Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “Is that you, William?” Thomas said as the two men approached.

  “It is, George! Are you injured?”

  “No,” Thomas replied glumly.

  “By God, I never expected to have you as a prisoner.”

  Thomas sighed and tilted his head, but otherwise made no response.

  “Being a prisoner isn’t so bad, George. You’ll recall that I spent some time as a prisoner of the Mexicans in ‘46. Back in the good old days, eh?”

  Thomas’s mouth actually curled into a slight smile. Cleburne recalled that Hardee and Thomas were old friends. Their time at West Point had overlapped for a few years, they had served together in Mexico, and they had both been officers in the Second Cavalry Regiment on the Texas frontier. He couldn’t imagine how strange and awkward it had to be for the two to be reunited under such circumstances.

  Hardee gestured to Cleburne. “May I present my colleague, General Patrick Cleburne.”

  Thomas nodded. “ General Cleburne,” he said with little enthusiasm. “I have heard a great deal about you.”

  Cleburne nodded in return. “I am honored to meet you, General Thomas.”

  “I understand that it was your division which broke my line.”

  “My men had that honor, sir.”

  “A fine performance.” His voice betrayed no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  Cleburne thought Thomas was being sincere, but was not surprised to hear deep unhappiness in his voice. “Thank you, sir.”

  “My men are treating you properly?” Hardee asked.

  “Yes,” Thomas answered. “This man is the soldier who captured me.” He gestured to the sergeant standing by his side. “He has been most gracious.”

  “Your name, young man?” Hardee asked.

  “Sergeant James McFadden. 7th Texas.” If the man was at all uneasy being in the presence of so many high-ranking generals, he didn’t show it.

  Cleburne had not known the man’s name, but he recognized him. He reviewed each brigade in his division at least once a week and had noted the man’s face on a few previous occasions when walking or riding down the line of Granbury’s Texas Brigade. He had mentally labeled the man as “The Fierce-Looking Sergeant.” Although he had never thought about him for more than a few moments, it was nice to have a name to put to his face, especially as he had just achieved a noteworthy feat.

  “You’ll be mentioned in the dispatches for this, Sergeant McFadden,” Cleburne said. “It falls to few soldiers in history to capture the commander of the opposing army.”

  “Oh?” McFadden said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “George, you will be my guest at dinner this evening,” Hardee said.

  “Thank you, but I am afraid I must decline.”

  “Don’t be like that, George! This is a reunion of old friends! We can swap old stories about our days at West Point and in Mexico!”

  “Forgive me, William. I mean no disrespect. But I cannot find it in my heart to celebrate even a reunion with an old friend while my army lies in ruins. I have just suffered one of the worst defeats that an army has suffered in the history of war.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Besides, I do not wish to share a table with those who have turned their backs on their country.”

  Darkness clouded Hardee’s face. He didn’t answer for several seconds. “Suit yourself, George. For what it’s worth, I would prefer not to endure the company of a man who betrayed his state. Sergeant McFadden, would you please escort this man to General Johnston’s headquarters?”

  McFadden nodded. “Of course, sir.” He tilted his head to the south and Thomas walked on without speaking further. Hardee and Cleburne watched as they disappeared into the trees and the gathering darkness.

  Hardee shook his head and didn’t speak for a few minutes. Cleburne wondered what was going through his head. He was himself a warm friend of Hardee’s. Indeed, he had been the best man at his wedding and had already asked Hardee to serve as his best man at his upcoming wedding to his darling Susan. More than anyone, Cleburne knew the value Hardee placed on friendship. Many times over the past few years, he had heard Hardee talk about how much he respected Thomas. To have been spoken to in such a manner would doubtless wound his friend considerably.

  Hardee turned to him. “I shall head east to see how the attack is progressing with the other divisions.”

  Cleburne nodded. “Very well, sir. I shall continue to push north. Peachtree Creek is not far.”

  “Good luck, Pat. I shall see you when it is all over.”

