Another courier arrived, this one from Hardee’s headquarters. Unlike Hood’s man, this messenger bore an expression of triumph.
“Cleburne’s broken them, sir!”
“What?”
“Cleburne’s broken them! Tore a hole in their line half a mile wide, I tell you!”
The assembled staff officers and cavalry escort raised a cheer. Johnston found this irritating, as it made it difficult for him to converse with the courier.
“Did you see this?”
“Yes, sir! Damndest thing I ever saw, sir! Cleburne pulled back Lowrey’s men, made it look like they were running away. The Yankee chased after them, but then Cleburne hit them from the left with Granbury’s men. Just then, Lowrey’s men stopped running, turned around, and opened fire, too! The Yankees were caught in a crossfire and cut to ribbons! Never seen so many dead bluecoats in one place, I reckon. Not even at Chickamauga!”
“And what is Cleburne doing now?”
“What’s he doing now? Why, he’s charging his whole division through the gap, sir! What else would he be doing?” If the courier thought his words were impertinent, he didn’t show it.
Johnston thought quickly. If Cleburne had broken the Union line, he would need support to properly exploit the breakthrough. That support could only come from Clayton’s division, which Hardee was almost certainly ordering into the breach at that moment. Conceivably, there was still time to send word to Hardee that Clayton’s division must be sent to aid Hood rather than support the attack on the Army of the Cumberland. Johnston’s caution momentarily tugged at his aggressive instincts. But he shook his head. The chance of achieving a truly decisive victory over the Army of the Cumberland could not be forsaken.
“Do you know where General Clayton is?” Johnston asked Hardee’s courier.
“I do, sir.”
Johnston turned to the messenger from Hood. “Inform General Hood that Clayton’s division is already committed and that he must make do with what he has.” He turned back to Hardee’s man. “Ride as quick as you can to Clayton. Tell him he must drive northwards through the gap and seize the bridges over Peachtree Creek. Tell him that if he succeeds, the entire Army of the Cumberland will be trapped!”
“I will tell him, sir!” The man saluted and was off.
*****
Having left McPherson to advance directly west toward Atlanta, Sherman had ridden north to confer with Schofield, whose Army of the Ohio was positioned a few miles to the north of McPherson’s position. Sherman was there, speaking with Schofield about the possibility of sending his fifteen thousand men eastward toward Augusta after Atlanta had been secured, when the temperature and humidity just south of Peachtree Creek begin to subtly change.
“Do you hear that?” Sherman asked, his head arching up slightly.
Schofield listened carefully. “Yes. Artillery.”
“Coming from where?”
“West of here, I think.”
“Somewhere near Thomas, then.” Sherman felt a tingle of fear move up and down his spine, awakening unpleasant memories.
“Could be siege artillery in the Atlanta defenses. The militia firing off some rounds out of panic.”
Sherman shook his head. He could hear it more clearly now. “No, that’s field artillery, sure as hell.”
“The pitch of the ring is too high. Sounds like rebel guns to me.”
“Something’s not right.”
At that moment, a courier covered in dust appeared, both man and rider out of breath and exhausted. Hurriedly, he handed over a dispatch.
General Sherman,
I have come under heavy attack by two enemy corps. The fighting is severe but I am holding my position and am confident I can continue to do so. I intend to counter attack as soon as possible. Recommend McPherson and Schofield advance from the east. I believe we can crush Johnston between us.
General Thomas
Sherman’s eyebrows went up. “Well, it appears that Uncle Joe is again doing the unexpected. He has decided to fight for Atlanta after all.” He passed the message over to Schofield, who read through it quickly.
“Interesting,” Schofield said. “I can move my men to Thomas’s assistance if you so wish, but it would be a few hours before we can reach him.”
Sherman shook his head. “If Thomas says he can hold, I think we should take him at his word. Thomas has always been good on the defensive, at least.”
“Very well, sir.”
“McPherson is already moving on Atlanta south of here. That should force Johnston to reinforce the eastern defenses. Looks like the wily old fox has finally rolled the dice for a change. But I don’t think his number will come up.”
“Indeed. If I am not to go to Thomas, what shall I do with my men?”
“Remain in position here for the time being,” Sherman said. “That way, you can move to the support of either Thomas or McPherson in the event that either gets into any trouble.” This seemed like a sensible policy.
“Fair enough, sir. I must say, things seem to be going well. Yesterday, we were expecting to capture Atlanta. It now appears that we will capture Atlanta and crush the Army of Tennessee at the same time.”
Sherman nodded, but did not share Schofield’s confidence. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something seemed amiss. He had been hoping since the beginning of the campaign that Johnston would leave his fortifications and fight him in the open field. Now that he had, however, Sherman felt unease rather than elation. Having convinced himself that the rebels had already given up the city, he was unsettled at having been so completely wrong. And if he was wrong about that, perhaps he was wrong about other things, too.
He shook his head, as if to rid his mind of such thoughts. He had to guard against such paranoia just as surely as he had to guard against enemy cavalry raids.
A courier rode up at full speed.
“Message from General McPherson, sir!”
“Go ahead.”
