North of Albany, New York
January 1864
McClellan sat alone in his tent in dim lantern light, poring over the maps, noting in his head where each regiment was formed and where each was expected to be in place before first light. It was an intricate choreography that needed to unfold just so. Throughout the daylight hours he had ridden to each division, spoken to each corps and division commander in turn, talked to ordinary soldiers, gauged their readiness. He had written out the orders, but had gone over them in person as well, leaving nothing to chance. Staff officers came and went. McClellan would quickly read the notes they brought in, then dictate a response.
He had done everything possible to get the army ready for this moment. Nobody, he assured himself, could prepare an army for battle as he could. It was why the men loved him, had welcomed his return, and why they would fight for him. They were well-equipped, well-drilled, and mostly well-led.
Everything rode on a decisive victory, one that would allow him to leave a rump command to watch Burgoyne’s battered force, and rush south to liberate Washington City. Before Grant could. Those victories, in New York and in Washington, would cement his place at the head of the army—and in history. But only the final defeat of the Confederacy, finally taking Richmond, would earn him the ultimate prize.
Grant. According to McClellan’s agreement with Lincoln, McClellan was commander in chief of all Union armies in the field, so Grant was technically his subordinate. But in fact, Grant acted as an independent commander, reporting only to Lincoln himself. How would Grant respond to a direct order to stand down, to wait for McClellan to arrive on the field? To so order him was to risk him saying no. Better to let conditions on the ground dictate events. Get there first.
McClellan remembered Grant from Mexico. An officer but barely a gentleman. He took little care with his appearance. After Mexico, there was the talk. Drinking, and actions bordering on dereliction of duty. Grant had resigned before he could be court martialed. Or so it was said.
But nobody could argue with success, least of all Lincoln. Grant had won at Shiloh, though only after almost being driven into the Tennessee River. Forts Donelson and Henry. Victories for the navy, really. Then Vicksburg. A long, drawn-out, and costly siege against an undermanned and incompetent foe. The great eastern newspapers made much of him. Wait until they meet him, thought McClellan.
Everything is done. There is no more I can do. Tomorrow, it is up to the men and their officers. The plan is impeccable. But once in motion, it is out of my hands entirely.
He took pen in hand, and as he did before every battle, wrote a short note to Nelly. He didn’t send them. He wrote them just in case.
“Captain.”
“Sir.”
“You’ll see that this is delivered should anything happen to me tomorrow.”
“Yes sir.” Captain Wilson accepted the letter awkwardly, thought of stuffing it in his tunic, thought better, saluted, and repaired to his own tent to put the letter with his own belongings. Odd, he thought. Does the general intend to be near the fighting?
McClellan placed his boots next to each other, just so, next to the tent flap. His tunic and trousers he folded and placed on a camp stool. He hung his coat on a hangar, which hung from a rope stretched across the roof of the tent. He folded the map and straightened the pens and paper on the camp desk, then lay on the cot. He was asleep as his head hit the small pillow.