Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “We’re in a good spot, all things considered.”

  Johnston nodded. As he and Mackall continued along the line, his men stood up and cheered. All of them felt the same elation as he did, having successfully outwitted the vaunted Union general and blocked the path to his objective. Now, all he had to do was await Grant’s next move.

  A cavalry major rode up and reined in near them, quickly saluting.

  “We got some prisoners, sir. It’s the Army of the Ohio opposite us.”

  “That’s surprising,” Johnston said. “Any sign of the Army of the Tennessee?”

  “No, sir.”

  Johnston frowned. “I wonder where it is.”

  “Perhaps it’s bringing up the rear, sir,” Mackall offered.

  Johnston turned back to the cavalryman. “Have any of the scouts penetrated to the rear of the Union column?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. There’s lots of Union cavalry about, especially out to the northwest of the enemy force. It’s not easy to get any of our people through their screen.”

  There was a soft boom of artillery and a few shells began landing in front of the fortified line. Johnston was unconcerned. His men were so well dug in that even the heaviest bombardment was unlikely to inflict many casualties. Some of the Confederate batteries opened fire, though most remained silent. He had given orders to conserve ammunition until the main Yankee attack.

  “The shelling could be the prelude to an infantry assault,” Mackall said.

  Johnston shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. They’re just feeling us out. Trying to determine our strength. They are probably unaware that it’s the Army of Tennessee and imagine that they are just facing some of Richard Taylor’s troops.”

  “Well, if that’s what Grant thinks, he’s sadly mistaken,” Mackall said with a wry grin.

  The artillery duel continued for about half an hour. Then both sides slowed their rate of fire and eventually stopped the shelling altogether. It was as if the opposing gunners had silently come to a mutual agreement that there was little point to it.

  Johnston frowned, troubled. Mackall saw his chief’s discomfort.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I’m not sure. Something doesn’t seem quite right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Johnston pointed to the Union forces across the line. “Sherman never used the Army of the Ohio in this fashion. It was always a maneuver force. To my knowledge, it was never assigned the central position in a battle.”

  “That’s correct. But Grant is not Sherman.”

  “True, true. But judging from everything I have studied about Grant’s operations, I would have expected him to assign the most important role to either his beloved Army of the Tennessee or the more experienced Army of the Cumberland.”

  Mackall shrugged. “It is unusual. But I see no cause for concern. If I had to guess, I would assume that the Army of the Tennessee was simply behind the Army of the Ohio during their march into Alabama. If that is the case, they are probably forming up somewhere behind the Army of the Ohio even as we speak.”

  Johnston thought hard for a moment, watching as a thin line of Yankee skirmishers filtered out of the main enemy line like a host of tiny beetles. A few Southern troops fired at them, but the distance was so great that none of them hit anything. The Confederate officers shouted orders for the men to hold steady, as the deployment of skirmishers could indicate that an attack was in the offing.

  The Union force made no move to attack. Johnston found this irritating. It was as though two boxers were in a ring, but each was simply sitting in the corner and smiling at the other.

  Johnston turned to Mackall. “Send word to the cavalry. I want the Army of the Tennessee located. I don’t care how they do it, just that they do it. No excuses. I want to know exactly where the Army of the Tennessee is and I want to know by the time the sun goes down tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mackall said. He turned his horse and kicked it into a canter, heading back toward their headquarters. Johnston turned and looked across the lines at the Union forces again, even more troubled than he had been before.

  *****

  “Sir, the telegraph line to Lafayette appears to have been cut.”

  Cleburne cursed, which was a rare thing for him. It really should not have come as much of a surprise. Had he been in Grant’s shoes, the first thing he would have done would have been to cut the telegraph line to the main Confederate force in Alabama, thus preventing Johnston from learning about the predicament in Atlanta until it was too late.

  “Any word from Hardee?”

  “Yes. General Hardee requests that you report to him immediately at the Niles House.”

