by Bruce Catton
Which is as it may be. It is doubtful if McClellan ever realized exactly what effect his letter had, or why such an effect might have been expected. He was acting, those days, with an incredible innocence. Understanding politics not at all, he put himself inextricably into politics; having given Lincoln a letter which was enough to destroy his own position, he now had to make certain that his enemies in Washington would be able to put the worst possible interpretation on it. He entertained in his camp Fernando Wood, recently mayor of New York, and one of the leaders in what was just beginning to be called the Copperhead movement.
Wood was a character any administration man might well look upon with suspicion. When the Southern states began to secede at the end of 1860 and the beginning of 1861, Wood had proposed that New York City itself secede and become some sort of free city on the coast, friendly to the new Confederacy, bringing from Lincoln the dry comment that the time hardly seemed ripe for the front door to detach itself and set up housekeeping by itself. Wood was by now the complete exemplar of those Northern Democrats who let their old sympathy for the South, their dislike of anti-slavery agitation, and their basic political opposition to the Republicans carry them over to the very edge of being pro-Confederate rather than pro-Union. Like many another Northern general—U. S. Grant, for a random example—McClellan was a Democrat and always had been; but he could not see now that under all the circumstances it was not quite politic for him to confer with Fernando Wood while his army recuperated from defeat within gunshot of Lee's outposts.
He talked politics with Wood, who felt and said that McClellan would be a good presidential candidate. He seems to have prepared for Wood a letter outlining his political views; a letter apparently embodying much the same points as were expressed in his letter to Lincoln, but dangerously susceptible to misinterpretation when given by the commanding general to a reckless conniver like Wood. McClellan showed the letter to one of his closest friends, General William F. Smith—"Baldy" Smith to the army, a good soldier and a stoutiy loyal citizen. Smith, according to the surviving reports, read it and found the remnants of his hair standing on end; handed it back with the startled remark that "it looks like treason" and would be the ruin of McClellan and all who were close to him. On Smith's urging, McClellan destroyed the letter. His enemies in Washington, of course, never saw the letter and never knew just what had passed between Wood and McClellan; but they knew that Wood had visited McClellan, they knew that talk of McClellan as the next President was beginning to circulate, and they did know Wood.
After Wood left, Halleck came down for a conference. McClellan was stiffly polite; he considered Halleck an inferior person, in which he was quite correct, and he wrote to his wife that his self-respect would permit him to remain in command of the army "only so long as the welfare of the Army of the Potomac demands—no longer." That tie with the army had become by now the only thing that counted: "I owe a great duty to this noble set of men, and that is the only feeling that retains me. ... I owe no gratitude to any but my own soldiers here; none to the government or to the country." The conversation with Halleck was inconclusive. McClellan was left with the feeling that his army would be reinforced and would be ordered to resume its advance on Richmond, and Halleck also seems to have promised that McClellan would ultimately be put in command of Pope's army as well as his own. This McClellan took with a grain of salt. He wrote home that as far as he could see the authorities "intend and hope that my army may melt away under the hot sun."
Then the blow fell. At the end of July, Halleck telegraphed that reports from Pope indicated a lessening of Rebel strength around Richmond and suggested a reconnoissance in force by McClellan. Hooker's division, accordingly, was sent forward to the old battlefield of Malvern Hill, and McClellan prayed that the Rebels would incautiously attack—then, with a counterattack, he might create an opening for a real advance on Richmond. But the Rebel attack did not develop, a sputtering of small-arms fire along the picket lines died away in the thickets, and Hooker was withdrawn, furious, like Kearny earlier, swearing that a determined push would have taken the Confederate capital. McClellan himself was hopeful and wired Halleck that if he were properly reinforced he believed he could march his army to Richmond in five days; but Halleck replied that there were no reinforcements to send and bluntly told him that it had been decided to withdraw the entire army from the James to the upper Potomac—McClellan must get busy, send his sick north at once, and put his army on the transports as fast as he could.
