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Part 3 . Cheatham's Attack, Logan's Counterattack

The most powerful attack of July 22, 1864, came from the center-left of Benjamin Cheatham’s corps-strength assault, the second phase of Hood’s plan. The C.S. divisions of John C. Brown and Henry Clayton plowed into and exploded the center of Logan’s U.S. XV Corps posted in and south of modern Inman Park and Little Five Points. The crucial peak of this fight is the principle subject of Atlanta’s famous Cyclorama. If you were in a helicopter facing west and hovering low over today’s Moreland / DeKalb Avenue interchange, you would have the same vantage point of this key moment as it’s depicted in the Cyclorama. The approach route of Cheatham’s attack out of the Atlanta defenses was a sparse area into which the small city (under 10,000 residents at the time of the war) tapered off. Today it contains some of Atlanta’s most notable landmarks: such as Grant Park, the Atlanta Zoo and Battle of Atlanta Cyclorama (both in Grant Park), one of Atlanta’s oldest landmarks: the beautiful, haunting, recently restored Oakland Cemetery (from which Hood observed the battle), the Martin Luther King, Jr. NHS (which hosts a new visitor’s center, houses where King was born and lived as an adult, and the Ebenezer Baptist Church – where he and his father preached), and Sweet Auburn (just west of Inman Park, one if not the wealthiest / most successful black neighborhoods in the entire South during the historical stain of Jim Crow era segregation). Cheatham’s Confederates advanced across this entire area of the modern city in making their assault on the Union line, which in turn stretched about two miles: from modern Memorial Drive, north to where the Carter Presidential Center (another notable landmark) now stands. Along the generally eastward routes that modern Euclid, Edgewood and DeKalb avenues now take, the Confederates sensed their first real taste of victory that day.

By 3 p.m., I had covered the ebb and flow of this battle’s set-up and opening phase. From the time that Hardee’s men began their march out from under the south end of the Atlanta defenses, to the timely arrival of U.S. XV Corps reinforcements helping to turn back Cleburne’s plunge into the gap, I had documented about fifteen hours worth of the historical record etched into this landscape on July 22, 1864. I had just over two hours of that record and the hottest part of this historic day – figuratively and literally – left to go. Finished with the Bald Hill sector, I mounted up and drove north over the Moreland bridge. I had two more stops to make before heading into Inman Park and the final phase of that day’s tour. My first stop was just west of Moreland down Memorial, at its cross with Stovall. In the front of an elementary school (historic in its own right as the building style I’ll place in the 1920s, a time when public architecture seemed more a matter of civic pride) stood the marker: “Attack from the West." This marker records the advance of Cheatham’s right-wing, the divisions of G. W. Smith (yet another General Smith) and Carter Stevenson. Several thousand Confederate soldiers passed over this land between modern I-20 and the rail / MARTA lines. This is the residential village of Reynoldstown. Unlike East Atlanta, Reynoldstown remains in the shadow of the city’s legacy of racial inequity and segregation. But the wholesale renovation of the East Atlanta village was proceeded by certain “urban pioneers,” and lately many have been finding their way into the area north of Memorial, west of Moreland. With renovation rippling out from the mentioned shopping centre construction just up the road a distinct possibility, one can envision sparked interest taking hold here. But lacking a distinct, if even rundown commercial strip and sporting mainly old beat-up working class architecture, such a rebound has proven elusive to date. This was evident as I drove side roads north up to the final marker on my tour south of DeKalb Avenue. The whole village still borders on blight, portions of it having been fully consumed. Economic dysfunction and dislocation are prevalent. And yet, all that in no way diminishes the fact: this is core battlefield land (to use a preservationist term). The history is embedded here, for better or worse. That is evident in the more than half dozen area streets named for Confederate generals: Brantley, Manigault, Holtzclaw, Cumming, Walthall and the mentioned Stovall (all commanders in Cheatham’s Corps) – adding in Hardee Street for good measure. There is even a Battlefield Avenue just east of Moreland. Still, as is true of the bustling junction of I-20 / Glenwood near the Walker Monument, it’s safe to say that virtually no one who inhabits the vicinity of Reynoldstown, or the thousands more who motor through here every day, have any inkling of the area’s significance. But again, that was why I was there.

