Shattered Nation Page 13

  “Was he? I’m sorry.”

  Annie shrugged. “It’s been two years. They say time heals all wounds, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.” McFadden knew it wasn’t true. More than two years had passed since he had been forced to watch his own brother be tortured and killed, and the scarred face of the demented Yankee captain haunted his dreams as much now as it had then. Nor had the passage of time done much to erase the memory of the bodies of his parents and sisters, impaled by Comanche arrows.

  The memories were like the still-smoldering embers of a campfire. If you tossed even a little bit of kindling back onto them, the fire would burst forth again.

  “You look angry,” she said, confused. He glanced at her, feeling defensive. But the softness of her voice and the tender way she was looking at him caused his anger at the old memories to vanish almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  “I am sorry. My mind wandered off for a moment.”

  “If Father and I had drowned, Mother would have been left entirely alone. I cannot thank you enough for saving us.”

  “As I said to your father, it was nothing. I am glad I was nearby and able to help. Besides, you might have been able to get out of the river on your own.” McFadden said the last bit even though he knew it was false.

  “We are not imposing on you and your men, are we?”

  “No, not at all. Private Montgomery should be back very soon, and I know Captain Collett would be very upset with us if we failed to assist people in need.”

  As if on cue, McFadden saw Private Montgomery jogging back up to the clothes washing station, which was now almost cleaned up. When he arrived, Mr. Turnbow rose from his conversation and walked over to McFadden just as Montgomery reached him.

  “Well?” McFadden asked.

  “A commissary wagon train will be crossing the pontoon bridge shortly. Not more than three minutes behind me, in fact. The lieutenant commanding the escort said that they are heading for the Car Shed in the center of the city, and that they would be more than happy to bring along the civilians.”

  “Thank you, Montgomery. Get your stuff ready and tell the men that we’ll move out shortly.” Montgomery nodded and moved off.

  “Well, Sergeant McFadden,” Turnbow said. “Again, please let me express my deepest appreciation for rescuing my daughter and myself. And thank you for looking after us and making sure we reach the city. We are both in your debt.”

  “It is my pleasure and my duty to assist you, sir. And if I may say so, your daughter is a most gracious young lady.”

  Turnbow’s eyebrows rose and he eyed McFadden warily. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  McFadden stole a glance at Annie, who faintly blushed and looked away from him. At that moment, the first wagon emerged from the tree line. The man sitting next to the driver, who wore a lieutenant’s uniform, called out for them to jump into the back.

  “Please extend my best wishes to your commanding officer. He leads good men.”

  “Thank you, sir,” McFadden said. Turnbow extended his hand and McFadden shook it firmly.

  The wagon slowed to a halt just long enough for one of the soldiers to assist Annie and her father inside. The driver then whipped the mules back into a steady walk, and the wagon began to cross the bridge.

  McFadden watched them go. Just before he turned away, Annie cast a glance back over her shoulder and saw him looking at her. For an endless moment, her expression remained unchanged. Then, she smiled and faced forward once again.

  *****

  Sherman had set up his field headquarters near the small hamlet of Vining’s Station, a few miles north of the Confederate defensive position. A nearby hill offered a good vantage point from which to observe the surrounding countryside, so he had asked his senior commanders to ride with him to the summit. They could hear the sounds of their men skirmishing with the rebels and the ever-present booming of distant artillery.

  The reports filtering back to headquarters described a line of fortifications more formidable than any yet encountered since the beginning of the campaign. Attempting to carry them by assault would bring about a bloody repulse even worse than that at Kennesaw Mountain. Faced with an impregnable defensive position, Sherman realized that he would once again have to find a way to outmaneuver Johnston.

  Just to their right, a putrefying body was hanging from a large tree. It had been there when they had arrived, so presumably the man had been hanged by the Confederates just before they evacuated the area. Sherman had briefly wondered who the man had been. Perhaps a deserter of whom an example had been made or perhaps simply a common criminal. Conceivably the man might have committed suicide. No one particularly cared, as evidenced by the fact that no one had bothered to cut the body down.

  Thomas was scanning the area below them with his telescope. “I’ve never seen a line so well built,” he said. Sherman knew that the man nicknamed `The Rock of Chickamauga’ did not make such comments lightly. As he observed the position with his own telescope, he had to agree with Thomas. The Southern line arched for several miles, its flanks firmly anchored on the Chattahoochee. There was no way to outflank the position without crossing the river.

  “A rather pretty river, I must say,” commented General John Schofield, commander of the Army of the Ohio.

  “Yes,” replied General James McPherson, commander of the Army of the Tennessee. “But right now I’m more concerned with finding a way across the river than with assessing its aesthetic value.”

  Sherman had been the commander of the Army of the Tennessee before McPherson and the unit held a special place in his heart. It always annoyed him that the Army of the Tennessee had a name which led many newspapermen to confuse it with the Confederate Army of Tennessee. From the beginning of the war, the Union had named its armies after rivers, while the Confederacy had named its armies after states.

