Saratoga, New York
January 1864
McClellan had been up since four and had gathered his corps and division commanders one last time. They all had written orders, but leaving nothing to chance, he had gone over the orders again. Custer, whose cavalry had been out in force for the last twenty-four hours, reported that nothing had changed. Burgoyne’s forces had not moved, and there were no signs that he was preparing to attack. All was ready.
“Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you that the very fate of the Union rides on our success today. Our country has been invaded and only this army stands between survival and ruin. Today we shall deliver a blow that will be felt not just in Richmond, but in London and throughout the world.” The other officers were serious, hands clasped behind backs, nodding, filled with the import of McClellan’s words and weighted with responsibility. Custer, apart, smiled and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
The orders explained, the speech delivered, each man rode off into the darkness to return to his command. McClellan stood beside the fire, then paced. Turning to Captain Wilson he said, “We shall monitor events from here. I want all communications from the line brought to me immediately.”
Wilson, hiding his disappointment, could only say, “Yes sir.”
Entering his tent, McClellan sat at his field desk, took his watch from its pocket and marked the time. Five-thirty. In a few minutes, the big guns would commence their bombardment of the British positions. At six, the infantry would go in all along the front. Rising again, he went back outside, pacing nervously. This is always the worst of it, the waiting.
This time it would be different. McClellan would fully commit the entire army. There will be no room for criticism. And he would follow up the victory. Once we’ve won the day, I’ll unleash Custer with orders to make their retreat hell. Destroy their supply train. Harass their rear and flanks. And I’ll wheel the rest of the army south, toward Washington City. In a month, it would be over, and then he would deal with the other business. Politics.
At the first sound of the cannon, booming out in the pre-dawn darkness, McClellan went back outside and sat on a camp stool. At six o’clock, right on schedule, he heard musket fire ripple steadily up and down the line.
Now, at a little after eight o’clock, a staff officer rode pell-mell toward McClellan and jumped off his horse as he reined it to a halt. Staff officers had been riding in and out of camp since first light, bringing the first reports of the action. This one saluted and said, “Sir, I’m Captain O’Neill. General Gibbon sends his compliments and, uh, something has happened in the general’s front.”
“What the devil are you talking about, Captain?”
“Sir. A brigade, the Irish Brigade, surrendered. Other regiments have as well.” The man had begun to weep, first quietly, then uncontrollably.
McClellan stood. “Was General Gibbon under attack at the time?”
“No sir. He was attacking. He was fully engaged, sir. Then the Irish Brigade surrendered. But sir—” Captain O’Neill was choking on his words.
“What are you saying, Captain, for the love of God?”
“The Irish, sir. They’ve taken up arms with the British. With the British, sir. They’re shooting our boys.” With that, O’Neill put his hands over his face and turned away.
“Captain Wilson! My horse. Take me to General Gibbon!”