Cheatham’s right-wing ran headlong into a more determined and more confident Union line. Anchored by the stalwart defense of Bald Hill, certain ranks of Leggett’s Division changed front back to the west and trained their focus on the Confederates of Smith and Stevensons’ divisions – all while continuing to fight off renewed attacks by Maney’s Division. Their fierce defense was already leading many to honor their commander in designating the low rise: “Leggett’s Hill” (of course, Confederate veterans would always refer to this fight as: “The Battle of Bald Hill”). The “attack from the west” would gain no ground against the compact strengthened defense of Leggett’s division, in combination with the regrouped reinforced men of Giles Smith’s division. In particular was the stand of Manning Force’s brigade on the north end of Bald Hill (modern Moreland north of Memorial), which repelled the better part of Carter Stevenson’s C.S. division. Force would be wounded and later awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his leadership that afternoon. To the immediate north, though, Cheatham’s assault was packing more punch and gaining ground. At modern Walthall and Boulevard Drive in the heart of Reynoldstown stands the marker: “Benton’s & Coltart’s Brigades.” This was the middle-right of Cheatham’s attacking columns (half of Brown’s Division) which advanced across Oakland Cemetery and south of the tracks before slamming into the U.S. division of William Harrow posted near modern Moreland (in and to the immediate south of the area then under construction). A local “dude” walked up as I was taking photographs of the marker (he is in one of the pictures I took [see Image Viewer, Part III ] ). I asked him how things were going. “Just fine, just fine,” was his upbeat response. And as I was reading the marker’s detailed description, I heard the guy talking with someone else in passing across the street behind me. “He’s one of those history guys. You know? a history guy,” he said, with a sense of authority. True enough, I guess. It did seem I was a conspicuous addition to the normal routine of Reynoldstown, there for the sole purpose of reading a graffiti “tagged” historical marker. I wrapped things up and was soon on my way to Inman Park, my new moniker a badge of honor earned.

In 1864 the Georgia Railroad was an east / west line running through Atlanta. Having crept inland from Augusta in the 1830s, this railroad was “the” commerce and transportation source into the interior from Savannah, Charleston, and the rest of the Atlantic coast. It was the reason Atlanta (once known as Terminus) came into existence. This advantageous location became a natural hub for commercial trade. As mentioned in Part I, the small piedmont city had by 1864 become the most important inland transfer hub in the deep South. 140 years later, the popular transportation hub tradition continues: Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Int’l Airport routinely one of the busiest in the world, while downtown hosts the junction of three major interstates: I-20, I-75, I-85. . . . . On July 22, 1864, the same Georgia RR line and the cut it made through a small rise a hundred yards west of modern Moreland / DeKalb became the most important point on the entire field of battle. I have lived within view or earshot of the modern version of this rail line, now operated by railroad shipping giant CSX, at all five addresses I have called home during my twelve years in the capitol of the New South. I was never closer than when I lived in the loft on DeKalb just up from Oakdale (where the lines were literally across the street), and Kerri & I’s first house together: a 1920s Craftsman-era duplex that we rented just off Edgewood Avenue in Inman Park. Across our front yard and the entire vicinity where Euclid and Edgewood avenues meet alongside a small delta-shaped park – around which flows, appropriately: Delta Place – the battle lines of Brown and Claytons’ C.S. divisions rolled east towards Logan’s line. Cheatham’s entire advance surged forward in unison around 3 p.m. Just as Smith and Stevensons’ assault was being repelled by the U.S. XVII Corps on Bald Hill, Brown’s was crashing into, and at the railroad cut through the U.S. XV Corps. With the outcome of the bloody brutal fighting to the south all but assured, this fight between Cheatham and Logans’ men became the apex of the battle. Here victory or defeat for either side would be determined.