  As Hardee rode off, Cleburne headed back north, still being followed by Hanley and two other staff officers, with Private John Hatch still bearing the divisional colors.

  *****

  Sherman rode forward, increasingly frustrated. The roar of battle was still audible off to the northwest, where Thomas was hopefully pummeling the two corps Johnston had been foolish enough to send forward in an attack. Surely McPherson, with twenty-five thousand men and Schofield in support, should be able to deal with the small rebel covering force on the eastern side of the city. Yet no sound of battle could be heard just ahead.

  It took some time for the staff officers to locate McPherson, so it wasn’t until nearly six o’clock that Sherman reined in alongside his subordinate’s horse. A hundred yards away, two Union divisions were formed up in a battle line, waiting patiently.

  “What the hell are you waiting for, James?” Sherman asked without preamble.

  “It’s not the Georgia Militia manning those trenches, Cump. It’s the Army of Tennessee! Hood’s corps, by the look of it.”

  “I know that!” Sherman snapped. “I got your message! Why haven’t you attacked? Your men should have planted their flags on top of those trenches over an hour ago.”

  McPherson frowned and Sherman’s frustration increased. Was McPherson’s caution to rob them of a great victory, as it had at Snake Creek Gap two months before?

  A series of low booms announced the firing of several heavy cannon from the Confederate lines. Some shells exploded in the Union formations, tossing many dead and wounded men to the ground like broken dolls. A single shell exploded about thirty yards away, close enough to spook Sherman’s horse slightly.

  “James, listen to me. Thomas is under attack by two corps of rebel infantry, so the force facing you here cannot be that large. If you push forward with all your force, you can break through at any point along the line. There is still enough daylight left to capture these trenches. Then, we can move into the city tomorrow morning.”

  Sherman was about to continue when a courier rode up. The man looked apprehensive and exhausted. Covered in dust, he had obviously ridden a great distance at top speed.

  “Sir! General Sherman!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “We are beaten, sir! The rebels broke through Thomas’s line at the center and everything fell apart! The Army of the Cumberland has been routed!”

  “My God!” McPherson gasped.

  “Can it be true?” Sherman asked. “Surely not!”

  “There’s no doubt, sir! Several officers from the Army of the Cumberland arrived at headquarters in a state of panic! They say the rebels attacked at one o’clock. Things were going well at first, but then the division holding the center of the line collapsed. The rebels poured through the breach and the entire line fell apart.”

  Sherman’s mind raced. He’d been in the midst of a routed army before, when he had commanded a brigade at the First Battle of Bull Run. If the Army of the Cumberland had been routed on the south side of Peachtree Creek, the defeated and confused units would have a great deal of trouble retreating to the north bank. The potential for complete disaster was very real.

  “Where is General Thomas?”

  “No one knows, sir. No word from him for several hours.”

  Sherman felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. He shook his head, trying to concentrate. If Thomas had suffered a complete defeat, Johnston might conceivably be able to strike north a
nd capture the Union bridges over the Chattahoochee River, trapping not only whatever was left of the Army of the Cumberland on the south side of the river, but the armies of Schofield and McPherson as well.

  He remembered Grant’s warning that Jubal Early might soon be arriving in Georgia with twenty thousand rebel reinforcements from Virginia. Was it possible that these men had already arrived? Could they even now be under attack by veterans of the Army of Northern Virginia?

  Another courier arrived, having come straight from General Hooker.

  “What’s the situation?” Sherman demanded. He hoped against hope that things had changed for the better.

  “General Thomas is missing, sir! Either dead or a prisoner. Hooker says that he is taking command of the Army of the Cumberland and will try to withdraw to the north bank of Peachtree Creek in as much order as possible. Hooker urgently requests reinforcements.”

  “Thomas dead?” he said, stunned. He felt like a cold fist was closing around his heart. Their relationship might lack personal warmth, but Sherman knew how much he depended on the steady and solid leadership of Thomas. The loyal Virginian was one of the best generals the Union had. If he were indeed dead or a prisoner, the Union cause might have suffered a blow as severe as the battlefield defeat of the Army of the Cumberland.

