Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [83]
Hancock sat up straighter, felt a new stirring in his gut, said, “I have received orders . . . to report to General Anderson . . . as his supply officer. Does the general have a new assignment for me?”
“Anderson? Good man. Held on at Fort Sumter without losing a man. So, now the War Department sticks him out there in Kentucky, when we need him right here. Mr. Hancock, do you know General ‘Baldy’ Smith . . . William Smith?”
“Not well. He was at the Point, a year behind me. I can’t say I’ve heard anything about his career in the army.”
“Of course not. He barely has one. But he has friends in important places, and so the War Department has given him a division. Never mind that he’s barely led anybody anywhere. The department specializes in rewarding politicians. Point is, Smith needs some brigade commanders, men who do know how to lead, men who can keep him out of trouble. That’s you, Mr. Hancock. I am recommending to the President that you be promoted to Brigadier General and assigned to General Smith’s division.”
“Brigadier General? Sir, I’m only a captain.”
“There is a war, Mr. Hancock. Look around you. You can’t fire a cannon down any street in Washington without hitting a newly appointed general. Your promotion will have no difficulty. You are, after all, one of the few around here who is a real soldier. I am grateful for your service, Mr. Hancock.”
McClellan turned back to his papers. Impatient aides moved closer to the desk, and the procession began again. Hancock felt overwhelmed, wanted to say something appropriate, saw that the moment was passing, the army was moving on in front of him.
“Sir . . . General, I am honored.”
“It is we who are honored. We have a difficult job to do, Mr. Hancock. We have enemies in front of us and behind us. It is the army, alone, that must win this war. Are you with me, Mr. Hancock?”
Hancock did not understand McClellan’s concerns, but let the words go, understood that he had been given an extraordinary opportunity, the chance, again, to be a soldier. He stood, saluted, said, “Certainly, sir. I am with you.”
McClellan glanced up, returned the salute, then the young major was by his side. He placed a hand on Hancock’s arm, a subtle pull, and Hancock knew it was time to leave. He turned, nodded to the young man’s expressionless face, then made his way through the blue coats, passed through the maze of offices, past a line of well-dressed civilians, waiting to see Someone Important. He found the crowded stairway which led him back outside, into the clear September morning.
Hancock moved with long strides, passing statues and small patches of green grass, crossing the wide streets, dodging horses and wagons carrying soldiers. He knew Mira would be waiting for him, anxious, staring out the window of their room, looking at the soldiers, trying to spot him in the crowds below. He hurried now, hopped up the curb, glanced up at the windows of the hotel, could not see her, too much glare. He pushed into the lobby, saw more blue coats, women in bright dresses gathered around the men who posed and preened, and he made his way toward the stairs, rounded a corner and bumped into a man, a uniform.
The man turned, saw Hancock’s insignia, sniffed, said, “Watch where you’re going, there, Captain. I’m the new colonel of the Forty-ninth Ohio Volunteers. I suggest that if you are going to survive in this army, you learn to respect your superiors.”
Hancock stepped back. “Sorry,” he said, then looked at the soft, pale dough of the man’s face, the short round body, recalled McClellan’s words, thought, Which way will you run when the cannons fire?
AS THE months passed, the Confederate Army allowed its first great advantage, the hot surge of momentum, to slip away, and Lee had been right after all, the war would last well beyond the twelve-month terms of the volunteers.
As Lee had experienced in the new Confederate Army, the clash of egos, the struggle of ambitious men with private agendas,