If money was no issue and given a choice, Kerri & I would live in Inman Park. It is arguably the most historic neighborhood in Atlanta. It is the city’s first suburb, dating to the 1890s around the time the firm of American landscape giant: Frederick Law Olmstead, was hired to help plan it. The fact that so many late-Victorian / Beaux Arts period homes still exist (gothic, tudor, arts / crafts, queene anne: they’re all here) is no small feat; for the record of civic / political leadership is quite lax in supporting the efforts of private residents, non-profits and commercial businesses / artisans to preserve anything over a few dozen years old. The bulldozer is a common sight. Noted, recent renovation projects and “infill” development have helped erase much of the blight that was set to consume Inman as recent as when I first moved to Atlanta in the early 1990s. But this success seems to be rooted less in the civic vision of political leaders and more in '90s prosperity, the increasing distance suburban living required one to commute, and the actual neighborhoods of Inman Park, Candler Park to its east, Virginia-Highlands to the north, etc., etc., for having withstood negative intown trends largely intact. In decay and in need of serious help, yes; but the unique and individual character of these neighborhoods have served Atlanta well: for they were the starting point for the entire intown revitalization that is commonplace today. This area marks the return of general intown prosperity and the idea of living “in the city” as a desirable thing. I just feel lucky to have arrived at such an opportune time. . . . . Quite often do Kerri & I recall our days at Delta Place with sepia-toned magnolia-scented nostalgia (conveniently forgetting the ever-malfunctioning sump-pump that left our basement a swamp after it rained, of course). It was clear to me then that the restored mansions and bungalows of the neighborhood exuded, at least, a general appreciation for the area’s history; but that this appreciation only drifted back as far as the buildings themselves. No one I talked to back then had any idea that what is now Springvale Park – a tremendous plot of green space, half-manicured, half-wild, in the neighborhood’s centre – was a long running ravine used by Brown and Claytons’ men to regroup out of the direct line of fire from Logan’s men (lined up near modern DeGress Avenue), before making their final charge. Men were maimed and died by the score, enveloped in the brutal horrific demolition that is war’s fury, right there: along Edgewood Avenue – along Euclid Avenue – where a house now stands – where an apartment building and soul food restaurant and church now stand – where the Inman Park / Reynoldstown MARTA station now stands. Blood was shed over an area that many of my friends had driven through a hundred times without the thought having ever crossed their minds. Not their fault, I thought. We all barely have enough time to think at all these days. But it was the scope of this general lack of knowledge in the years that we were living in Inman (1997-98), that drove me to begin recording the location / subject of each state historical marker I came across. I began to piece the story together myself, starting in our front yard. And that’s where I found myself six years later on July 22, 2004: Delta Point Park off Edgewood, just north of DeKalb, where the marker “Brown’s and Clayton’s Divisions” stands.