  “Tell him there’s no time for that!” Cleburne snapped. “The Yankees could be here at any moment! Tell him that he must come to East Point at once!”

  The telegraph operator nodded and dashed off to send the message.

  Cleburne swore again, then stared down hard at the map. He was exhausted, having not slept so much as a minute during the previous night. He was in the tiny hamlet of East Point, southwest of Atlanta on the Western and West Point Railroad, the line that linked Atlanta with the cities of Alabama. Granbury’s Texas Brigade held the post, along with a couple of companies of the Georgia Militia. Even counting the latter as soldiers, a mere two thousand men were in position at East Point. It was now estimated that something like sixty thousand Federal troops were heading their way.

  On his own initiative, he had sent riders back to Atlanta with orders for his other two brigades to march to his assistance at once. In addition to bombarding him with telegrams every half hour, Cleburne had also sent two staff officers to the headquarters at Niles House in order to give Hardee the news of the unexpected Union advance on Atlanta from the west.

  Warfield’s Brigade was now expected to arrive within the hour, and Hardcastle’s Brigade was not far behind. When they reached him, they would add roughly four thousand men to the force holding East Point. Even then, they would be outnumbered ten-to-one. If the other divisions of the corps did not march immediately to their assistance, there would be no way they could maintain their position.

  The loss of East Point would be a heavy blow to the Confederate corps defending Atlanta. With only about eighteen thousand men against Grant’s oncoming host of at least sixty thousand, they would certainly fail without assistance. Their only hope, it seemed to Cleburne, was to hold out long enough for word to get to Johnston and for the commander of the Army of Tennessee to get the corps of Stewart and Cheatham back to the city.

  The cold and inescapable logic of this meant that the Confederates would have to keep the railroad line to Alabama open. And that, in turn, meant that they would have to hold East Point.

  The next few hours were among the most tense in Cleburne’s life. He had no cavalry, so he sent out scouts singly or in pairs using the few horses available. They confirmed Cleburne’s worst fears. The cavalry division he had encountered the night was screening the advance of a very large infantry force, at least several divisions strong. If what Lieutenant McFadden had told him was true, it was the entire Army of the Tennessee and a fair chunk of the Army of the Cumberland.

  He thought for a moment about McFadden, who had left him when they had arrived at East Point in order to return to the 7th Texas. He imagined that he was somewhere in the trenches preparing to meet the attack along with his comrades. Had McFadden not abandoned his quest for vengeance, the first warning anyone would have had of the approach of the enemy would have been the moment they had started lobbing artillery shells into downtown Atlanta.

  Cleburne wondered if McFadden fully understood how great a contribution he had made to the Confederate cause. Only a few months before, he had been a mere sergeant. He seemed to possess a sharp intelligence, so Cleburne figured he knew perfectly well what he had done. He doubted, however, that McFadden would discuss it with his comrades. He did not seem to be the sort of man
to brag, even when it involved telling the truth.

  To his great relief, just after ten o’clock, one of their few cavalry regiments arrived near East Point. Cleburne immediately directed its companies to fan out through into the area. It was critically important to get an exact picture of where the Union forces were, in what strength, where they were going, and how fast they were moving.

  Even better was the arrival, around eleven o’clock, of General Hardee. He had barely dismounted his horse when he shouted out to Cleburne.

  “What the hell’s going on, Patrick?” He rushed into the tent.

  “Heavy formations of Union infantry, at least a few corps strong, are less than seven miles away. One column is moving directly toward the city. The other is headed this direction. We cannot be absolutely certain, but it appears that the column to the north consists of two corps of the Army of the Cumberland. The column to the south appears to be the Army of the Tennessee.”

  “My God!” Hardee exclaimed. “I didn’t want to believe your telegram. We’ve been hoodwinked. Completely and utterly hoodwinked.”

  Cleburne nodded soberly. “While Johnston awaits Grant’s arrival in Lafayette, the Union commander-in-chief is in reality moving on Atlanta with an overwhelming force.”

