Rosendale, New York
December 1863
Outside the American Hotel in Rosendale, New York, fifty staff officers, guards, and hostlers waited for the meeting inside to end. Young boys stood by, delighted with the activity and the presence of so many soldiers. Townspeople peered out through their windows or found an excuse to walk by the hotel before being shooed away by the guards. It had been two hours since George McClellan had arrived on horseback, dismounted, waved off his staff, and entered the hotel alone. President Lincoln had arrived by overnight train earlier from Philadelphia, accompanied by Secretary of War Stanton and John Hay, his personal secretary. Hay had met McClellan at the entryway to the hotel and led him to what was normally the dining room but which for today at least served as the seat of the government of the United States of America. Hay could see that the general was fuming. He’d had a train ride of his own from Albany to work himself into a lather, and he had done so.
Lincoln was dressed in his trademark dark suit, a black cravat at his throat. The ubiquitous stovepipe hat sat on a chair near the door. Stanton was seated, poker-faced, silent. A witness? Lincoln had been standing the whole time, and was animated, gesturing, talking too much. McClellan tuned him in and out, decided to sit, and went over again in his mind what he wanted to say to the president.
“General, it won’t do. I need you to stay here, up there, and keep General Burgoyne at bay. If you don’t want to do that, I’ll find a general who will.”
McClellan, red in the face, looked at the floor. “Mr. President, you gave me your word that this time I’d be allowed to finish the job. We were on the very cusp of victory twice previously when—”
Lincoln waved a bony hand and cut him off. “We are not on the very cusp of victory at this moment, sir. Washington City is in rebel hands and your army is in retreat. We are indeed on the cusp, but not of victory, sir. If not for the news from General Grant I’d be sitting down with Jefferson Davis to negotiate terms instead of imploring you to stay in the field. Sir.”
Grant. It had taken him seven months to subdue a ragtag, half-starved rabble at Vicksburg, and now he’s being dangled in front of me as the savior of the Republic. A drunk and a butcher. “Will General Grant be coming east?”
Lincoln stopped his pacing, turned, glanced at Stanton, then looked at McClellan squarely in the eye. “Yes. I’ve asked General Grant to come east. He will leave General Sherman in charge of the Western Army. Grant will come east by train with a couple of corps. He shall work in concert with General Meade and the rump of your army to retake Washington City. And then he will look toward Richmond. I don’t believe that the rebels will try to hold Washington City; it serves them no real purpose beyond inflaming public opinion and the press.”
McClellan said nothing. Grant would be the savior of Washington City, would restore the government to its seat of power.
“General, there is no doubt the situation is dire. But if General Grant can restore Washington to its rightful ownership, and if you can deal a blow to General Burgoyne, we shall regain the momentum and the strategic initiative. If not, I fear the Democrats will nominate a peace candidate next year.” He glared at McClellan. “And I believe they will probably prevail. Everything depends on you whipping Burgoyne. So that is an end to it. You will keep your position. You will not bring your army south. You will turn and take the fight to General Burgoyne.”
No stories. No jokes. No reminiscing about the circuit riding days in Illinois, or about his soldiering days during the Black Hawk War. At least that. I’m still in command of the Army of the Potomac. And I need to deal with Burgoyne before Grant has time to come east.
McClellan stood, looked at the president, nodded in the direction of Stanton, paused, then saluted, wheeled, and walked out of the room without a word. He nearly bowled John Hay over as Hay offered to show him out. Outside, McClellan stood in the doorway as staff officers scrambled to mount their horses, and a soldier led McClellan’s own horse over to where he stood.
Once mounted, Captain Wilson rode up alongside McClellan, looked over at the general, and asked, “All well, sir?”
“Very well, Captain. We have a train to catch. And an enemy to crush.”
Relieved, Wilson spurred his horse to keep pace with the general, who had moved ahead at a brisk canter.