Georgia Trails

On a stormy September morning I laid in bed, wide-awake at about 3:30am with all the symptoms of an unusual insomnia episode. I carefully rolled out of bed at starboard, as my wife slept peacefully at port, with our cat, Hootie, capitalizing on the warmth from the nest she had made between us. I ascended the stairs to my study, and opened Stephen Fleharty’s book, as I had often done during sleepless nights, and lazy Sunday mornings spent on our balcony to observe the sunrise. We had just made flight arrangements from our home in Austin to Atlanta, where we would stay for two nights with Andi’s cousin, before embarking on our roadtrip to Seneca, SC to spend Christmas with her father’s family. This would be our first Christmas without him, since we had said a sad goodbye, just months before, due to his unfortunate complications with Alzheimer’s disease. We thought that spending Christmas with his closest kin would be a favorable gesture, and a much-deserved salute to a great man who would be missed by many.

The pages in my copy of Fleharty’s journal that trapped my bookmark introduced the 102^nd’s encounter with General Joseph E. Johnston’s Confederate Army of the Tennessee at Kennesaw Mountain, just to the West of Marietta, Georgia. Since this location was only 20 miles from the Vinings suburb of Atlanta, where we would be staying, I began my planning for a side trip to discover yet another location where Henry had spent some time during the war. I remembered Fleharty’s reference to Henry’s wounded status due to Company E’s altercation with the “rebs” at New Hope Church, which was not far from the Kennesaw location, so I added this spot to my itinerary as well. All of my research up to this early morning had not revealed many details surrounding this particular location, except for a photograph I located online, of a small placard that marked the spot. Its significance, however, as it pertained to Henry’s service record, ranked high in my travel priorities as a destination that would not be overlooked. Being one of seven enlisted in his company to receive wounds during a brave assault on a Confederate battery according to Fleharty’s record, Henry and his company helped place New Hope Church on the map of historic notoriety, for the skirmishes there are documented in many popular literary accounts. 

December 21, 2012 I woke early, next to Andi in a comfortable, but unfamiliar bed that seemed to be nearly 5 feet off the ground. The sun filtered its rays through a thick stand of grand pines wafting in the wind through the East-facing windows in the guest quarters. We had spent the evening at her cousin’s home in the Vinings community, just outside of Atlanta. It was a historic plantation-style home atop a thoughtfully landscaped hillock, flanked with pines, and lush shrubbery. After my morning ritual of coffee, and a bit of journaling, I kissed my wife goodbye, as she continued to snooze in the plush poster bed in the guestroom. I was excited to rev up our rental and head West to continue following Henry’s path as it meandered through the Georgia woodlands, and along the Chattahoochie River. That landmark was just down the hill from where I was now sitting, waiting for my Ford “something-or-other” to warm up. 

I pulled out of the driveway, and checked my GPS for the most direct route to Northbound State Hwy 75, which would lead me to a round-a-bout merge onto the 120.  On the screen of my iPhone, I recognized “Paces Ferry Road”, which was now leading me from the Vinings suburbs to the main highway.  Fleharty described this area near the Chattahoochie River in his journal: 

“Still it was a pleasant encampment. The weather was much of the time beautiful. During those calm, delicious autumn days, it was a pleasure to wander along the bank of the dark and rapid Chattahoochie, and into the groves, gorgeous with the many hues of autumn.  The forests of the South at that season of the year excel our own in beauty. The variety of colors, and shades of colors is wonderful.  There is a general somber hue, but this is varied by deep scarlet, purple, and bright yellow foliage, and intermingled with these, the deep green of the pines.”

As I drew near to the highway, it occurred to me that I was very near the spot in Buckhead, GA where years ago, as I strolled the banks of the Chattahoochie with my future wife, I was overcome with one of those strange qualms or feelings of uneasy intrusion that I was prone to experience on rare occasion. In my reflection, I made an observation that these sensations only materialized when I was completely unaware of any history or personal connection with the location of the occurrence. It was almost as if the experience itself prompted me to research the area, and in doing so, I would eventually recognize the significance of the spot, in some cases as it would pertain to my personal heritage, as in the case of Henry’s presence here, nearly 150 years ago. Often, I might momentarily attempt to mentally (telepathically?) conjure up that tinge on my own, but to no avail. No answer. Just the same, I still held fast to my deep-seated belief that within its mysterious recesses, the mind demonstrates transmitting functionality complimented by its receiving capacities that tend to spontaneously activate, unprompted and unbridled. 

The sun was bright against a perfect blue expanse, yet the air was sharply cold, and a biting northwesterly blew with consistent force, as I directed my vehicle into the wind, causing a noticeable sway. I gripped the wheel with one hand, and a half-peeled banana with the other. I would rush through my impromptu breakfast as I drove, to avoid any interruption that might rob me of valuable minutes that were ticking away with every mile. Finally, my GPS alerted me to the junction of Highway 120 and East Paulding Drive, where I turned right, and continued on a more northbound course. After a few miles through a series of modest curves along the blacktop, I approached a 3-way intersection, which was flanked by a modern brick-built church on my right, and an antiquated, whitewashed church on my left. Ahead of me, splayed out across the landscape was a giant cemetery, dotted with the familiar gray marble monuments that I recognized immediately as Civil War-era headstones. I idled at the intersection for a few minutes, looking to-and-fro, relishing my arrival, I suppose. I didn’t notice the green light until I heard the horn from the impatient commuter behind me. 