  Sherman liked McPherson a great deal. He had been first in his class at West Point and had achieved a solid record as a division and corps commander in earlier campaigns. Tall, handsome, and possessing what Sherman thought was the kindest heart of any man he had ever met, McPherson meant a great deal to his commanding officer.

  Schofield, on the other hand, always reminded Sherman of a bird, and a rather fat and ridiculous bird at that. Before the Atlanta Campaign had begun, he had seen little combat, having commanded forces in the military backwater of Missouri. While Sherman respected Schofield’s intelligence and thought him a decent enough man, he had never really warmed to him.

  Sherman’s grand host was made up of three constituent armies. Thomas’s Army of the Cumberland was by far the largest, with seventy thousand men. Indeed, it outnumbered Johnston’s entire force by itself. McPherson’s Army of the Tennessee numbered about twenty-five thousand, while Schofield’s Army of the Ohio had only fifteen thousand and was scarcely larger than a single infantry corps. In his maneuvers, it had become Sherman’s preference to keep the Army of the Cumberland in the center, with the other two armies, smaller and more mobile, operating on the flanks. In a certain sense, Thomas was the body, while McPherson and Schofield were the arms.

  “Look across the river,” Schofield said, pointing. “Over there.”

  The others scanned the area indicated. There were several large Confederate camps, where men were digging entrenchments. Smoke rising from cooking fires was clearly visible.

  “A division?” Sherman asked.

  “A few divisions, I should say,” Thomas replied. “There’s another one over there.”

  “So,” Sherman said. “Johnston has pulled at least part of his army to the south bank of the river.”

  “No surprise,” said Thomas. “It’s exactly what I’d do in his place. The force on the south bank is there to launch a counter attack against any effort on our part to cross the river.”

  “What do you think?” Schofield asked. “Maybe two corps holding this fortified line on the north bank and one corps on the south bank?”

  “Sounds about r
ight,” Thomas said.

  Sherman took a deep breath. Crossing a river in the face of the enemy was one of the most daunting maneuvers for a military commander to attempt. His army would necessarily be divided while it was crossing, giving the opponent the chance to fall on only a portion of the army with his full strength. The result could be a disaster.

  “What battle was it in which Alexander the Great had to cross a river in the face of the army commanded by that Hindu king?” Sherman asked.

  “The Battle of the Hydaspes, I believe,” McPherson answered. “In 326 BC, if I remember my West Point history lessons correctly. He used a massive feint, making the enemy think he was crossing at one point, causing him to rush his forces there, whereas the actual crossing point was several miles distant.”

  “It may be that we shall require a similar movement here.”

  “Would you like to borrow my copy of Plutarch?” Schofield said in a humorous tone. “You can brush up on the details.”

  “Yes,” Sherman answered, not realizing his subordinate had been joking. “I would be much obliged to you.”

  The sun was gradually burning away the morning mist, and Sherman saw something on the distant horizon that he had not noticed before. There was a purple smudge of some sort, and he focused his telescope on it. The domes and church steeples of a city were clearly visible.

  “Atlanta,” Sherman said soberly.

  “Only eight miles away,” McPherson said.

  Seeing the ultimate objective of his campaign for the first time filled Sherman with excitement. He knew better than anyone how heavy a blow the Confederacy would receive if he succeeded in capturing this city. If he could take from the South the transportation links and industrial facilities in Atlanta, he would tear the heart out of the Southern rebellion. It would be a defeat from which the Confederacy would never recover.

  Sherman snapped shut his telescope and leaned forward on his horse, deep in thought. If he could get his army across the Chattahoochee River, the city would be at his mercy. But how to do it in the face of an enemy that yet remained dangerous and diligent? He gazed up and down the river and was silent for several minutes, as the other three continued their visual surveying of the area.

  Finally, he spoke again, and did so in a commanding tone.

  “George, I want the Army of the Cumberland to encircle this Confederate position. Keep your boys skirmishing with the rebels in those damn forts. Keep them pinned down and do your utmost to make them stay put. I don’t want a single additional rebel regiment crossing to the south bank if you can prevent it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to have the cavalry swarm around the river to the southwest of Johnston’s current position. They’ll be noisy and visible, the idea being to make Johnston think we intend to make our crossing downriver. Since we have always gone after his left flank, he will hopefully fall for it.”

  The three men nodded, and Sherman went on, speaking now to McPherson and Schofield.

  “I want the Army of the Tennessee and the Army of the Ohio to swing northwards, upriver from the Confederates, and try to find suitable crossing points. Load up the wagons, because you will be away from the railroad for a few days. Use your cavalry to scout the way, but try to avoid detection by the rebels for as long as possible. When you find a crossing point, get your men across the river as quick as you can, and be sure to fortify in a bridgehead as soon as you are across. Johnston could well try to counter attack the moment he finds out he’s been flanked.”

  The men muttered their understanding, and Sherman asked if there were any questions. There weren’t.

  “All right, let’s get to it, then. With any luck, we’ll be having our dinner in Atlanta within a week or two.”

  *****

  July 7, Evening

  Johnston had set up his headquarters at a large house owned by the Campbell family, on the south side of the Chattahoochee not far from the Western and Atlanta Railroad. Somehow, being on the opposite bank from the front lines gave the assembled Confederate generals a certain psychological distance from the fighting, like being in a room with a door only slightly ajar.

