Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [82]
“And he wants to see you.”
THERE WAS constant motion, men moving in all directions, office doors opening and closing in a jerky rhythm, the manic activity of headquarters. Hancock felt suddenly embarrassed, saw the clean blue coats, the sharp gold braids, knew his uniform was a bit ragged. There had not been time to have it cleaned, the call from McClellan coming the morning after Marcy’s visit. The best he could do was a clean white shirt, and he saw they all had clean white shirts.
“This way, Captain. The general can see you now.”
He was led by a young major, another new uniform, past aides and piles of paperwork, desks covered with lists and figures, paperwork he knew well.
McClellan sat behind a massive desk, shiny mahogany trimmed with gold-painted strips of wood shaped like the braids of a rope. The office was full of men, and McClellan was signing orders and requisitions, handed to him by each man in succession. Hancock was instantly impressed, knew the efficiency of motion, felt he was indeed in the presence of a commander.
“General, sir, this is Captain Hancock.”
McClellan looked up, did not rise, pointed to a chair without speaking, and the major followed the instructions, pulled the chair out, motioned for Hancock to sit.
McClellan did not stop working, did not send the men away, and Hancock knew that whatever the reason for this visit, it would not be private.
“Captain, we are building an army here. A good army. A goddamned big army. You understand that?”
Hancock cleared his throat, tried to make himself heard above the noise of the staff.
“Yes, sir. I can see that, sir.”
“Do you know what goes into this, Mr. Hancock? Well, of course you do, you’re a damned quartermaster. Best in the army, I’ve heard.”
Hancock did not feel complimented, instead felt a small, cold hole in his stomach. He thought, He wants me to be a quartermaster general. A tremendous need, and you can do it, you’re the right man for it, for quite possibly the worst job in the army. He waited for more, saw the papers flow across McClellan’s desk in a smooth stream, stopping only for a brief glance, a short explanation, and a quick stroke of black ink.
“They don’t understand, you know. They have no idea.”
Hancock looked at the face, the eyes that were not looking at him but darted at the papers, piercing and aware. Hancock said only, “Sir?”
“The politicians. The President. They have no idea what this army needs. None. No idea what this war is about . . . what we are up against. You cannot command from an office, from a comfortable backside, Mr. Hancock. I believe you know that.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose I do.”
“The President has called for seventy-five thousand troops. We need three times that, and more. The rebel army that sits right out there, right across that river, numbers over two hundred thousand, gets stronger every day. If we don’t move on them, and move with a well-trained, well-equipped, and well-commanded force, we will be massacred. You hear about Bull Run?”
“Yes, sir. I read the reports on the trip east.”
“Bloody disaster. Could have been worse . . . they could have marched right into Washington. Hell, they could have marched all the way to New York! Point is, we weren’t ready, and they were. No more of that. This is my command now.”
Hancock was beginning to relax, began to feel part of the office, the flow of activity, knew McClellan understood. “How may I help, sir?”
McClellan looked at him, shifted his attention away from the papers for the first time. “You know why I called you here?”
“No, sir. I assume, sir, because you want me to assist the quartermaster—”
“Quartermaster? That’s for clerks. I have plenty of clerks, Mr. Hancock. I need soldiers. I need men who fought in Mexico, who know what gunfire sounds like, men who don’t run when the enemy shoots at them. So far, this army hasn’t shown much stomach for a real fight. This whole damned city is filling up with officers, men