The Battle of Atlanta, 1864, and March to the Sea - 'Total War' Tactics Used Against Their Own

The fall of Atlanta to Union forces sealed Abraham Lincoln’s fate as victor in the 1864 election, crushing any hope for George McClellan and his peace platform. With the South in retreat, the North rallied around its war president, determined to see the conflict through to its conclusion. Sherman’s subsequent March to the Sea introduced an ancient breed of warfare that the modern world was unaccustomed to. It was no longer just armies that fell under the hammer of war, but entire societies—cities burned, fields ruined, and the will of the people shattered. This was the dawn of total war, and the modern world would never fight the same way again.

Atlanta. 22 July - 22 December, 1864.
Union Forces: 98,000 Soldiers.
Confederate Forces: 53,000 Soldiers.

Additional Reading and Research:

• Dowdey, Clifford. The Wartime Papers of Robert E. Lee.
• Fellman, Michael. Citizen Sherman.
• Royster, Charles. The Destructive War.
• McPherson, James. Battle Cry of Freedom.
• Borit, Gabor. Lincoln's Generals.

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Transcript

On the Fourth of July, 1863, as the Confederate flag lowered over Vicksburg, Ulysses S. Grant claimed his victory, a triumph that echoed like a death knell across the South. Meanwhile, Robert E. Lee’s once-unshakable army, humiliated by defeat at Gettysburg, staggered back from northern soil, their retreat a bitter sign of a rebellion on its last legs. The Confederacy's hopes were crumbling, and with Vicksburg’s fall, their chances of winning the war were slipping beyond reach.

The fall of Vicksburg handed the Union full command of the mighty Mississippi River, ripping Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas from the heart of the Confederacy like limbs torn from a weakening body. The Confederate States, once a unified rebellion, were now fractured, isolated, and bleeding.

In the East, Lee had fought with the ferocity of a lion, repelling Union invaders time and again, but his army was running on fumes. Supplies dwindled to a trickle, and his soldiers—brave but weary—were no longer the force they once were, starved of both food and ammunition.

When Grant moved east, summoned by Lincoln himself, the mission was clear: accomplish what no general before him had managed. He was to break the will of Lee, bring down his vaunted army, and seize Richmond—the beating heart of the Confederacy.

In May 1864, Grant marched 100,000 Union soldiers into the blood-soaked fields of northern Virginia. He did not come to fight merely another battle—he came to win the war.

While Grant waged war in the East, his trusted lieutenant, General William T. Sherman, prepared for his own campaign in the West, ready to strike with relentless force.

Sherman’s army was the sharp edge of the Union’s Anaconda Plan, the strategy born from the mind of General Winfield Scott. The goal was simple: suffocate the Confederacy until its resistance was nothing more than a whisper.

Piece by piece, the Anaconda Plan would carve away the Confederate States, severing them until they were too fractured and weak to support each other, isolated and vulnerable to the final blow.

With Vicksburg already in Union hands, the plan entered its next deadly phase. Sherman would tear through the heart of the South, marching from Tennessee to the Atlantic, cutting the Confederacy in two and driving a wedge between the Deep South and the upper South.

Leading an army of nearly 100,000, Sherman moved out of Tennessee, which had already fallen under his control in January 1864. His eyes were set on Atlanta—a city whose capture would cripple the Southern war machine.

Opposing Sherman stood General Joseph E. Johnston, a veteran of the early war who had once commanded in Virginia before being felled by a wound in 1862, replaced by the legendary Lee.

Like Lee, Johnston was a master of defense, and he would need every ounce of his tactical brilliance to stand against Sherman’s overwhelming force, his Army of Tennessee dwarfed by the Union legions nearly two to one.

Johnston, ever the strategist, was precisely where he needed to be, and he wasted no time making Sherman feel it. Their initial clash came at Resaca, mid-May of 1864, where Johnston’s shrewd positioning forced Sherman into a brutal frontal assault.

By now, the war had demonstrated the lethal power of defensive warfare. Armies still clung to their old habits, marching into battle in tight lines, despite the cold reality that modern rifles and artillery rendered such tactics suicidal.

In the age of muskets, when short ranges demanded that forces concentrate their fire, the lines had been essential—compact formations meant strength in numbers, the only way to make those shots count.

But the rifle had changed everything. Now, soldiers could drop a man dead from 300 yards, unleashing lethal volleys long before their enemies could even think of returning fire.

Advancing troops were now exposed to murderous fire for far longer, while entrenched defenders, securely hidden, could unleash devastating casualties before even being touched.

With this advantage, Johnston’s smaller army inflicted brutal damage on Sherman’s superior numbers, punishing every Union advance with calculated precision.

Sherman, thinking strategically, tried to pin the Confederates down while maneuvering around their flanks. But Johnston, ever perceptive, seemed to anticipate Sherman’s every move, slipping away just as the Union forces sought to encircle him.

Yet Johnston’s retreat, while preserving his men, came at a high cost. Each step backward surrendered precious Southern ground to the advancing Union army, and the Confederacy could not afford to lose any more territory.