McClellan argued, and Halleck, an expert at conducting disputation by telegraph, argued back, and the old business of Pinkerton's overestimate of Confederate strength arose once more to cripple the army. If Lee, said Halleck, actually had two hundred thousand men, as McClellan was insisting, then it was potentially disastrous to leave Lee posted between the armies of Pope and McClellan: with that strength he could easily hold off one army and crush the other. In the face of such numbers the only possible course was to reunite the armies in front of Washington and make the best fight possible. This was unanswerable, and the withdrawal began—as promptly as possible, McClellan felt; slowly and with unpardonable delay, Stanton and Halleck believed.
It was almost a question, by now, whether McClellan was fighting the Confederates or the authorities at Washington. He still saw himself as the man who would finally save the country, but he believed that he would have to do it over the objections of the government, as he was fully convinced that the men in Washington were determined to get rid of him at any cost. "Their game," he wrote to his wife, "is to force me to resign; mine will be to force them to place me on leave of absence, so that when they begin to reap the whirlwind that they have sown I may still be in a position to do something to save my country." Reflectively, and as if there might be doubts about the matter, he added: "With all their faults, I do love my countrymen, and if I can save them I will yet do so."
So the retreat began, down the peninsula to the wharves around Fortress Monroe. Along the way McClellan found time to be the fond husband thinking of the wife and baby girl at home—he did hope the child wouldn't make too much progress in the way of learning to walk and to talk before he could get home to see her. He sent his wife a pressed flower, picked in an old cemetery at Jamestown, and he tried to imagine what things were like centuries earlier when John Smith first came up this river. He mused about the state-liness and comfort with which the colonial planters managed to surround their fives: "It would delight me beyond measure to have you here to see the scenery and some of the fine old residences which stud its banks."
And the army marched along the narrow roads, leaving much behind it: youthful innocence, many comrades, and the bright hope that the war might yet be won before it settled down into hatred and blind destruction and the deaths of half a million boys.
On the march the men found that less care was being exercised now to prevent the destruction of Rebel property. One division came to a fine old plantation whose owner, somewhat rashly, had defiantly posted a sign forbidding the burial of any dead Yankees on the grounds. The men surged in over the lawn, set fire to the house, and resumed the march, a black pillar of smoke rising behind them in the windless air.
FOUR
An Army on the March
I. Indian Summer
To the people of the North it seemed that September was bringing the outriders of doom up across the Potomac. Lee's army, so unbelievably thin and ragged in actual appearance, so greatly magnified and transfigured by rumor and by fear, came splashing through the shallows of the fording places like a legendary host, and the sound of its bands playing "Maryland, My Maryland" was like the first far-off notes of the last trumpet. The rebellion had not been put down, after all; it was here, over the border, ready with fire and sword to conquer and lay waste. The great war to save the Union, entered into with so many waving flags, so many cries and cheers for departing trainloads of young men in bright new uniforms, might be coming to sudden catastrophe before the autumn leav
es had turned. Here was something government could not handle, after all. The war was coming to the people.
All across the North the people reacted, as if the country itself were beleaguered. When the news came that Pope's army had been crushed and driven, Boston bestirred itself. At the urging of Governor Andrew churches were made ready to receive wounded men, and freight-car loads of bandages and medical supplies were hastily prepared and sent to Washington. Martial law was declared in the Ohio River cities of Cincinnati and Covington—for in the West Rebel armies
under Braxton Bragg and Kirby Smith had slipped the leash and were driving north in pace with Lee. A self-organized "national war committee" met in New York, proposed that Pathfinder Fremont be reinstated in army command, urged the enlistment of a special corps of fifty thousand men for his special use, appointed a delegation to meet next day at Providence with such governors of the New England states as could be on hand, and then dropped out of sight and was heard of no more. In Pennsylvania, Governor Curtin called for the formation of volunteer militia companies. At least fifty thousand men would be needed, he said, "for immediate service to repel the now imminent invasion by the enemies of the country." The mayor of Philadelphia called on "all able-bodied men" to assemble at election-district precinct houses to be organized for service, and places of business throughout the state were ordered closed at 3 P.M. daily so that the new units might drill.
