Part 1 . Battle is Joined Throughout the close early morning darkness of July 22, 1864, C.S. Lt. General William Hardee was to push his corps of ragtag Confederates in a circuitous u-shaped route south / southeast out of the inner defenses of Atlanta, with the goal of sweeping back to the north before dawn. From this position Hardee’s men could get in behind the left flank of the U.S. Army of the Tennessee – which had filed into this threatening position east of the city only the previous day – and launch a surprise attack. As Hardee’s men “rolled up” the Union left and drove them back on the center of their main line, C.S. Major General Benjamin Franklin Cheatham’s other corps would smash into a then – as hoped and planned – “wavering” Union center and unhinge their entire position. So followed the battle plan of the newly installed and overtly aggressive chief of the C.S. Army of Tennessee, Lt. General John Bell Hood. The fate of Atlanta and to a large degree the life of the Confederacy itself would rely on the outcome of this day. I “moved out,” strategically, after the notorious morning rush hour. It was a Thursday morning – the battle was fought on a Friday – and by 10 a.m. it already felt like 100° out (this would be my overriding thought of the day: fighting with powder-fired weapons in long-sleeve wool / flannel uniforms, in this kind of heat: brutal). The air was still, humid and grey as I headed south on Moreland Avenue – the same stretch along which the two-mile long Union line, facing west, had been aligned. Moreland has been an enigmatic roadway during my tenure in Atlanta, hovering somewhere between enterprising and slum. The more south you get, the more industrial – and strangely – more rural it gets. My first stop was where McDonough Boulevard meets Moreland. Up McDonough less than a mile is Atlanta’s Federal Penitentiary. A vast spread of “fenced-in” projects lines the northwest corner of the intersection, within symbolic distance of the Fed’s pen. Yet the main feature of the vicinity is the old Star Light Drive-In, still remarkably in operation. In this locale was the historical marker that would begin my day: “Hardee’s Night March” [view the historical marker map, including a picture and the location of each individual marker, by clicking on the choice in the top left-hand column, or at the base of this page]. Hardee marched his four divisions out from under the southern end of rolling entrenchments, bunkers, palisades and chevaux-de-frise (formidable x-shaped rows of spiked logs designed to prevent frontal assaults) that made up the tough inner defense line of Atlanta [view a map of the march by clicking on the battle map choice in the top left-hand column, or at the base of this page]. The column, many miles long, turned south at the intersection of today’s McDonough / Moreland to avoid detection – marching south another half-mile before turning northeast. I followed the column’s “tack” up today’s Fayetteville / Key Road to the next historical marker: “Hardee’s March Turned N.E.” It took me a minute to locate the marker in thick overgrown brush before the kudzu-drowned and deteriorating lot of a closed grocery / restaurant. The surrounding neighborhood was more third-world than not. A resident of what can only be described as a shack, stood on her front porch in curious wonder – as if I were the first person to ever make the effort to seek out and read that marker. The whole strangely rural area could just as easily be a low-income district in a small town off 441 in south Georgia, as located here within a few miles of the state capitol. It’s a depressed careless stretch known to few in this city. The bleary Confederate column moved up modern-day Key Road to the William Cobb house, which stood in an area now dominated by one of greater Atlanta’s wastewater treatment plants. Two historical markers fill in the facts of the march to this point. The untold story is this road now passing through another forgotten urban area: Atlanta’s Prison Farm. Unused for some time, it is totally unkempt: covered under by roadside trash, whole dumptruck-full heaps of old couches, renovation refuse and dead appliances. At least a part of the “farm” found use as an actual landfill. Downtown skyscrapers were visible beyond the unnatural hill, the grey haze so thick that they were hard to pick out in the picture I took. The road is also lined by old buildings consumed in vines. Most seem to have belonged to a hunting / fishing club, my suspicion being that this was the original use of the “farm.” A good deal are only four crumbling walls without roofs. They only add to the desolate nature of this stretch south of East Atlanta. . . . . In 1864, this area not only seemed rural; it was rural. Hardee pressed his columns hard along these roads. His men stumbled through the pitch black darkness and up to the modern-day intersection with Bouldercrest Road (the historical marker is missing), where local scouts turned the force north in heading for the planned assembly points south of modern-day Glenwood Road (a main artery that runs through East Lake, East Atlanta and Grant Park, and delineates the southern border of the battle). Today, this area simmers between the kind of urban slum unique to the American South – sparse, “rural,” exuding neglect nonetheless – and working / middle class suburbs on the upswing. Confederates piled into this area throughout the murky dawn of July 22, 1864. Two markers mark two separate assembly points: “Cleburne & Maney’s Divisions” at Bouldercrest / Flat Shoals Avenue, south of East Atlanta, and “Walker & Bate at Sugar Creek” near Longdale Park, south of East Lake and Civil War era Terry’s Mill. Along this line, Hardee aligned these four-divisions and readied their assault. But the circuitous march had covered some fifteen miles in the dead of night. Stragglers were everywhere. The troops were without rest, blown by the audacious move and hadn’t yet fired a single bullet. Yet despite the straggling, and as far as they could tell, the maneuver had succeeded in placing Hardee on the Union flank undetected. The element of surprise was still theirs.’ By this point, I was back in more familiar surroundings. In the mid ‘90s, East Atlanta began its slow steady climb from a sketchy commercial / residential village to the thriving eclectic spot it has become. So called “urban pioneers” are now outnumbered by “settlers.” The village boasts of a number of successful restaurants, bars and shops, and has largely replaced Little Five Points as the epicentre of the city’s (and southeast’s) “independent” music scene. It’s a place where the artistic underground feels right at home. Further east down Glenwood beyond its cross over I-20, the same revitalization has been intermittent and slower in coming. Recent trends seem positive. Across both, the Battle of Atlanta erupted. Major General James McPherson was hand-picked by Sherman to command the U.S. Army of the Tennessee after Sherman’s ascendancy to theatre command in the west. To many historians, few military endorsements could come down through our history with more credibility. Only 35, McPherson was proven and capable; and on the morning of July 22, 1864, he put his talents to work – sensing the vulnerability of his left flank. With a considerable portion of this army out west in the trans-Mississippi theatre, McPherson’s command consisted of three corps: XV, XVI, XVII. Major General John “Black Jack” Logan’s XV held the right (from modern-day Memorial Drive north through Edgewood into Little Five Points), Major General Francis Blair’s XVII held the left (modern-day East Atlanta and the Moreland / I-20 interchange), with Major General Grenville Dodge’s XVI in reserve. McPherson ordered XVI Corps south to link with XVII, and protect against any flank attack. In hindsight, this could be the most fortuitous move of the entire Atlanta campaign. But “good luck” relies on good foresight. It is what great generals do. And in McPherson, the Union had a great “on-field” impresario (an interesting side note is that this order was countermanded by a skeptical Sherman; but his lieutenant convinced the chief of its necessity – and for the Union it was a good thing that he did). Three markers track the swift march south of the XVI’s vanguard: Sweeny’s Division. The first: “Sweeny’s Division Encamped,” stands in Candler Park’s park and marks the start point. The second: “Sweeny’s March South,” stands only one mile south in Kirkwood at Clay Street / Hosea Williams (though the draconian cut-through of the railroad and MARTA make it a disorienting roundabout trek), marks the approach. The third: “The Battle of Atlanta Began Here,” at Clay / Memorial Drive, marks first contact with Hardee’s Confederates. In reverse, three markers trace the initial advance of Hardee’s far right: Bate’s division. The first: “Bate’s Division at Terry’s Mill Pond” (which sat southeast a few hundred yards), at Glenwood / I-20 marks the beginning of their advance. The second: the same “Battle of Atlanta Began Here,” marks their run-in with Sweeny; and the third: “An Unexpected Clash,” back across Memorial in the parking lot of the Alonzo Crim High School, marks the initial skirmish that would explode into the Battle of Atlanta. Hood’s surprise had itself been surprised. In fact, everyone involved – Union and Confederate – were caught off-guard. But the sheer weight of Hardee’s four-division corps still threatened to overwhelm the Union left if it could be brought to bear. And at the outset, Sweeny’s single division was the only thing that stood in their way. Within one mile of each other, the two highest ranking casualties of the battle occurred. Two monuments mark these fated locations. They are the only two monuments to be found across a landscape oblivious to its own history. The first marks the death of William H. T. Walker, whose C.S. division was in line to the left of Bates. Picked off at long-range by a Union sniper, Walker was in fact one of the first casualties of the battle. The monument resides in a small triangle of land at the outlet of Wilkinson Drive onto Glenwood, right alongside the I-20 interchange. It is a hustling intersection. As true of most intown thoroughfares, the area is anti-pedestrian. I would guess with a degree of certainty that the monument is not even noticed by 75% of motorists who pass by. Of those who pass by regularly and have noticed it, I would say – with an even greater degree of certainty – that 99% have no idea what the Walker monument represents. And though the popular belief of history as a bunch of dull dusty facts reflects poorly, culturally, therein lies a challenge: to make it attainable. Providing a modern-day frame of reference helps. With this in mind I advanced over the same land Bates and Walker’s men did 140 years earlier. What in 1864 was a series of swampy fields run through by Sugar Creek, is now a low-income neighborhood bracketed by DeKalb Memorial Park. Filling the half-mile stretch from Glenwood to Memorial, the park encompasses the entire approach of Hardee’s right wing. A man with a pitching wedge was the only other person in the park as I passed through, his dog chasing each ball. The air was oppressive, my shirt long since soaked clean through as I looped back to my car. It was tropical heat and I wondered how the casual golfer could be enjoying himself. I also wondered if he had any idea who Major General W. H. T. Walker was, or of the historical significance of the park. Probably not, I figured. This motivated me. [view this section's image tour by clicking on the image viewer in the top left-hand column, or at the base of this page] End Part 1 > Proceed to Part II: The Bald Hill and the Fight South