“McPherson begs to report that the defenses of Atlanta are not held by militia but by regular Confederate troops. They are deployed in considerable strength and he is therefore halting his advance to reconnoiter the enemy position properly.”
More uncertainty now rose in Sherman’s heart like a dark cloud. If McPherson had halted his advance, the threat being presented to Atlanta was lessened, which in turn would allow Johnston to concentrate on his attack against Thomas. McPherson had often been slow and overly cautious, which had led to the missed opportunity at Snake Creek Gap in the early days of the campaign. Was that mistake about to be repeated once again?
“Ride as quick as you can back to McPherson. Tell him that the enemy is engaged heavily with Thomas north of the city and that there cannot be many enemy troops facing him. He is to press the enemy hard, with all possible strength. Ride quick, man!”
“Yes, sir!” The man saluted and dashed off.
*****
It had turned into a fox hunt.
Trailed only by his color bearer, Cleburne rode forward behind his advancing men, sometimes walking, sometimes trotting, sometimes cantering. He kept glancing in every direction to get as clear an idea as possible of what was going on. All around him was smoke, confusion, gunfire, and shouting, but the din of the Rebel Yell permeated the air and seemed to overcome every other sound.
They had left behind the field where they had shattered the Union line and were now moving into more heavily wooded terrain. They were getting closer to Peachtree Creek with each step. Cleburne passed by innumerable corpses lying where they had fallen. Many wore Confederate gray, but a great many more wore Union blue. He also passed by clusters of unarmed Union men being marched to the rear as prisoners, escorted by a small number of his own troops.
Lieutenant Hanley rode up to him. “I just saw General Cheatham, sir!”
“And?”
Hanley smiled. “He’s broken through as well! Once Lowrey’s brigade made a right wheel into the flank of the Yankees facing him, they
collapsed like a house of cards. Now Cheatham’s moving north alongside us, driving the Yankees just fine. Captured two four-gun batteries, he has!”
Cleburne nodded sharply. He had figured as much. Once he and his division had smashed the Union line open, he had sent Granbury’s brigade directly through the gap into the Union rear, while ordering his other two brigades to wheel to the right and left and charge into the flanks of the adjacent Union divisions. Being hit from the front and flank would cause the Union line to come unhinged, spreading disorder and widening the gap.
The five thousand men of Clayton’s division had followed Granbury’s brigade through the gap and were charging northwards at the double quick. He tried to imagine what Thomas was doing at that moment. An excellent fighter and a tough soldier, particularly when on the defensive, he was no doubt trying to organize sufficient forces to plug the gap that had been torn in his line. With Granbury’s brigade and Clayton’s division pressing the attack with all their strength, that was likely going to be very difficult.
The sound of gunfire picked up to the north and Cleburne heard the distinctive boom of Northern artillery. Now that they were moving through more heavily forested ground again, the impact of superior Yankee artillery was somewhat negated. But enemy shells were still going to be killing a lot of his men until he could capture the guns or eliminate their crews.
A sergeant and private emerged from a cluster of trees, leading a group of eight or nine Yankee prisoners. The private was holding a lowered Springfield rifle at the bluecoats, while the sergeant held a Union battle flag in his arms. Cleburne noted that one of the Yankee prisoners had a major’s stripes on his shoulder.
“What regiment are you from?” Cleburne asked.
“19th Louisiana, sir!” the sergeant answered.
“Congratulations on capturing this flag. From what unit is it?”
“154th New York Infantry,” the captured Union major said resignedly.
“Your name, sir?”
“Major Lewis Warner, sir.”
“My men will treat you properly, Major. For you, the war is over. Keep heading that direction.” Cleburne pointed directly to the south. The men vanished into the tree line a few moments later.
“154th?” Hanley said in astonishment. “How can a single state raise one hundred and fifty-four regiments of infantry?”
“The Union possess manpower and material resources that we can never hope to match,” Cleburne answered. “Let us remain focused on the battle.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Ride over to Loring’s Division on the left, observe the situation, then come back and find me. I know what’s happening on my right, but I need to know what’s happening on my left.”
Hanley saluted and, without a word, dashed away. Cleburne again found himself with only his color bearer, Private Hatch, as company. He turned Red Pepper northwards and began walking forward.
“Are we winning the battle, sir?” Private Hatch asked.
“I think so, yes. But ask me again at the end of the day.”
*****
Thomas had mounted his horse and ridden forward as soon as he had heard the sound. There had been a tremendous crash of intense musketry followed by a dark and ominous silence. Conceivably this could indicate that the rebels had punched through his line and were now using the bayonet on his men. Unfortunately, the forested nature of the ground meant that he could not see what was happening. Riding forward was a risk, but he felt it was necessary. Besides, he had an escort of cavalry with him in case he got into any trouble.
It did not take Thomas long before he realized that something had gone horribly wrong on the front lines. As he and his escort rode forward, they begin encountering frantic soldiers, individually or in small groups, all of whom had the unmistakable air of defeat hanging over them. Many were unarmed, running in a panic toward the rear. Others simply seemed bewildered, like men who had been hit on the head and had just awoken.
Thomas spotted a captain who was running about frantically with his sword, trying to stop the men from fleeing.