Excepting Cleburne’s division, the left-wing of Cheatham’s Corps made the most formidable advance of the day. Within those attacking columns, the brigade of Arthur Manigault brought the Confederates as close to victory as they would come. Brown’s Division, including Manigault’s brigade, massed and marched down the general route that Edgewood and DeKalb avenues take today, DeKalb following the same general course as the war-era Decatur Wagon Road. Facing east – the Confederates’ vantage point – the Georgia RR ran alongside Manigault’s troops to the right. The stretch of DeKalb from Delta to DeGress Avenue is lined of historical markers. Along with Collier Road in north Atlanta’s Buckhead, mentioned frontline of the Battle of Peachtree Creek, there are few areas in the state with a higher concentration of markers. Here, they record in great detail: the approach, the attack and the point where Manigault’s men broke the Union line north of the railroad cut. The remainder of Brown’s division: Coltart’s (formerly Deas’) and Benton’s (formerly Brantley’s) brigades, pushed forward south of the cut (Reynoldstown). Both wings of the division advanced over what was then open ground. As soon as they were within range, Union artillery had opened up on the massed C.S. columns. This spread thick sulfuric clouds of smoke over the entire northern end of the battlefield. Every large-scale battle of the Civil War was fought within this choking fog, a result of the discharge of powder-fired rifles / cannon to the tune of hundreds of thousands of rounds per fight. A result was that obscurity and confusion reigned. Major troop movements were very difficult once engaged. Yet reciprocally this allowed major troop movements, if lucky and performed quickly, to gain ground without detection. Such was the case on that late afternoon in 1864. Having halted for the purpose of reorganizing their lines in the mentioned ravine (part of modern Springvale Park), Cheatham’s left moved out on their final advance. Manigault’s men had reached the “Widow Pope” house, a conspicuous white structure that stood near the parking lot of today’s Inman Park / Reynoldstown MARTA station, alongside DeKalb. From the second-story of the Pope house, sharpshooters had played havoc on the Union line only a few hundred yards to their front. U.S. artillery answered rapidly, opening on the house with a vengeance. The barrage blanketed the field in smoke. Under the cover it provided, Manigault and Coltarts’ brigades pitched forward and into the U.S. divisions of M. L. Smith (brother of G. A. Smith, whose men had been savaged by Cleburne) and William Harrow, respectively. In the process, a portion of Manigault’s troops had found the railroad cut and raced down it. They emerged in the rear of Joseph Lightburn’s U.S. brigade (M. L. Smith’s Division). Aligned in parallel to modern DeGress, Lightburn’s troops fought desperately to beat back the onslaught only then emerging from the smoke. But the tide of southerners overpowered them. Faced with the rolling momentum to their front and outflanked on their left, Smith’s line buckled and dissolved. It was a precipitous collapse and the U.S. Army of the Tennessee is only lucky that the breakdown did not spread throughout the entire XV Corps; for Manigault’s men exploded into the resulting gap. Lt. R. M. Gill of Mississippi later wrote: “we charged with an awful yell but few Yankees staid [sic] to see the racket.” The last vestige of Lightburn’s line was the courageous stand of a battery of Illinoisan artillery under the command of Francis DeGress. With infantry support evaporating, DeGress ordered his men to the rear; but he and a small crew remained firing point blank charges of “canister” into the approaching Confederate wall. A coffee-can shaped ordnance filled with small metal slugs, and designed to explode like a giant sawed-off shotgun shell when fired, the effect on advancing infantry was – of course – horrific. The DeGress battery fired round after round of canister (sometimes doubling up the rounds) into the fully exposed Confederates just as fast as they could load it. When their fate became obvious, the artillerists took to “spiking” their guns (a last-ditch tactic that rendered cannon temporarily inoperable when they had to be left to the enemy). When ordered to surrender by an approaching Confederate officer, the attacking columns being that close, it’s said that DeGress himself took hold of the lanyards of two loaded cannon and fired off his response. The blast certainly inflicted horrid human carnage. The young captain fled behind the resulting smoke and confusion, and remarkably was able to elude the attackers. Not all of his men were so lucky; yet their selfless stand had at least checked Manigault’s success for a moment.

This stand of the DeGress battery occurred near the north end of modern DeGress Avenue. En route, I made my way down Edgewood from Delta making two stops at either end of Springvale Park. The first was in the manicured end north of Euclid, where the marker: “Baker’s Brigade” stood. This marked the far left of Cheatham’s advance. My second stop was at the south end of the park, which aside from a trail that loops the centre has been allowed to “return to nature.” It seems that this part was once cared for too, evident in stonewalls now hidden behind beds of ivy and old concrete steps that seem to lead to nowhere. This was our favorite dog walk destination when we lived in Inman (still is when we’re up for the trip). The park was a little reminder close to home of the great hikes to be had in the North Georgia mountains. Near Edgewood stands a historical marker noting the ravine’s importance to Brown and Claytons’ divisions. Beneath it is another of the very few actual memorials dedicated to the battle’s participants: a stone Sons of Confederate Veterans marker that reiterates the contents of the state historical marker. Under a damp blanket of afternoon humidity, I continued east on Edgewood and cut over to DeKalb. I passed by the Inman / Reynoldstown MARTA station (off to the right) and under the footbridge that leads over DeKalb to the parking lot (off to the left). The next left was DeGress, where I parked the truck and, on foot, back-peddled up DeKalb to the parking lot. I turned around there and walked the route I’d just driven. Four markers stand along this stretch. The first is: “Site of the Pope House,” which places the house in or next to the MARTA parking lot. The next two mark: “The XV Corps Sector,” and “The Railroad Cut” used to unhinge the Union line. Behind these and down this entire stretch from MARTA to DeGress runs an ivy-covered brick wall, beyond which stands the condominium complex: “Battery Place.” Another complex picks up past the outlet of DeGress onto DeKalb. More importantly, is the marker “Manigault’s Brigade.” This was where the furious Confederate attack broke through. Not quite as active as the I-20 / Moreland interchange, this stretch is nonetheless a busy place. As I snapped shots, a MARTA train and a freight train loaded with containers headed off to the east. It was approaching 4 p.m. and the first vestige of the city’s notorious rush hour seemed evident. Spurts of traffic blew by, moving the thick air just slightly. The air seemed impenetrable, the sky more grey than blue. I’d already sweat through my second shirt of the day and was thinking it miraculous that all those men, even the southerners who were used to it, didn’t collapse and die from heatstroke alone – taking into consideration the additional factors of hard physical fighting, the sulfuric smoke and wool uniforms, jackets and all. Historical accounts place the temperature of July 22, 1864, close to the same as the day of my tour. And by my accounts that means it was hotter than hell. I strolled back up DeGress. I was silently thanking the large old trees shading the sidewalk as I approached the beautiful stone church that sits halfway up the short avenue. On this site in 1864 sat the unfinished Troup Hurt House, documented by a marker in the church’s front yard. I was right then standing in the centre of the epic scene of the C.S. breakthrough / U.S. counterattack as it’s depicted in the Atlanta Cyclorama. This was the vicinity where the final showdown occurred.