  “Have you notified him?” Hardee asked.

  “I can’t. The telegraph line to Lafayette has been cut.”

  Hardee thought quickly and dictated an order to a staff officer. The telegraph operator at the Car Shed in Atlanta was to dispatch a message to Macon, where it would be routed through Columbus and thence on to Johnston’s command post in Lafayette. It would take several hours for the message to reach him, but it was the best that could be done.

  Cleburne quickly explained the orders he had given to his brigade commanders, and Hardee nodded quickly in agreement.

  “Bate will come to your support here at East Point, as this appears to be the point of greatest danger. Maney’s division will take position on the western front of the Atlanta fortifications themselves. I will station Walker to cover the space between Bate and Maney, able to move quickly to one or the other.”

  “And the cavalry?”

  Hardee frowned. “We have but one brigade.”

  “I know. And I sent one regiment out to scout just before you arrived.”

  “When they get back in, we’ll send them down to check the railroad. If I were in Grant’s shoes, I’d send my own horsemen to strike at the railroad at other places than just East Point. We’ll hope our own troopers can keep them away.”

  Cleburne nodded quickly. “We do not have nearly enough troops, but we must do the best we can.”

  “The enemy will try to take East Point first, to cut us off from any possible reinforcement from Johnston. You must hold this position at all costs. But if the worst happens, you and Bate must be prepared to rapidly withdrew your troops to the inner fortifications of Atlanta. Considering their strength, we might be able to hold out for a time even against such superior numbers.”

  “Thank God Johnston saw fit to extend the defenses of the city southwest toward East Point,” Cleburne said. “Were it not for his foresight, we would be in a much worse situation.”

  Hardee chuckled bitterly. “Had he had better foresight, he would not have been so completely duped by Grant. As it was, he was tricked into sending two-thirds of the army over a hundred miles away to deal with a threat that didn’t exist.”

  *****

  September 24, Noon

  Grant rode with McPherson at the head of one of the infantry divisions of the Army of the Tennessee. His smile curled around the ever-present cigar. Behind them, tens of thousands of blue-coated soldiers were marching with confidence and swagger.

  “Cincinnati is a fine animal, sir,” McPherson said. “I assume you acquired him after the Battle of Chattanooga, as I do not remember seeing you ride him previously.”

  “He was given to me about a month after Chattanooga by a fellow in St. Louis, whose name was also Grant. I am still not sure if he was a relative or not.”

  “How interesting.”

  Grant leaned forward and patted the animal’s neck. “He is a fine animal, as you say. His father was named Lexington, who I understand held the national speed record for the four mile race for a number of years. I’ve never seen a more beautiful horse, and I have certainly seen my share over the past few years. He carried me through all the battles against Lee in Virginia. I hope he shall soon carry me into Atlanta.”

  The booming of artillery was suddenly heard up ahead. Grant and McPherson both squinted in the sun to see where it was coming from. They sensed the men in the marching column tense, as they must have felt the probability that they would be in the midst of a bloody battle in the near future.

  A cavalry captain rode up. “Less than a mile to East Point, General Grant. The rebels are dug in strong, looks like.”

  “How many?” McPherson asked.

  “Maybe a brigade, sir. But looks like another one is on its way from the north.”

  “Better hurry up, James,” Grant said. “We got awful close before they found us out, but they’ll be trying to get all their boys in our way now that they know we’re here. Best hit them fast and hit them hard, and knock them out of those trenches before they can get too many rifles into them.”

  There was a rattling of musketry from somewhere ahead. It sounded heavier than would have been expected from mere skirmishing.

  “Any idea what that is, Captain?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sir. There was nothing going on in that direction when I left the front to report to you.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.” Grant kicked Cincinnati into a trot, followed by McPherson and their staff officers. A company of Illinois cavalry followed to protect them, sending up a cloud of dust.

