charge forward to exploit the breach. When Lowrey halts and turns to fight, the right flank of the enemy formation will be exposed to your attack. Your men will then open fire and charge, just as Lowrey’s men do the same. The combined attack by both brigades will shatter the enemy formation by catching them in a crossfire.”