South of the tracks, Coltart’s and Benton’s brigades had pitched forward into William Harrow’s U.S. division, lined up south of M. L. Smith’s and along modern Moreland. Feeding off the same momentum then carrying the Confederates through the gap north of the tracks, those south of the cut met a stronger, more stingy defense. Harrow’s men successfully absorbed the initial shock of this attack, supplied as it was by the right of Brown’s Division. But with the disintegration of Smith’s line to their immediate north, Harrow was forced to fall back – his right flank having been exposed. The entire division was swung back like a gate door, hinging on Leggett’s secure defense south on Bald Hill. Performing this maneuver “grudgingly” and in an orderly way, Harrow’s men were able to stall the momentum of Colart and Bentons’ assault. . . . . The north portion of Harrow’s gate-like swing occurred across the area that was on the day of my tour just beginning to sprout the first solid hints of the mentioned shopping complex. The entire area of construction – which pushes into the west side of the modern Edgewood neighborhood – is literally the battlefield over which Lightburn’s men streamed in disorganized retreat and where Harrow’s men ground Coltart’s brigade to a halt, littering the ground with dead and wounded in the process. And to remind us with perspective, we are talking about tens of thousands of men on either side – reaping several thousand casualties in the span of a few hours. This place will forever be blood-soaked soil. No amount of “big box” warehouse-style stores or plazas and the sprawling acres of parking lots that go with them can change that. Still, it seems a societal misfortune that so few shoppers will have the slightest clue of the land’s historical value, as they load up on a year’s supply of toilet paper, weed-killer enough to eradicate all plant life within a square mile and new hi-def flat screens the size of a regular family-room wall. Don’t get me wrong; this isn’t an anti-consumer rant, so much as pointing out the following: while imbibing such subconscious convenience I feel it would be a small toll for said shoppers to, at the very least, recognize the human sacrifice that occurred here. I will probably, out of convenience, find myself shopping at one or another of the stores in the complex one of these days. If I do, I guarantee it will be hard for me to think of anything else. . . . . The steadfast and controlled falling-back of William Harrow’s and Charles Woods’ divisions – the later, positioned at the far right of Logan’s XV Corps line north of Smith’s Division (across modern Little Five Points), performed a similar organized swing-back movement – helped contain the Confederate breakthrough and stem the lodgment from growing any wider. The final piece to Cheatham’s attack had been Clayton’s C.S. Division, having followed the general course of modern Euclid Avenue, over modern Springvale Park, in its approach from the southwest into modern “Little Five” (“L5P” for those in the know). They marched through the heart of modern Inman Park to the left of Brown’s Division; but ran into stiff resistance from Wood’s line, the far-right flank of Sherman’s line that day. Woods’ division had been diminished with the earlier detachment of a full brigade, having been sent to help repel Cleburne’s threat to the south. The two remaining brigades adjusted so as not to leave their left exposed. Together, the two controlled re-alignments of Woods and Harrows’ divisions, fighting hard and sustaining casualties all the while, allowed the XV Corps to absorb Cheatham’s battering-ram assault. But to win the day, they would have to close the gap and throw the Confederate Army of Tennessee back into the Atlanta defenses from where they’d originated. From his HQ near the modern Carter Center, Sherman was already lining up “Black Jack” Logan to do just that.