Governor Morton of Indiana told counties bordering the Ohio River to form military companies as speedily as might be. In the Susquehanna Valley people prepared to evacuate their towns, if need be; in Lancaster the citizens formed a committee of public safety and a home-guard company, and advised sister cities and boroughs to do likewise and "to arrest every man who uttered a traitorous sentiment against the government." Several hundred women met in Boston's Park Street Church and resolved that women throughout the country should form "circles of prayer" to pray for "the outpouring of the Holy Spirit on the entire nation." Cincinnati reported that "over 1,000 squirrel hunters from the neighboring counties" had come in to offer their services. From the Army of the Potomac, Major General John F. Reynolds was detached and sent to Harrisburg, to give professional direction to Pennsylvania's home-guard levies.1
The Army of the Potomac was pulling itself together in Washington, getting its second wind for a sprint after Lee. The people of the North might arouse themselves with any number of public meetings, emergency volunteer companies, massed squirrel hunters, and committees of public safety on guard against treason: Lee was not going to wait for that frothy, fluid outpouring to harden into tangible military strength. If he was to be stopped, it was the army that would have to stop him, and the army knew it perfectly well.
Even before the army had fully reassembled in the Washington lines, the men in the ranks could see that there had been a great change. The Popes and the McDowells were gone, and the organization was running smoothly once more; scattered brigades were pulled together without fuss, the frantic running around and feverish activity at army headquarters had given way to quiet competence, regular rations were being issued again, new uniforms and equipment were being passed out, and in general it began to look as if there was a man at the top who knew what he was doing. Once again the lounging stragglers were swept up off the streets. Stray detachments of men, posted at odd spots in and around the capital, not knowing why they were posted there and strongly suspecting that no one else knew either, were called in and given regular assignments. There is record of one cavalry command that had been camped in a suburban field for weeks, "waiting for orders," completely forgotten by the authorities; it was found and put to work after someone thought to make a check on the rations issued by the commissary department. In Alexandria a huge camp suddenly came into existence for returning convalescents, wandering soldiers who had lost their papers, detailed men whose regiments had moved off without them, paroled prisoners awaiting exchange, and the like, and there were arrangements for getting these men back where they belonged with a minimum of fuss and delay.
Squadrons of regular cavalry patrolled the streets; they straightened out the endless traffic jams caused by the great wagon trains and put a stop to the ceaseless, useless galloping of couriers, mounted orderlies, and other overenthusiastic horsemen. The encircling lines of forts, which had never been quite finished, were put into final shape and were strongly garrisoned as new troops came in from the North. Watching it all, seemingly fascinated and heartened at the way order was swiftly replacing disorder, was President Lincoln; almost daily he would saunter into the offices which had been set up for the defenses of Washington, to inquire gently, "Well, how does it look today?" He remarked that now, for a change, he was not bothered all day and could sleep all night if he chose.
While all of this was going on the army began to move north and west out of Washington, in pursuit of Lee. It was the same army that had gone up the river just a year earlier to picket the fords and season itself in the open country, the same that had embarked from the river wharves that spring with banners flying and hearts high; but it knew a great deal more than it had known then, and many things had happened since the halcyon autumn when the war seemed more than half for fun. Gallic Colonel Regis de Trobriand, leading the Frenchmen of his 55 th New York past their old camp at Tennalfy-town, mused sadly on the changes:
"What a contrast between the departure and the return! We had started out in the spring gay, smart, well provided with everything. The drums beat, the bugles sounded, the flag with its folds of immaculate silk glistened in the sunshine. And we were returning before the autumn, sad, weary, covered with mud, with uniforms in rags. Now the drummers carried their cracked drums on their backs, the buglers were bent over and silent; the flag, riddled by the balls, torn by shrapnel, discolored by the rain, hung sadly upon the staff without cover.