Johnston’s strategy bought him time, but time was not what Confederate President Jefferson Davis needed. The war he demanded was not one of slow retreats, but of bold resistance and regained ground.

President Davis had no interest in watching Sherman creep further into Georgia. He craved a decisive blow that would hurl the Union invaders back. Yet Johnston’s defensive maneuvers, coupled with his secretive, distant demeanor, only fanned Davis’ frustrations. The Southern leader wanted action, not cautious withdrawal, and his patience was wearing thin.

Johnston had stung Sherman hard, dishing out painful defeats at Resaca, New Hope Church, and Kennesaw Mountain. But no matter how many blows Johnston landed, Sherman remained relentless, constantly probing for weaknesses and attempting to outflank his Confederate foe, though never with decisive success.

By early July, when Johnston led his troops into the fortified defenses of Atlanta, Davis reached his breaking point. The steady retreat, however tactically sound, had become intolerable to the Confederate leadership.

Davis and his government, their confidence in Johnston utterly shattered, sought a commander with a fire for attack—a leader who would turn the tide through raw aggression and daring.

On July 17, Johnston was unceremoniously stripped of his command, and in his place, the brash and battle-hardened John Bell Hood took the reins, ready to lead with a fist clenched for the offensive.

Hood’s reputation was forged in the fires of combat, serving as one of Robert E. Lee’s fiercest divisional commanders. His Texas Brigade had become legendary for their tenacity, trusted by Lee to tackle the most daunting and dangerous missions.

Hood had shown his mettle in the Peninsular Campaign, the Second Battle of Bull Run, Antietam, and Gettysburg—each time leading his men with fearless aggression, a commander who embraced the chaos of battle with unflinching resolve.

When Hood was transferred to the western theater, commanding troops at Chickamauga, his reputation only grew. Hood wasn’t the type to lead from the rear; he fought in the thick of it, his body bearing the scars of the frontlines. If there was a man born for the offensive, it was Hood.

Yet Hood’s strength was also his weakness. His unbridled aggression lacked the steady hand of strategic foresight. Even Lee, Hood’s old commander, warned Davis in a solemn telegram: “Hood is a bold fighter. I am doubtful as to other qualities necessary.”

Johnston’s soldiers, loyal and battle-tested, weren’t eager to see their general ousted. But the decision had been made in the halls of power, and the will of the politicians would now dictate the course of battle.

Wasting no time, Hood launched an assault on the Union lines at Peachtree Creek on July 20. The fight was fierce, but the Union forces held their ground, driving Hood’s men back and thwarting his opening gambit.

Forced to fall back into Atlanta’s defensive lines, Hood found himself on the receiving end of Sherman’s relentless push. He sent out desperate sorties, harassing the Union flanks, trying to keep the city from being completely encircled.

For a brief moment, Hood’s defiance bore fruit. He managed to keep Atlanta’s last remaining railroad open and even thwarted a Union cavalry raid aimed at freeing prisoners from the notorious Andersonville camp.

But the cost of Hood’s relentless attacks was bleeding the Confederacy dry.

Within days, Hood’s aggressive tactics had cost him 15,000 men—more than double the losses Johnston had sustained over the course of ten weeks. Though he inflicted 6,000 casualties on the Union, the toll on his own forces was staggering.

Despite the Confederate resistance, Sherman’s forces steadily crept around Atlanta’s flanks, inching ever closer to a full encirclement that would squeeze the life from the city.

Hood, ever the gambler, devised a bold plan—one that might have worked a year earlier, when Confederate and Union forces still matched one another in strength.

Rather than hunker down and endure a grueling siege, Hood resolved to abandon Atlanta. He would strike at Sherman’s rear, turning the tables and forcing the Union commander to follow him in a daring maneuver.

Hood’s gamble was to march around Sherman’s rear, threatening the Union’s vital supply lines and drawing Sherman away from Atlanta, hoping to lure him into a chase back toward Tennessee.

But Sherman, ever the tactician, forced Hood’s hand when he moved his army around Atlanta on August 22, cutting off the city’s last rail link and sealing its fate.

In early September, with no other option left, Hood led his army out of Atlanta in a wide march around Sherman’s right flank, hoping for one last chance at turning the tide.

A lesser commander might have scrambled to follow Hood, but Sherman was no fool. He calmly split his army in two, confident that he could handle both the city and the Confederate army at once.

With calculated precision, Sherman sent General George Thomas to chase down Hood while he himself led the other half of his army triumphantly into Atlanta on September 2.

The fall of Atlanta was greeted with jubilation across the North. President Lincoln, besieged by political pressures and the grind of war, breathed a long-awaited sigh of relief.

The capture of Atlanta crushed the rising tide of the Northern peace movement, all but ensuring Lincoln’s reelection in November and giving the Union cause renewed hope.

Sherman, never one to shy away from his disdain for politics, had little affection for Lincoln’s policies, but he was a soldier first. He held his position in Atlanta, maintaining Union control of the city until the election was secured.

As Sherman consolidated his grip on Atlanta, he showed no hesitation in his next move—he ordered the complete eviction of the city’s civilian population, emptying it of anyone who might impede his plans.