I pulled into the New Hope Baptist Church parking lot, parked the car, and climbed into my winter parka to defy the elements. The stars and striped were billowing in the wind, adjacent to the confederate “stars and bars,” both of which had been thoughtfully hoisted at “half-mast” due to the recent and unfortunate December 14^th slayings of children and teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. A green and brass placard stood in the middle of a small patch of lawn just beyond the hood of my rental car, which read: 

“BATTLE OF NEW HOPE CHURCH”  Lt. Gen J. B. Hood’s A.C. (ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY) having marched from the Etowah River, reached New Hope Ch., May 25, 1864, in time to halt Gen. J. W. Geary’s (2d) div., 20^th A. C. (American Cavalry) which had detoured near Owens’ Mill enroute to Dallas by New Hope.

Checked by Hood’s outposts near the mill, the Federals advanced & struck Stewart’s div.  astride the road at this point – the left brigade (Stovall’s) in the cemetery, with no intrenchments. 

Followed then several hours of bitter conflict –late afternoon & night- in rain & thunderstorm. Battle renewed next day.” –GEORGIA NATIONAL COMMISSION

After snapping a few photos, I crossed over to the other side of the road to where the small white church stood. Another placard of a different color and shape stood at the edge of the parking strip, which read:

NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE – ATLANTA CAMPAIGN – NEW HOPE CHURCH – MAY 25 – JUNE 4, 1864.

HERE, AT NEW HOPE CHURCH CONFEDERATE AND FEDERAL ARMIES ENGAGED IN A DESPERATE BATTLE AS THE FORMER BLOCKED THE WAY TO ATLANTA, KEY INDUSTRIAL CENTER OF THE CONFEDERACY. SHERMAN AGAIN OUTFLANKED THE CONFEDERATES AND THE TWO ARMIES MOVED TO RENEW THE STRUGGLE AT KENNESAW MOUNTAIN.

NATIONAL PARK SERVICE – UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

With both the Federal office, and Georgia’s State “Commission” claiming their armies’ victories, I found it fascinating that the two sides still engaged in conflict on this location 150 years later. 

Resting at a nearby picnic table behind the small church, I decided to give an actual eyewitness his opportunity to settle the dispute once and for all. I pulled Fleharty’s journal from my parka, and read his first-hand account for clarification:

___

Yet another signpost caught my eye, as I rose from the table, and approached the edge of the parking lot where a grove of pines obscured the property behind the petite church building. It read:  “Confederate Dug Trenches - Battle of New Hope Church May 25^th, 1864”. Of course, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to take a walk through remnants of the Atlanta campaign, even if it was once enemy soil. Judging from the angle of the trenches, they countered a large thicket of woods and a subdivision of newer homes, just a few hundred yards away where I imagined Henry and his company were once entrenched. Referencing an old map I had bookmarked on my iPhone showing the supposed position of each Federal and Confederate column, it became clear that I was now standing where three Confederate batteries had once fired upon Henry and Company E. They would, however press forward, the following morning in fog to commandeer a “field piece” belonging to the rebs. I followed the Confederate trenches deep into the pines, until they tapered off into a carpet of dead stumps and logs that made my navigation through the woods difficult. Still, I emerged from the treeline behind the little white church, with just a few minor bruises and scrapes to tend to. I understood —in the physical sense at least— what Henry meant in his letter to his brother, Willis as he spoke of “ruff countrey.” 

The Historic New Hope Church with Confederate trenches to its left

Since my arrival to New Hope Church, the weather had warmed up significantly, and the wind had subsided, so I shed my heavy cloak, and returned to my vehicle in the empty parking lot. By now, noon was approaching, and I was alone at a busy intersection where a multitude of soccer moms and weekend warriors were whizzing by, oblivious to the significance of this sacred spot, where nearly 150 years ago, for just two days in May, the future of our country and government hung suspended in a deadly exchange of rifle fire and cannon blast. 

I crossed over to the northwest side of the Dallas-Acworth Highway, and read a few names of the sons, fathers, brothers and great, great uncles who had fallen at New Hope Church. I was amazed at the staggering number of Union headstones scattered among their confederate counterparts, and it was no wonder, for according to the testimony of Confederate Captain Samuel T. Foster, 703 Union soldiers had been killed during the fighting that commenced from May 25-26, 1864.  I was grateful that Henry laid low.

With my cemetery exploration complete, I returned to the parking lot, and snapped a few photographs for my blog, and to share with my growing network of family and friends who had expressed interest in my discoveries. Glancing at my watch, I noticed it was approaching noon, and I hadn’t anticipated the trail’s end-payoff that New Hope Church had just presented, so I was running a bit behind schedule. I choked down a sandwich, as I studied my GPS for the shortest route possible to Kennesaw Mountain. I pulled out of the parking lot, and followed the directions at just above the speed limit in order to make up for some lost moments; moments well-spent, nevertheless.

