Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [142]
The man who had spoken said, “Begging your pardon, General. I am General Buckingham, from Secretary Stanton’s office. These men are my escort. I am to deliver this personally to the commanding general. If you will examine the seal . . .”
Couch stepped forward, took the papers, saw the heavy wax seal of the War Department, said, “General, please follow me. General McClellan is there, inside the house.”
The men dismounted, and Buckingham stepped up beside Couch and waited.
Couch looked at Hancock, said, “Well, General, still off to bed?”
“No, I suppose not. Maybe one more look at the fire . . .”
The three men walked toward the cabin, and Hancock held open the door, moved into the big room behind the other two. The noise did not stop, no one paid attention. Couch and Hancock waited by the door, and Buckingham made his way to McClellan and announced himself quietly. McClellan looked up at the man, nodded without smiling, and Hancock saw Buckingham hand him the paper. McClellan pushed his thumb through the wax, unfolded the letter, read for a few seconds, then stood up.
“Gentlemen . . . please. May I have your attention? Quiet, please.”
The talking wound down, faces turned, and McClellan said, “Is there any brandy left? This man is from the War Department. He has ridden hard through this weather and appears to need a drink.”
A bottle moved from the far side of the room, was placed on the table in front of McClellan. He poured the last of the contents into his glass, handed it to Buckingham, and Hancock saw that the man’s hands were shaking. He raised the glass slowly, said, “Thank you, General.”
“Gentlemen, this man has braved this miserable night at the request of the Secretary of War. I could read the letter out loud, but it is simpler to just say that I have been relieved of command. Effective immediately, this army is under the command of . . .” He paused, and Hancock sensed it was dramatics, McClellan making the best of his last moment in the spotlight. “. . . Major General Ambrose Burnside.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The men began to look at each other, and Hancock dropped his head, stared at the floor, felt briefly sick, took a deep breath. Couch’s hand was on his shoulders and he said, “We can only do our jobs, General.”
TO THE troops, Burnside’s appointment was not as important as McClellan’s dismissal. Rumors began to fly immediately, angry men making big talk. The most radical story was that McClellan was to lead an armed force into Washington, unseating Lincoln. There was more widespread talk of a milder protest, men refusing to serve, resigning. The officers were more discreet. Most understood that angry talk was dangerous talk, and if rumors led to action, the effectiveness of the army could dissolve.
Hancock felt McClellan’s dismissal as a blow, but understood that the affection he held for the commander did not mean that McClellan was the best man to lead the army, and so when the angry talk reached him, he was quick to put it down. He was, after all, a career soldier, and he had no doubts that his loyalty lay to the nation, not to any one man.
The troops considered Burnside just another in a line, a man who held a title, who inspired nothing else. To the commanders, Burnside’s appointment was a serious mistake. Even Burnside himself had doubts, had been as surprised as the rest that his name had come down from Washington. He was thought of in the high ranks as a reasonably capable commander, a friendly, generous man with no particular talents. He had been as culpable as anyone else for the failures at Antietam.
Burnside immediately made two decisive moves. He reorganized the army, creating three large “Grand Divisions,” putting them under the commands of the ambitious and temperamental Joe Hooker; William Franklin, Hancock’s original commander from the Sixth