  They rode about fifteen minutes, passing by several brigades of infantry as they did so. The men did not cheer this time. Most of them, hearing the steadily increasing sounds of musket and artillery fire, knew that battle could be joined at any moment. No one’s courage faltered, but the tension was obvious.

  As they got closer to the front of the Army of the Tennessee, the marching columns slowed and eventually stopped. The sound of musketry was getting louder. Looking on ahead, Grant could see Union formations that had deployed into battle lines. This irritated Grant considerably, for he had not wanted to deploy the men until they were much closer to the Southern line.

  A breathless lieutenant rode up.

  “What the hell is going on?” Grant demanded.

  “The rebels, sir! A brigade came out from the line and charged toward our left flank. We had to go into a battle line to beat them back. They fell back a bit, then came forward again.”

  “Can you identify them?”

  “Kentucky regiments, according to their battle flags.”

  “The Orphan Brigade,” McPherson said. “Bloody hell. One of Johnston’s best.”

  Grant grunted. “They’re trying to make us deploy early, to delay us from reaching their main line. Most likely they’re rushing reinforcements to the spot. They must have just realized we were approaching some time during the night.”

  They continued forward until they were just a few hundred yards behind the battle line. Half a mile away, clearly visible in the open terrain, was a line of roughly a thousand men in Confederate butternut. They were keeping up a brisk fire against the Union infantry. A full Union division of three brigades had deployed, outnumbering the Southerners by at least three-to-one.

  “Why do these Kentuckians fight for the Confederacy?” McPherson wondered aloud. “Their state didn’t even secede.”

  “They say it did,” Grant observed. Kentucky had been bitterly divided between pro-Union and pro-secession factions back in 1861, and each had claimed the authority of a legitimate government. The secessionists had controlled much of southern Kentucky for several months, during which the regiments that eventually became the Orphan Brigade had been recruit
ed. They had fought gallantly on the Southern side ever since.

  “I wonder what will happen in that state after the war,” McPherson mused. “Thousands who fought for the South and thousands who fought for the Union will return home to Kentucky. How will they respond to each other?”

  “The same way the country as a whole will, I suppose. Of course, we have to win the war first.”

  McPherson chuckled. The two men stopped talking as they watched the unfolding engagement. The Orphans were taking heavy fire and high losses, but they gamely stayed in the fight. Their regiments kept moving forward and back like so many dancers, delivering repeated volleys of musketry into the Union ranks as they did so. Grant shook his head. The whole thing was very annoying.

  Eventually, a four-gun battery was brought up and began firing canister. At the same time, another Union division completed deployment on the Union left. It slowly wheeled to the right to overlap the rebel flank. Their mission to delay the Yankee advance having been achieved and unwilling to sustain further losses, the Orphan Brigade began to fall back.

  “Shall we pursue them, sir?” McPherson asked.

  “No,” Grant said with conviction. “See how they’re pulling away to the northeast? They’re hoping we’ll follow them.”

  McPherson looked hard and nodded. “Yes, I see. They’re trying to draw us away from the railroad.”

  “Quite so. The Army of the Cumberland will handle them. Press on to East Point as planned. We should not let the rebels dictate the events of this fight. It’s much more important to cut the railroad than to chase a single brigade.”

  “Indeed, it is. Do you think Johnston has learned of the situation yet?”

  Grant shrugged. “Probably. Even though we cut the direct telegraph line, there are other routes for the message to reach him. In any case, it’s too late for him to do anything about it.”

  “If our cavalry has done their job on the railroad, there’s nothing Johnston can do about our attack.”

  Grant nodded. Two brigades of Union cavalry had been ordered to veer southwards away from the main force to strike at the Western and East Point Railroad in various places. Though they would not have the strength to destroy the tracks completely, they could inflict substantial damage. With any luck, this would make it virtually impossible for the Southern troops now deployed in eastern Alabama to get back to Atlanta anytime soon. This was simply an additional precaution, as Atlanta would be cut off the moment they captured East Point.