"Where were the red pantaloons? Where were the Zouave jackets? And, above all, those who had worn them, and whom we looked in vain along the ranks to find, what had become of them? Killed at Williamsburg, killed at Fair Oaks, killed at Glendale, killed at Malvern Hill; wounded or sick in the hospitals; prisoners at Richmond; deserters, we knew not where. And, to make the story short, scarce 300 revisited Tennallytown and Fort Gaines on their way to fight in upper Maryland."2
But if the colonel fell into a neiges d'antan melancholy when he looked back on the past, the army as a whole marched out of Washington in the highest of spirits. It had its old commander back, and it devoutly believed that he would make right all that had gone wrong. It had the pride of men who had fought hard and well, and it was sure that it would win the war the next time it went into battle. Getting into Maryland, too, was like coming home. No longer did the Westerners and the New Englanders feel that this slave state was foreign soil. The farms and the countryside might not be like Massachusetts and Indiana, but they were even less like the flat, dank, wooded country of the Virginia peninsula, and they had not been scorched by the usage of war.
Best of all, the people themselves were friendly. In western Maryland, at least, public sentiment had settled on the side of the Union by the fall of 1862, and the inhabitants welcomed the army joyfully.
Young Captain Noyes, on Doubleday's staff, remarked that girls with buckets of cold spring water waited at almost every gate to give tired soldiers a drink. "If my hat was off once, it was off thirty times," he wrote, adding ecstatically: "Fine marching weather; a land flowing with milk and honey; a general tone of Union sentiment among the people, who, being little cursed by slavery [Captain Noyes was the staunchest of abolitionists], had not lost their loyalty; scenery, not grand but picturesque, all contributed to make the march delightful."3
Nearly all of the soldiers who made that march and left a record of their thoughts made the same sort of comment. A diarist in the 22nd Massachusetts felt that the combination of beautiful country and friendly people did wonders for the army; around the campfires, he said, there was universal agreement that they would beat Lee decisive
ly next time they met him. In the 27th Indiana it was agreed that getting back into Maryland made all the difference; the men felt better, and it wasn't because of McClellan—this regiment had never served under him before and had no ingrained hero worship to respond to. General Abram Duryee's brigade—97th, 104th, and 105th New York, plus 107th Pennsylvania—straggled badly coming out of Washington; too many men had loitered, as one writer confessed, to enjoy "the comforts of civilization," and the first day's march was hard. But the stragglers all caught up after a while, and the brigade stepped out gaily; in the town of Frederick, the brigade historian recalled, "hundreds of Union banners floated from the roofs and windows, and in many a threshold stood the ladies and children of the family, offering food and water to the passing troops, or with tiny flags waving a welcome to their deliverers." The 3rd Wisconsin found it hardly needed its army rations in Frederick, "so sumptuous was the fare of cakes, pies, fruits, milk, dainty biscuit and loaves" which the citizens were passing out. A regimental diarist added fondly: "Of all the memories of the war, none are more pleasant than those of our sojourn in the goodly city of Frederick."
Men in the Black Hat Brigade noted that children stood in almost every doorway, offering pies, cakes, drinking water, and the like, and flags were hanging from almost every window. A soldier in the 9th New York found the streets "filled with women dressed in their best, walking bareheaded, singing, and testifying in every way the general joy." Captain Noyes spoke of the passage through Frederick as "one continuous waving of flags, fluttering of handkerchiefs, tossing of bouquets," and said the soldiers grew hoarse cheering in response. A veteran of the 7th Maine extended his grateful benediction to all of Maryland; the regiment found camp sites "conveniently situated as to chickens and corn and honey and apple butter, and like the Israelites of old, we looked upon the land and it was good." Remembering the hostile people on the peninsula, he added: "The girls no longer made faces at us from the windows, and the people were down at their front gates with cold water, at least, if they had nothing better. It seemed like Paradise, this Maryland, and many were the blessed damosels we saw therein." As French's division passed through one town a private looked at the flags, the smiling girls, and the general air of wholehearted welcome and called out joyously: "Colonel! We're in God's country again!"4