“You there!” Thomas roared. The man stopped and saluted when he saw who was addressing him. “What is happening?”
“Captain David Thompson, sir! 79th Ohio! It’s a damn disaster, sir! Cleburne’s men routed our division and are pouring through the gap like a bunch of devils! Another bunch of rebel brigades are pushing through, too!”
“My God,” Thomas said under his breath. He tried to recall to which division the 79th Ohio belonged. “Where is General Ward?”
“Dead, sir! I saw him hit in the head and fall from his horse. Lots of the officers are killed or captured. Dammit all, sir, the division has fallen apart!”
Thomas glanced around. Seeing the streams of disorganized and dispirited men flowing toward the rear, he couldn’t disagree. He sprang into action, firing off orders and dispatching staff officers and messengers in every direction. He sent one man off to find General Hooker, who commanded the corps in this sector. Others were simply sent to locate division commanders in order to get a better picture of the situation. Two men were dispatched to hurry the reserve brigades forward to plug the gap.
As a small army of dispatch riders dispersed from his position, Thomas rode forward once again, with two dozen cavalrymen riding alongside him. He reminded himself that he had been in tight spots before. On the first day of the Battle of Stone’s River, his line had been battered by Hardee’s assault, yet he had finally held. On the second day at Chickamauga, the entire right wing of the Union army has dissolved into rout, but he had held on long enough to cover the retreat despite being assailed by superior numbers. Thomas was not a man given to panic under any circumstances.
Even as he kept his head, he silently admitted to himself that the situation now facing him was the most critical and dangerous he had yet encountered in the war. His army had its back to a river and the center of its line had been broken. Thomas knew from long experience that panic could spread through an army like a prairie fire through a dry grass prairie. More than at any time in his career, he now faced the possibility of a complete disaster. Still, so long as he remained calm, the situation might yet be salvaged.
He ordered the cavalry escort to spread itself out into a line about two hundred yards long. The retreating infantry found themselves confronted by saber-wielding men on formidable horses, all shouting for them to stop running and get back in line. Thomas remained in the center of this line, watching with increasing apprehension as the majority of his men continued to dash past the line of horsemen without stopping.
*****
The Lone Star Rifles had gone into battle with twenty-four soldiers. Now, including McFadden himself, the company had only ten men left. Three men had been detached as part of a detail to escort prisoners to the rear, but the other eleven were unaccounted for. McFadden worried about the missing men, knowing that many of them had to have been killed or wounded, but he had no time to think about it now.
The 7th Texas was a shadow of its former self. Not only had it suffered heavy casualties, but it had become completely disorganized over the course of the battle. McFadden was not sure if the Confederate troops on either side of him were even from the 7th Texas. Some of them belonged to the other Texas regiments in Granbury’s brigade, but others belonged to the Georgia, Louisiana, or Alabama brigades of Clayton’s division. All was confusion and chaos, but the Southerners instinctively understood that they had to continue to push forward, no matter what the situation.
The Yankees were on the run. Since punching through the Union line two hours earlier, the Confederates had been steadily grinding their way forward, driving the enemy before them and taking large numbers of prisoners. The Lone Star Rifles had captured the battle flag of the 82nd Illinois, which McFadden hoped would redound to their credit when the battle was over. They had also taken over two dozen enemy prisoners, who had been sent to the rear under an armed guard led by Private Montgomery.
Bull
ets whizzed by McFadden’s head, causing him to spin behind the cover of a thick pine tree. Seconds afterward, he heard two dull thuds and saw little spits of splinters fly off the trunk. Obviously, there were Yankees up ahead who were still full of fight.
“Careful, boys!” he shouted to his men. He hoped other nearby Confederate soldiers from other units would also heed his warnings.
Pearson raised his rifle and squeezed off a round, then took cover behind the same tree as McFadden and began reloading his Enfield. “I think I got one, Sarge.”
“See how many there were up ahead?”
“Nope,” Pearson answered. “Too many damn trees.”
Pearson finished reloading, then bolted from the cover of the tree to another one, a few yards away. Two bullets narrowly missed him as he ran. From his new cover, he ventured out for an instant to fire in the direction he thought the Yankees were located, but did not wait to see whether he hit anything.
Harrison and one other of the remaining Lone Star Rifles were prone on the ground a few yards away, laboriously attempting the difficult task of reloading their rifles while lying down. “Bunch of Yankees in that clump of trees just ahead, Sarge!” shouted one of them.
“Stay down!” He wished Harrison had not shouted so loudly, as it would certainly tell the enemy where he was.
McFadden peeked around the tree, catching a momentary glance at the group. There were perhaps ten of them, huddled around a cluster of four or five trees. He could see some of them reloading their rifles, while another leveled his weapon directly at McFadden. He ducked back behind the tree just as the man fired, sending a bullet smacking into the trunk.
The only other Southern troops he could see were perhaps a hundred yards away on either side. He considered calling out to them for help, as they would be able to get around this bothersome group of Yankees with little trouble. But they doubtless had their own problems to deal with. Throughout his field of vision, as individuals or in small groups, frightened Northern troops continued to run past in a bid to escape the fighting.
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