Driving northeast from New Hope Church up Barrett Parkway, I wondered what was waiting at the enormous National Battlefield Park that had been established on February 18, 1917 to salute the hundreds who had fought at Kennesaw Mountain. The park stretched over 11.8 square kilometers, and I was anticipating the thrill of the climb just as much as the historic data that I was hopeful to capture. I was cursed with a dominant wanderlust gene, passed down to me by my father, and in spending my first 23 years in a habitat between the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges, with the great peaks of Rainier to the south, and Baker to the north, I had always been surrounded by these salient navigational aids. Living on the fringes of the “hill country” of Central Texas, I felt lost without them, and always had to snicker a little when encountering topographical anomalies like Friday Mountain, Cat Mountain, Mount Bonnell, etc. in the Austin area. I didn’t qualify any hill whose summit could be reached in under 2-3 hours, a “mountain” by any stretch. For the time being, however, as long as I lived in the South, I would take what I could get, Kennesaw included.  

Col. Benjamin Harrison

After about 15 minutes on the road, a prominent peak winked at me between a flutter of passing buildings and the random copse of pines that stood along the highway. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled, as I caught my first peek at the hill that I had previously read so much about, both in Fleharty’s journal, and elsewhere.  Barrett Parkway presented a direct portal to the National Battlefield Park Headquarters and Museum, so I made my turn up the steep three-mile grade, and did my best to contain my excitement. I pulled into the large parking lot at the base of the hill, and made note of the official trailhead that I expected was my anticipated route to the summit.  I packed my small HD video camera, and my Canon G9 digital SLR to record the details of my visit to this notable landmark. A pair of great bronze cannons stood guard before the museum entrance, and after a carefully choreographed self-portrait staged next to one of them, I entered the main building.

I approached the front desk where two men in their approximate 30’s were busy about their retail duties, and fielding telephone calls. One of them approached me eager to assist. I produced Uncle Henry’s bible, which he examined as I described its origin, as I understood it. He shared the relic with his colleague, who seemed equally impressed. I expressed my interest as to where the 102^nd might have been stationed during the conflict of June 27, 1864. As my assistant reached for a large, and well-worn binder on his desktop, I pulled out my video camera, and asked permission to document his description.  He obliged.  The binder, as I soon learned was a copy of William R. Scaife’s “ORDER OF BATTLE” published in 1992 in Atlanta, GA. It covered all forces according to rank, both Union and Confederate ^rd division, XX Corps led by future president, Colonel Benjamin Harrison, serving under Major General Daniel Butterfield, who’s commander was Major General George H. “Pap” Thomas, aka “The Rock of Chickamauga”. It was uncertain at first where Henry’s regiment was positioned, since Butterfield’s name was missing from the battlefield map we were using as a reference. However, we realized that the 1^st Brigade’s original commander, Brigadier General William T. Ward had been wounded at the battle of Resaca Which had occurred on the 15-18^th of the previous month, and Butterfield had been Ward’s temporary replacement. His brigade’s position was clearly marked on the battlefield map, near Kolb’s farm at the intersection of Powder Springs Road, and Cheatham Hill Road. The guide gave me accurate directions to the spot where I would be able to walk along the very trenches that were still visible in the forest just beyond a well-marked horse trailer parking lot.  I was excited to experience the sensation of tracing more of Henry’s warpath. First, however, a grand mountain stood between me, and Marietta, and it had to be conquered.

After walking through the museum, and purchasing my own copy of Scaife’s “Order of Battle”, I thanked the gents behind the desk,

Kolb's Farmhouse, near Company E's post
at the base of Kennesaw Mountain, GA

exited the main building, and wheeled around toward Kennesaw Mountain, where I found a convenient trailhead to follow. It would take me to the peak, which was approximately 551 meters high, and a mile’s ascent through a switchback path that wound through a forest of tall hardwoods, and thick mounds of pine needle carpeting. I was still wrapped in my parka, as the temperature was still in the 40’s, but it didn’t take long before it became necessary to begin shedding layers. Along the path, I passed an occasional cannon, and thought it might be a good idea to capitalize on these relics as a fitting background for some photography.  Pulling Henry’s bible from my camera bag, I gently placed it on a split rail fence that surrounded one of the guns, and snapped a photo. A thought occurred to me. Henry’s bible had most likely been in his pocket during his time spent in this area. It had come full circle, and I had carried it back. I felt proud, and happy to be here on this day, and glad I wasn’t standing here 148 years ago.  By the time I reached the summit of Kennesaw Mountain, I was stripped down to my tee shirt, which was now soaked with perspiration. Out of shape, out of breath, and nearly out of daylight, I had just checked a BIG box on my “must-do” list. BAM! 

Sherman reported to Washington "The whole country is one vast fort, and Johnston must have at least 50 miles (80 km) of connected trenches with abatis and finished batteries. We gain ground daily, fighting all the time. ... Our lines are now in close contact and the fighting incessant, with a good deal of artillery. As fast as we gain one position the enemy has another all ready. ... Kennesaw ... is the key to the whole country."