  The idea of Joseph Hooker being in command of the Army of the Cumberland, even if only temporarily, filled Sherman with dread. Although Hooker was the highest-ranking corps commander and therefore entitled to take command, Sherman considered Hooker a vainglorious blowhard and incompetent to boot. He certainly did not consider Hooker the man to extract the Army of the Cumberland from such a dangerous situation.

  “Shall I attack, sir?” McPherson said.

  Sherman’s mind was spinning. “What?”

  “Shall I attack, sir? If I attack, I may create a diversion that could enable the Army of the Cumberland to escape.”

  “No,” Sherman said quickly. “No, an attack is now out of the question. We need to get the Army of the Tennessee back to the north side of Atlanta without delay. Schofield, too. If Thomas has been defeated, Johnston may follow up his victory by capturing our crossings over the Chattahoochee.”

  “Surely things can’t be as bad as that, Cump. Perhaps Hooker can rally the men and restore the situation.”

  Sherman didn’t say anything in response, but merely shook his head. He had no confidence in Hooker’s abilities. He could feel his own spirit rapidly giving way to panic. Unpleasant memories from years earlier, memories which he would have liked to forget, were quickly boiling to the surface.

  “Cump?” McPherson asked, a little too insistently. “What shall we do?”

  He turned to one of his couriers. “Message to Schofield. He is to move his army at once to the assistance of the Army of the Cumberland, while marching one division to Buckhead to prevent any rebel move toward our bridges. Wheeler’s cavalry may be about, after all.”

  The man saluted and kicked his horse into a canter, rapidly disappearing.

  Sherman faced McPherson. “James, your army must now march back the way it came. I know your men are already tired, but they will have to march all night. We must get them away from the east side of the city and avoid any trap the rebels might attempt to catch us in.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Not at all, sir.” He paused for a moment. “To tell the truth, Cump, I honestly don’t know what the best course of action is.”

  “Neither do I,” Sherman admitted. “Our main objective now is not to capture Atlanta, but to escape with as much of our force intact as possible.”

  *****

  “Where is General Lowrey?” Cleburne shouted to a captain. It was hard to make himself heard over the roar of musketry.

  “He’s wounded, sir! Shot through the leg!”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head angrily. Two of his three brigade commanders were gone, one dead and one wounded. His subordinates were simply too brave for their own good. He said a silent prayer, asking God to preserve the life of General Lowrey and to allow Granbury, at least, to survive the battle unscathed. He asked nothing for himself.

  “Who is senior?”

  “Don’t know, sir! Might be me, for all the regimental commanders are dead, too!”

  “I will lead you myself.”

  Taking direct control of the brigade seemed like the sensible thing to do. He wasn’t about to burden a mere captain with the command of an entire brigade. Besides, his division was now scattered over several miles of the battlefield. The regiments of Granbury’s Texans, after leading the initial breakthrough of the Union line, had become separated from one another in the confusion of their charge north. Less than ten minutes before, he had left Granbury to the task of locating his units and reforming them if it were possible.

  After the breakthrough, he had sent Govan’s Arkansans wheeling to the left, shattering the left flank of the Union divisions facing Stewart’s corps. The few reports he had received from them since then indicated that they were doing well and helping Stewart’s men drive the Yankees northwards. He had sent a staff officer to discover their whereabouts, but assumed that they could take care of themselves.

  That left Lowrey’s Brigade. They had smashed the right flank of the Yankee division facing Cheatham after the initial breakthrough, then pushed north alongside Granbury’s Texans and Clayton’s division. Now, they were within a hairsbreadth of Peachtree Creek itself.

  It took him a few minutes to get the brigade under control. The Alabama and Mississippi men were stunned at the ferocity of the combat they had gone through and shocked at the heavy losses they had sustained, but they were also seized with the fire that victory lights in the hearts of men. Word that Cleburne had taken personal command of the brigade quickly swept through the lines, calming frayed nerves and cementing confidence.