Reinforcements had moved up and joined Manigault’s brigade. Half of a Confederate division had roared into the breakthrough. At its widest this gap extended across the entire junction of the modern DeKalb / Moreland interchange (ramps and all), the area a few hundred yards wide from north to south. Again, this is the central scene of the Atlanta Cyclorama. . . . . The marker: “DeGress Battery,” stands in the front yard of a small house just before DeGress turns down a slope in heading for Euclid. Certainly one of the more historically relevant front yards in Atlanta, the location of the marker – and the event it records – is a perfect allegory for the battlefield and what has become of it: i.e. front yards, back yards, neighborhood villages, condos / apartments, transit stations, parking lots, commercial districts, highway interchanges – and construction sites adding more of all of the above. Separating myself from the modern that day was impossible; but neither was it necessary. Despite my preservationist’s zeal to see each acre of battlefield land if not memorialized then left alone, I felt a journalistic urge to document “the modern” increasingly important. And standing in front of the “DeGress” marker, it became apparent why. History is a layered canyon. I was just covering all the angles of a single story. It’s no surprise that I found the modern angle to Atlanta’s story easier to trace – located in front yards, along roadsides and interchanges – the events of 140 years ago requiring a bit more imagination. But I soldiered on. I left the truck parked on DeGress and strode back out to DeKalb. I tried to envision such pleasant things as: combat in a scratchy wool uniform beneath the furnace-like heat of a southern summer afternoon, or having a canister round explode in my face and being left, unable to move, to bleed to death far from home. No, not pleasant; but reality to your average Civil War soldier. I headed east down the sidewalk of DeKalb, aimed for the most historic crossroads in this city.

Just before DeKalb crosses over Moreland there is a small sliver of land. Owned by city or state, it is fenced off. Beyond the fence stands a marker that locates the original position of a Federal signal station. The telegraph, though popular during the war, was still a cumbersome thing where mobile conditions were common: campaigns, battlefields, etc. Signal flags, using a precursor to Morse code, were often used from towers or hilltops to relay messages over long visible distances. Yet the real significance of this marker is in recording the location of the tower erected for the cyclorama artists nearly twenty years after the battle. From this vantage point the artisan employees of Milwaukee-based: American Panorama Co. sketched / researched the surrounding landscape (which had changed little) for the mammoth and soon to be world famous in-the-round painting. Digital shots of the marker recorded, I made my way across the inhospitable junction and onto the DeKalb overpass. Two ramps on either side loop to the north and attach themselves to Moreland’s north-south lanes. I stopped in the centre of the bridge, above the graffiti museum that is the Moreland under-pass. My whole tour had led up to that location. Here is where the whole thing was finally decided.

It was after 4 p.m. on July 22, 1864, when Sherman ordered Logan’s counterattack. Woods’ Division – hard-pressed by the exultant, yet tiring Confederates – would take the lead. Several batteries of Union artillery positioned near Sherman’s HQ (the north end of modern Little Five Points, near Poncey-Highlands), would serve up the thunder. But the key to the plan was then retracing the march they’d made just that morning. The U.S. brigade of August Mersy – who along with Rice’s Brigade had beaten back Hardee’s opening attacks along modern Memorial Drive – was countermarched at the “double quick” to provide the punch needed to repel Cheatham’s breakthrough. Arguably, no unit worked harder that day than this brigade. Having marched in haste from modern Candler Park only a handful of hours earlier, asked to defend the isolated flank of the entire army, having fought since noon (and in the process battering superior numbers into retreat), only to be thanked for their above-and-beyond duty by being asked to help save the ass of their army, again, must have crossed the minds of these notoriously independent-minded citizen soldiers (this caustic and often fatalistic trait is evident in the mountains of letters / memoirs left behind by “average” Civil War soldiers, north and south). And there is one final fact: Mersy’s brigade had already served out their three-year term of enlistment, had been formally “mustered out” – but had decided as a unit to stay on until they could be sent home. On that day, the Union cause reaped a bargain.