  Hardee, Hood and Wheeler were all there, listening as Johnston described the current situation on the maps laid out on the table. Also present was General A.P. Stewart, recently promoted to command the army’s third corps following the death of the much-mourned General Polk.

  “Our engineers have done a remarkable job,” Johnston said with satisfaction. “Our current position on the north bank is all but impregnable, and its flanks are securely anchored on the river. Sherman will not easily outflank us this time, by God.”

  “I agree it’s a strong position,” Hood said. “But I am not comfortable being backed up against the river. During my time with General Lee, we made the mistake of doing that at Sharpsburg and nearly lost the whole army.”

  Hardee sighed a little too loudly. Hood was always talking about his service with Lee.

  “What are you suggesting, then?” Johnston asked.

  Hood spoke adamantly “I strongly recommend that we pull the entire army to the south side of the river without delay.”

  “That would be disastrous!” Hardee exclaimed. “So long as we remain on the north side of the river in force, Sherman cannot risk dividing his army.”

  “And you think the Yankees are simply going to sulk outside our fortified lines, then?” Hood’s voice rang with mockery. “Just like they did at Dalton and Resaca, eh? No, they’ll just flank us again and turn this mighty fortified line of ours into their biggest prison camp!”

  Hardee’s eyes angrily flashed at Hood’s tone. Had it not been for Hood’s crippled state, Johnston would not have been surprised to see Hardee’s hand move to his sword.

  “So you want to run away?” Hardee asked. “Just like you advised us to do at Cassville?”

  “I consider that remark an affront to my honor!”

  The conversation descended into a shouting match for the next minute or so, but Hardee’s words had suddenly caused Johnston to think of something he had not previously considered. The incident at Cassville still perplexed him. Despite his reputation for aggressiveness, Hood had on those two days displayed a shocking lack of fighting spirit. Not only had Hood thrown away an excellent chance of launching what would have been a devastating surprise attack, but had then insisted that they retreat from what was, in the view of Johnston and Hardee, an outstanding defensive position.

  Johnston recalled his meeting with Wigfall little more than a week before. His friend had told him that Hood was writing secret letters to President Davis, accusing Johnston of lacking in offensive spirit and of being overly disposed to retreat. But here was Hood now, advocating retreat yet again.

  Everything snapped together in Johnston’s mind at that instant and his eyes momentarily widened in shock. The thought was nearly unspeakable, but he couldn’t deny its logic. Might Hood’s duplicity go beyond unauthorized communication with Richmond? Could Hood be deliberately sabotaging the operations of the Army of Tennessee in order to discredit Johnston’s leadership? Was Hood trying to persuade Johnston to retreat again because he thought it would cause the President to remove Johnston from command and appoint Hood in his place?

  Anger flared within him, and he suddenly stood up and slammed his fists down on the table. Sudden silence descended upon the collected group of officers, who looked at him in great surprise. It was the first time any of them had seen a physical manifestation of Johnston’s anger.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, controlling his emotions and refusing to let his subordinates see what he was thinking. “Please calm down. It is our duty to fight the Yankee invaders, not each other. Don’t we agree?” He paused for a moment, letting himself calm down. “Now, General Hardee, please tell me your recommended course of action.”

  “We must remain on the north side of the river. That much is certain. The cavalry and infantry we already have in position on the south bank are suffici
ent in case Sherman attempts a major crossing.”

  “I understand your position. Go on.”

  “By maintaining our current position, Sherman cannot maneuver with his full force. The Chattahoochee is a sufficiently wide barrier to allow us to defeat any crossing attempt with minimal forces. If we keep to our present position, the Yankees will be well and truly stymied.”

  Johnston looked around. “General Stewart? What are your views?”

  Stewart cleared his throat, somewhat nervous at his first participation in the deliberations of high command. “I agree with General Hardee. If we can block Sherman’s advance by maintaining our position and protecting the river crossings, we can potentially hold the Yankees off long enough for an attack to be made on the enemy supply line.”

  “Assuming President Davis ever gives orders for such a raid,” Johnston said sourly.

  “I must protest!” Hood exclaimed sharply. “Suppose that Sherman merely takes up a position directly opposite ours and fortifies with a force equal to ours? That would leave forty thousand or so men with which Sherman could mount a major crossing operation to the south bank. Two divisions and a few cavalry would not be able to stop such an attack.”

  Johnston turned to his cavalry commander. “General Wheeler, how confident are you at being able to detect a Union crossing attempt before it takes place?”

  “Quite confident, sir.”

  “Can I rely on you, therefore, to be able to inform me of any Union crossing attempt at least four or five hours before it occurs?”

  “I obviously can’t make such an exact promise, General. Anything can happen in war. But I would certainly expect to be able to do so.”

  “Make sure your patrols downriver are especially vigilant. Sherman always goes after our left. Never forget that fact.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Johnston turned back to Hood. “With a few hours warning, we will have sufficient time to withdraw a few brigades from our bridgehead and march them to the threatened point. You disagree?”