Washington, DC
March 1864
McClellan sat alone in his study at his home in Washington City. He had returned from his meeting with President Lincoln and General Grant and had gone upstairs without a word to Nelly. He’d been in the study with the door shut for some hours.
Nelly climbed the stairs quietly, entered the study without knocking, and gently closed the door behind her. Without looking at her husband, who was seated at his desk, hands folded on his lap, she walked over to the fireplace. While her husband had spent countless days and months in the field, he was a hopeless fire maker while Nelly excelled at this as at most things.
She carefully ensured that the chimney was drawing, then lit the kindling. Within minutes, the fire was blazing and the temperature in the room, and the mood, began to warm.
“Are you still in the employ of the United States Army?”
A long silence, then, “Yes. In fact, I’m still it’s commanding general.”
“Well then. God is in his heaven.”
“God may be in heaven, but Sam Grant is in the field. I’m to be an armchair general, working out of the War Department.”
“But Grant’s superior officer?”
Another long pause. “Yes, and no. I asked the president specifically if Grant would be operating under my command and my orders, and he said yes.”
“But?”
“But then the president was at pains to explain that General Grant should enjoy ‘considerable latitude’ in carrying out my orders. ‘In the interests of speed,’ he said. I took that to mean that Grant would run his own show.”
Nelly still stood next to the fireplace, in quiet contemplation. McClellan watched her. I’m not sure who will take this harder, Nelly or me.
“And what orders did you leave with Grant?”
“None.” A pause. “I was reluctant to give orders that he might choose not to follow.”
Nelly walked over and placed her hands on McClellan’s shoulders. “I should think general orders, such as ‘march on the enemy and destroy him’ would do nicely in a situation such as this one. If Grant defeats Longstreet under your orders, perhaps there will be glory enough to go ‘round.”
McClellan laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yes, perhaps. But who would you vote for? The general who almost won the war three times, then sat in an office in Washington when the final victory was won? Or the homespun man of the West, the man of few words, the son of the frontier who crushed the enemy in the West then crushed him in the East? The man of the hour, and of destiny. The answer is plain.”
“You yourself have said that Grant is not a political animal.”
“And I believed it. But you should have seen him today in Lincoln’s office. Like he owned it. Measuring the curtains. I believe he senses his destiny.”
“What will Grant do? How was it left?”
“That’s the strangest part of this. It was left in the air. No talk of strategy, or even of the next move.”
“Surely Grant will move on to Richmond?”
“Surely he should.”
Nelly turned a log with the poker, and sparks flew up the chimney. “Come downstairs, George, and we’ll have supper. The war isn’t over, and the election campaign has yet to begin. You haven’t lost either and may yet win both.”
McClellan smiled in spite of his dark mood. He stood, looked around his study, straightened two of the maps on the wall, and followed Nelly downstairs.