The high tide of the C.S. Army of Tennessee’s defense of Atlanta ebbed in the way it so often would: a lack of numbers. This trait would only accelerate in the final years of the war, as Union leaders simply ground down the Confederacy’s ability to defend and sustain itself – incurring gruesome human destruction in doing so (the Civil War is still far and away the deadliest war we have ever engaged in, made even worse considering the smaller population stats of the era; the rough equivalent of casualties per population if the Civil War were fought today would number over 5 million). On July 22, 1864, this pattern was reinforced. The left side of Brown’s C.S. Division, having broken through, required reinforcements to unhinge the U.S. XV Corps line. This would have made the Bald Hill sector untenable, forcing Sherman to withdraw the army from the city’s gates. But no reinforcements were on hand. Hood had thrown in every man he possibly could, without having left Atlanta itself completely undefended. With Harrow and Woods’ men bent but not broken, the demoralized mass of Smith’s Division was stabilized a few hundred yards to the east, down modern DeKalb, and then reinforced with the hasty arrival of Mersy’s Brigade from Sweeny’s Division. At the head of that brigade was Logan himself. A hail of artillery rained down on the now exposed position of Brown’s Confederates. Playing on the emotions of peaked adrenaline, Logan shouted: “McPherson and revenge, boys!” And with that, the U.S. counterattack threw a significant portion of four divisions into the breach. Cheatham’s troops fought with the severe intensity inherent of the Confederate infantry (I have long felt that the often reckless bravery of southern soldiers prolonged the war, fending off its inevitable military outcome – the strongest will manifesting itself in defense of home). But without reinforcements Manigault’s, and the C.S. brigade of Bushrod Jones (Brown’s Division) who had filed into the gap behind them, did not stand a chance. Logan’s men surged forward and rolled over Brown’s and Clayton’s Divisions. The fight was thick and fierce. But by 5 p.m., it was all but over. With Mersy’s brigade in the lead, the reenergized U.S. XV Corps pushed Brown’s troops back over the ground they’d paid so terrible a price to take. Logan’s counterattack would regain Lightburn’s and DeGress’ original positions. Harrow’s and Woods’ men swung back in on either flank, in line. Having closed the gap, Sherman had forced Hood to pull Cheatham’s bloody beaten corps back towards, and into the rambling ring of Atlanta’s inner defenses. There was great excitement around U.S. HQ about initiating a large-scale attack with the other two armies under Sherman’s command (the Union force arrayed for the Atlanta Campaign consisted of three: the Tennessee, the small Army of the Ohio and the massive Army of the Cumberland; yet aside from artillery, the latter two were not engaged on July 22). Sherman begged off the idea. Though it may have dealt a crushing blow, Hood had poorly spent his one and only army on this day. The depleted ranks then falling back before Logan’s counterattack had been savagely thinned. Their mentioned bravery would be displayed often in the near future, but the C.S. Army of Tennessee would never be the same after Atlanta. . . . . In a futile epitaph to this day, Hardee’s Corps to the south made a final somewhat concerted assault across the north end of modern East Atlanta, and against the patchwork Union line. Extending from Bald Hill, east along the modern I-20 / Memorial corridor to just north of modern DeKalb Memorial Park, all three U.S. corps had fed troops into this sector. Dug in, more compact and reinforced, this line fended off the final attacks of the Battle of Atlanta. Dished out with a tiring verve by Maney’s and Cleburne’s C.S. Divisions – these troops having been awake and either on-the-march or fighting hard since the late hours of July 21st – Hardee finally called off the attacks. It was about half past 6 p.m. when the fields fell silent.