  He pushed on north, with the three Alabama regiments advancing in a sturdy line and the two Mississippi regiments held back as a reserve. The Yankee regiments facing them, disorganized and dispirited though they were, fought with a grim stubbornness, knowing they had little space left in which to retreat. Peachtree Creek was less than a quarter of a mile away.

  “Which direction to Collier’s Bridge?” he asked Hanley, who was riding close behind him. Like him, Hanley had ridden over the ground the day before the battle to fully acquaint himself with the terrain.

  “To the north and slightly west, I think!”

  “Push on, men!” Cleburne urged. “The creek is not far! Push on!”

  Thirty minutes later, after vicious fighting, Collier’s Bridge was in Confederate hands. When the fighting subsided, the ground on the south bank was littered with dead and wounded men of both sides. His own troops had suffered heavily and expended a great deal of their remaining ammunition, but Cleburne beamed with pride as the hooves of Red Pepper thumped onto the sturdy wooden planks of the main bridge over Peachtree Creek.

  “Prepare for defense!” Cleburne shouted. “The Yankees are going to try to get the bridge back!”

  Cleburne was convinced that a counter attack was imminent. He certainly would have tried to retake the bridge had he been in the same position as the Yankees. The bulk of the Army of the Cumberland was still trapped on the south side of Peachtree Creek. Although they had erected a few bridges themselves that morning after they had first crossed the creek, Collier’s Bridge remained the easiest place for them to escape to the north bank. Union forces would be drawn to the bridge as though it were a magnet.

  “Hanley! Ride as fast as you can to General Clayton, or any other commander! Tell them that we have taken Collier’s Bridge and that reinforcements must be sent immediately!”

  “At once, sir!” He saluted and rode off. Cleburne was happy to see him go, for he would be much safer away from the bridge than he would have been had he remained.

  He ordered the two Mississippi regiments to the north side of the bridge, to protect agains
t any attempt by the Union forces there to retake it from that side of the creek. He then ordered his men to cut down trees to create a barricade on the south side, but only three or four axes were available and no trees had been successfully cut down when the shout came.

  “Here they come!” an Alabama lieutenant called as he ran back from the thin picket line Cleburne had sent out. “Thousands of them! All headed this way!”

  “Nowhere to run, boys!” Cleburne shouted out. “But if we are to die, let us die like men!”

  The men cheered, but Cleburne felt apprehensive. His motley collection of soldiers probably numbered just a bit over a thousand men. For all he knew, they were about to be assailed by ten thousand Yankees.

  But Cleburne had been in tight spots before. He figured the odds were only slightly worse than those he had faced at Ringgold Gap, when his small division had held back the entire Yankee army for hours. His confidence was buoyed by the fact that the Yankee troops about to attack him would be undisciplined and probably panic-stricken because of what they had already been through during the course of the day. Undisciplined soldiers did stupid things.

  As the first Union soldiers came into view through the trees, Cleburne’s belief was born out. They were not organized into proper lines at all, but were simply an enormous mob rushing toward the bridge in a human wave attack. Cleburne speculated quickly that they must be the remnants of a Union division that had been broken somewhere to the south, probably by Cheatham’s men, and were now simply running as fast as they could to gain the north side of the creek.

  He noticed the looks of terror on the faces of many of the Yankees when they realized that the bridge was occupied by Confederate troops. Many of them paused uncertainly, only to be shoved forward again by the men pressing from behind. Few officers seemed to be present. None of the Yankees halted to shoot.

  Cleburne gave the order to fire. The few surviving officers repeated them up and down the line, and the Southerners unleashed a torrent of musketry into the terrified mass of Unionists. With such a large target, Cleburne’s men couldn’t miss. Scores of Yankees went down in the first few seconds, the wounded rapidly being trampled by the feet of their comrades. Cleburne tried not to listen to their screams.