Rockville, Maryland
April 1864
McClellan and Captain Wilson, and a handful of staff officers who had hastily saddled up and followed them out of the city, had been riding hard for two hours, the noise of the guns growing louder with the passing miles. As they neared the town of Rockville it was clear that a general engagement was playing out just to the north. They could feel the boom of the big guns, and the cracking of small arms was constant and ever closer. Ahead, McClellan saw a squad of Union cavalry in the road headed toward them. He reined up, his horse snorting and pawing the ground, exhausted but, like its rider, exhilarated.
Seeing the stripes on the sleeve of a cavalryman, McClellan barked, “Sergeant, what soldiers are these?”
“Company I, Fifth U.S. Cavalry, General, sir.”
“Do you know where I can find General Grant?”
“Sure, I know where he was an hour ago, sir. We’re part of his cavalry escort and he sent us to look for General Custer.”
“Take me to him.”
The sergeant hesitated.
“Now, sergeant!” McClellan spurred his horse forward and the trooper had no choice but to do the same.
“Follow me, sir!”
Not surprisingly, the troopers were fine horsemen on splendid animals, and it was all McClellan could do to keep up with them. This is soldiering, he thought. To hell with a desk in the War Department. Within minutes they rode up to a farmhouse, the sergeant and his troopers neatly clearing the fence before halting in the yard. McClellan and Wilson entered through the open gate, and McClellan dismounted.
Seated on the porch of the house, smoking a cigar and dressed in what appeared to be a common soldier’s uniform, sat Ulysses S. Grant. He was alone, his staff officers huddled in the yard, now staring in disbelief at the sight of the commanding general walking briskly up the steps of the porch. Grant did not get up.
“General Grant, I received your message. Thank you for informing the commanding general that you were going into action.”
Grant said nothing.
“What’s the situation?”
Grant rose slowly, threw his cigar onto the porch, and stepped on it with his boot. “We made a night march last night. Left the campfires burning to make ’em think we were still there. Got ourselves into position to attack and did so in early afternoon. Seems we caught ’em completely by surprise. They ran like greyhounds at first, but sounds like they’ve regrouped north of here, just south of Gaithersburg. It’s an old-fashioned standup fight now. That’s what you’re hearing.”
Grant called for a map and placed it on the floor of the porch. With a stick, he pointed to a spot between Rockville and Gaithersburg. “Here. That’s where the fight is.”
McClellan stared hard at the map and seemed to be calculating something in his mind. “Thank you, General.” Then, looking up, “I shall assume command in the field now.”
Grant visibly stiffened. His ruddy face turned a brighter shade of red.
“Beg pardon, General?”
“I’m assuming command and shall ride to the front. Sergeant, you’re with me. Take me to the skirmish line!”
The trooper, who had remained mounted, smiled and wheeled his horse. “Sure, it won’t be hard to find General, sir.”
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Tom Nealon, sir. County Mayo born and bred. Strong in the arm and weak in the head.”
As they rode out the gate, McClellan asked, “You had no truck with the Fenian nonsense, Sergeant?”
Nealon spat to the side. “No sir. I’ve a gun and a horse and all the beans I can eat. I get to kill rebels, and now I get to kill bloody Englishmen. Shoot the bastards, I say. The Fenians, sir.”
McClellan and his escort rode through the detritus of battle. Wounded splayed on the ground or walking to the rear, dead horses, overturned wagons, and all manner of military equipment—rucksacks, weapons, kepis, and Hardee hats—as the noise of battle grew deafening.
They pulled up their horses next to an officer on horseback at the rear of his regiment, which was shooting from a kneeling position at the red-coated army just 200 yards away. Smoke rolled back from the firing line. The captain, for a captain he was, recognized McClellan and saluted.
“Begging your pardon, General. What the hell are you doing here?”
“What regiment is this, Captain?”
“The 21st Wisconsin, sir. Captain Charles Walker, at your service. XIV Corps, First Division, Third Brigade.”
McClellan nodded. “Late of the war in the west, Captain. Welcome to the east. I trust it’s to your liking.”
Walker looked hard at McClellan and shouted over the din. “Very much so, sir. Lovely weather.”
“Does the Western Army generally put captains in charge of regiments?”
“No sir. Fortunes of war. I was next in line when the colonel and the other field officers were killed or wounded. Chickamauga. Chattanooga.”
McClellan nodded again. “Speaking of the fortunes of war. Captain, I should like you and your fine soldiers to join me. We’re going forward. We’ll need to rally these regiments alongside you.”
Walker didn’t change expression. “Yes sir. Pennsylvanians and Wisconsin boys mostly. Good fighters. They’ll follow my orders. Your orders, sir.”
McClellan removed his sword from its scabbard and placed his hat on its tip. Raising it in the air, high over his head, he spurred his horse forward and forced his way through the line of soldiers. Reaching the front, he turned and faced the troops. He trotted up and down the line, a couple of hundred yards in each direction, still holding his sword in the air, speaking to the men who couldn’t hear a word he said. But his intentions were clear. Returning to the front of the 21st Wisconsin, he reared his horse for effect, shouted, “Charge!” and set out toward the British lines at a slow canter.
At first incredulous and motionless, in an instant the Union troops moved forward like one man, screaming at the top of their lungs and running wildly after the man on horseback.