Back in my truck, I made my final stops of the day. A few hundred yards down DeKalb, east of the interchange, stand two markers that trace the counterattack. In front of the Candler Park Fire Station alongside Candler Street stands: “Logan’s XV Army Corps Line.” Though a concrete and fenced-off corridor housing the railroad and MARTA tracks now separate DeKalb from the area then under construction to the south, it was in this general vicinity – north / south of the Georgia RR tracks and Decatur Wagon Road – where the broken mass of M. L. Smith’s Division fell back and intermingled with Harrow’s right, the fight continuing to rage in their immediate front. This was also where “Black Jack” Logan fed in Mersy’s brigade and launched the counterattack that would win the day for the U.S. Army of the Tennessee. “Restoring the Line” (one street west at Elmira Place), records the concluding act that would become the central theme for the Atlanta Cyclorama – and subsequently, the beginning of the end for the Confederate Army of Tennessee and its ability to defend the deep South. As was often the case, the attackers suffered the heaviest casualties. On July 22, 1864, John B. Hood had seen his force bled white. The Confederates suffered more than twice the amount of men killed, wounded or captured, than did Sherman’s force. The figures are appalling: approximately 8,000 to 3,700, respectively – nearly 12,000 casualties in the span of six hours. Both sides had lost popular talented generals, regimental and company-level veterans and leaders – Cleburne’s Division alone suffering over 40% casualties – as well as hundreds, possibly thousands of horses (the transportation source for everything at the time). Over the next month, Sherman would use his increasing numerical superiority to flank and force Hood’s army into more disadvantageous fights, eventually crushing the Confederates near Jonesboro, severing the last remaining supply line into Atlanta (the Macon & Western RR), and forcing the city’s evacuation. Atlanta was surrendered on September 2, 1864.

Just up from Elmira along DeKalb is an old filling station. About ten years ago it was renovated and has been a revolving door of tex-caribbean-mex restaurants ever since. I can recall at least three separate restaurants closing and re-opening, one morphing into the next all while maintaining relatively the same cuisine. I believe this is the fourth iteration to date. Part of the problem is its location, off the main drag leading into Little Five – and like DeKalb / Moreland, somewhat inhospitable. I haven’t yet eaten at the newest rendition; but made a deal to do so as I stood next to my truck in its parking lot, looking west to where it all went down – 140 years ago, to the moment. It was a little after 5 p.m. and my day was done. The sky was grey-blue, steamed, and seemed to be gearing up for a thunderstorm. The truck cabin’s thermometer had hit 98° on the final part of my tour, my final shots having been taken facing west – the results muddy and flat and not worth artistic praise. But the documentary was the point; and on that point I felt I’d nailed it pretty well. Back in the truck, I looped up the Moreland ramp off DeKalb and headed for the heart of L5P: the crossing of Moreland, Euclid and McClendon avenues. Though a little less “underground” than it used to be – a good deal of it having shifted south to East Atlanta – Little Five is still one of the more popular ATL “joints.” Shops sell all manner of off-beat stuff; and its myriad of restaurants / bars / coffee shops / music venues (the Variety Playhouse, still my favorite) and organic groceries have not slowed since the competition sprouted up below I-20. I had soon settled in on a covered patio close to the five points to enjoy a few well-deserved pints. That they be served cold was my only requirement. I was not disappointed. I figured I might just run into someone I knew, Atlanta’s intown neighborhoods holding tight to that close-knit trait. As I waited for my cold ale, I thought back to a party a friend of mine had thrown during the mid ‘90s, while she was renting an apartment / house just down McClendon in Candler Park. My nascent obsession with history had come with me when I moved to Atlanta, and all my friends knew it. I was always urging them to stop and read a state historical marker every so often, no doubt adding overtly parental comments like: “ya’ might just learn something.” I remember that night because she made a point of telling me that she’d pulled over just the day before to read a historical marker on the way home from work, saying something to the effect of: “I stopped and took the time to read it, because you’re always saying I should . . . and you know I’m glad I did, because I did learn something.” I can only hope this documentary invokes more of the same.

End .


Sources:

Time-Life: “The Civil War – Battles for Atlanta,” William Scaife: “The Campaign for Atlanta,” Albert Castel: “Decision in the West – the Atlanta Campaign of 1864,” Time-Life: “Voices of the Civil War – Atlanta,” Touring Guides: “Civil War in Georgia” and “Kennesaw Mountain and the Atlanta Campaign,” Civil War Times Illustrated, Samuel Carter: “The Siege of Atlanta,” Shelby Foote: “The Civil War – A Narrative, Part III: Red River to Appomattox,” Bruce Catton: “This Hallowed Ground,” Georgia Historical Markers Online. . . . If you are ever in Atlanta, go see the Cyclorama in Grant Park, and then take a stroll through Oakland Cemetery – you’ll not be disappointed.

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