The South erupted in outrage at the forced eviction, but Sherman was resolute. Atlanta would become a bastion of Union supply, a fortress for his army’s needs, and no civilians—however desperate—would stand in his way.

For ten weeks, Sherman held his army in the captured city, watching as Hood led his own forces into the jaws of catastrophe, a commander driven by reckless ambition.

Hood’s army, battered and diminished, was shattered at Franklin, Tennessee, in a suicidal frontal assault against fortified Union lines. What remained of his once-proud force then failed miserably in the siege of Nashville, sealing its doom.

With Atlanta firmly in Union hands, Sherman began his next legendary campaign. On November 16, he led 68,000 soldiers southeast toward Savannah, leaving behind a city in ruins, but with his sights on total destruction.

With no Confederate army capable of halting his advance, Sherman spread his men in a vast formation, fifty miles wide, scouring the land like a relentless force of devastation. Nothing escaped his grasp—farms, railroads, supplies—all laid to waste.

Though Atlanta was securely under Union control, Sherman severed his ties to the city, choosing instead to live off the land itself, feeding his massive army with whatever could be taken from the South’s breadbasket.

Sherman’s men took whatever they required, while obliterating everything else in their path. Plantations were burned to the ground, railroads torn up, and farms ruined—anything that could sustain the Confederate war effort was utterly annihilated.

Sherman’s war was not against the people of the South but against their means of survival. Civilian casualties were few, but the Southern way of life—their farms, infrastructure, and resources—was systematically dismantled.

Sherman’s campaign didn’t just cripple the Confederate supply lines; it delivered a crushing psychological blow, showing the South in no uncertain terms that their defeat was inevitable, their lands laid bare as a symbol of their collapse.

In just over a month, Sherman’s campaign reached its triumphant conclusion. On December 22, he wired President Lincoln with a telegram of victory: "I beg to present you as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns, plenty of ammunition, and some 250,000 bales of cotton."

The autumn of 1864 rang the death knell for the Confederacy. While many had already dismissed the Southern cause after the dual defeats at Vicksburg and Gettysburg in 1863, the truth was that the Confederacy still had one final chance left.

In May 1864, Grant plunged his forces into the heart of Virginia, engaging Lee’s army in a string of brutal, blood-soaked confrontations—Wilderness, Spotsylvania Courthouse, North Anna, and the horrors of Cold Harbor.

In just one month, from May 5 to June 3, Grant suffered staggering losses—50,000 men dead or wounded. The Union was shocked, with cries for Grant’s removal echoing through the North. But Lincoln stood firm.

Lincoln knew he had found a man who would not flinch in the face of defeat. Unlike the generals who had come before him, Grant never retreated, and for that, Lincoln backed him, no matter the cost in blood.

By early June, Grant’s relentless advance had stalled outside Petersburg, forcing him into a grueling siege just south of Richmond, the Confederate capital itself now in his sights.

As he marched toward Richmond, Grant paid in blood but continued to move forward. At Petersburg, however, his men fell by the thousands—and the lines barely budged.

Lincoln’s unwavering support for Grant, despite the horrific losses, fueled a growing peace movement in the North. By the summer of 1864, the Democratic Party nominated former General George McClellan as their presidential candidate, calling for an immediate ceasefire and peace negotiations.

By August, Lincoln was prepared for the worst. If he lost the November election, he resolved not to wait the customary five months for the transfer of power. He would resign immediately, handing the reins to McClellan, respecting the will of the people.

Had Johnston remained in command of the Confederate army in Georgia, he might have held Atlanta as stubbornly as Lee clung to Petersburg. That, in turn, could have led to Lincoln’s defeat and breathed new life into the Confederacy’s dying dream of independence.

But with Atlanta in Union hands, the North tasted the sweet scent of victory. The possibility of electing a peace candidate vanished, ensuring Lincoln’s reelection and the war’s continuation until its inevitable conclusion.

Sherman’s March to the Sea marked a dark turning point in modern warfare, where, for the first time, the civilian sector of an enemy nation became a legitimate target of military operations.

Such tactics had been commonplace in Europe centuries earlier, most notably during the Thirty Years' War, but for the most part, the world had left this brutal brand of warfare behind—until now.

After 1864, civilians became targets once more, and Sherman’s name would forever be reviled in the South. Yet, despite the bitterness it sowed, his actions served a grim but effective purpose.

"This was war as politics stripped bare...For the Confederates had to be defeated in devastating fashion, lest they sustain a longer-term armed insurrection of the type which has characterized the histories of such peoples as the Irish and the tribes of the Balkans" (Fellman, "Lincoln and Sherman," in Boritt, Lincoln's Generals, pp. 155-156).

The ruthless efficiency of Sherman’s campaign surely weighed heavily on Lee’s decision to surrender in April 1865, rather than risk plunging the South into a prolonged guerrilla conflict.

Sherman’s triumph at Atlanta, followed by his merciless march of destruction, did more than end a war—it resurrected an ancient and brutal form of warfare, one that shattered the Confederacy and left its legacy carved into the landscape of the South.