South of Bemis Heights, New York
December 1863
Not ten miles away, George McClellan dismounted his horse, handed the reins to an orderly, brushed snow from his coat, and turned his felt hat upside down to rid it of snow as well. He stomped his boots on the wooden platform and entered his tent through the flap. It was just as cold inside as out. The oil lantern gave off precious little light and less warmth.
McClellan had visited each of his corps commanders and most of the division commanders. He wanted the men to see him, to know that despite the snowstorm, he was active, engaged, leading. It wouldn’t do to hunker down. Burgoyne could try to exploit the weather by launching an attack at any time.
McClellan hadn’t heard from Custer, but that wasn’t surprising. His orders were clear, and the fact that Custer was still in the field was proof enough that he was doing his job harassing the British as ordered. The snow should slow the British down, but it would also delay the Union troops coming up from New York City.
If Sykes can get here with his men before Burgoyne is reinforced, he thought, that’s an opportunity. It was hard for McClellan to believe that the British invaded with only 15,000 troops, but there they sat. If Sykes arrived tomorrow, he could attack the following morning and have a three-to-one advantage.
I need to deal with Burgoyne before he’s reinforced. Then go north and strike the troops that Custer is harassing, McClellan concluded. It could all be over in a matter of days. Then, the British threat dealt with, he could return to Washington City and save the capital from Longstreet’s legions. And that will be that. The future will be clear and certain.
Burgoyne. McClellan remembered him from Crimea. An engineer, like himself. Thoughtful, intentional, thorough. But aloof. He hadn’t paid much attention to the young American officer, sent to Crimea to observe and report. I doubt he remembers me. Not a man prone to make mistakes. Respected by the other British officers, though not loved. What a burden he has carried, and now, encamped on the very battlefield that his father lost all those years ago. It must weigh. He’ll want to put those ghosts to rest once and for all. That’s my opportunity.
McClellan walked outside and stood next to the fire that his staff was gathered around. He would much prefer no campfires, with the enemy within spitting distance, but it was too cold, and he needed to take care of his men. There would be a big fight very soon, maybe the decisive fight of the war, and he needed every single man ready to fight. Leadership made all the difference. Lincoln didn’t understand. Pope, Burnside, Hooker. McClellan felt anger rising, but he checked himself. There would be plenty of time to settle accounts in due course.
“Captain, talk to the quartermaster and see if he can increase rations tomorrow. The men will need the extra sustenance soon enough.”
“Right away, sir.”
“And Captain.” This in a whisper, pulling him away from the fire, “Have we heard from the woman?”
Captain Wilson looked around, assuring himself that no one was within earshot. “No sir. Not since her last report two days ago, when she returned from the British camp. I suspect the storm is keeping her at home.”
“I need to know General Burgoyne’s intentions. Get a message to her.”
“Yes sir. I’ll go myself.”