The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure by Michael Shaara
16. HANCOCK
September 1861
THE CARRIAGE brought them to the front steps of the Willard Hotel, a white brick building that stood over a wide square. Mira was helped from the carriage by the firm hand and pleasant smile of the doorman, a tall black man in a foolish top hat, who bowed deeply as he released her. Hancock climbed out the other side, watched as the man picked their bags from the rear of the carriage, thought of offering to help, but the man was gone, up the short stairs, into the hotel.
“Well, my husband, this is not at all what you expected, is it?”
He looked around, saw people in all forms of dress, some hurrying, some in a leisurely stroll through the square, down the broad streets of Washington.
“No. This is . . . strange.”
From the moment of their arrival in New York, and all during the train trip to the capital, they had heard the rumors: a city under siege, the savage rebel army on the outskirts, a general panic. Hancock knew not to trust rumors, but in some ways they made sense. He had read of the early skirmishes, unprepared armies colliding in sloppy battles like two small children in a fistfight, swinging wildly, arms flapping in a flurry of misdirected motion. But then there were the reports from Manassas, what the northern papers called Bull Run, where there were too many troops and too many bad generals, and one general in particular, Irvin McDowell, who believed the cocky assurances from the men in expensive suits, the congressmen and dignitaries who happily followed the army in grand carriages, who brought along their women, sitting under brightly colored parasols, watching the splendid event from a hillside; an eager audience, picnicking and partying as their gallant heroes under fluttering flags would crush the dirty riffraff of the rebellion.
It was McDowell who learned that the dirty little rebel army had come to fight, would not run from the loud brass bands or the neat lines of blue troops, and were not there to perform for his audience. The bloody rout sent the Union troops back through their admirers in a panic, and the stunned audience was swarmed by the real sounds of war, loud piercing screams, the cries of wounded and terrified men. They saw blood, great bursts of red covering the troops and the ground, and the men in the fancy suits did not cheer, but pulled their women back, moving with the great flow of panic back into the city, pursued by the brutal honesty of death.
And so, the rumors had flown. This army of savages was on the brink, ready to overwhelm the decent people of Washington. But the attack hadn’t come, and while Hancock had not expected the rumors to be accurate, he was amazed at the calmness, the jovial mood of the people, still so close to the bloody fields.
“Very strange.” He moved around the carriage. Mira took his arm and they went up into the hotel.
The man behind the desk glanced at his uniform, noticed it was not new, seemed surprised, and Hancock now saw that the lobby was filled with officers, men with loud voices, crisp blue coats, the men of the new army. No one noticed him, and he did not think of saluting anyone, though he passed by men of high rank, men who were strutting about like swollen birds.
“Excuse me, we have sent word . . . we have a room, I believe?”
The clerk looked at him again, then saw Mira. His eyes brightened and he nodded in her direction. “Name?”
“Captain Winfield Hancock. And Mrs. Hancock.”
“Hmmm, let’s see . . . oh, here. Yes, you have Room 6D.”
The man motioned to a waiting bellman, another black man in a formal gray suit and red hat, who had been waiting for the cue. The man picked up their bags and led them to the stairway. Hancock paused, glanced out through the noisy throng of uniforms, thought there might be someone he knew, some familiar face. But he recognized no one, saw officers speaking to civilians, men with pads of paper, reporters, of course. He turned back to Mira, who was waiting for him, smiling.
“Let’s go up to the room, please. I’m covered with dust.”
He felt her arm in his again, and she pulled him along, following the bellman. The man led them up to their room, pushed open the heavy oak door and led them inside. Mira directed the placement of the bags, and Hancock went to the window, looked out to the street, the rooftops, saw the larger buildings, the grand spectacle of the Capitol building, the great white monuments to the government he served. He began to feel a hopelessness, a dark futility, surrounded not by the symbols of his country, the great cause of the Union, but by men sealed away in their offices, men who made decisions based on the preservation of their jobs, men who would distrust Albert Sidney Johnston and could never understand the passion of Lewis Armistead, and so they did not understand that they were in great danger, that this army was in for a real fight and could not be run by puppets and peacocks.
He did not notice the bellman leave, suddenly felt her hand, sliding up his back to his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in tightly, and she said, “It seems so quiet . . . like there is no war at all.”
“I know. A few weeks ago, the bloodiest battle ever fought on this land took place a few miles from here, and they have already forgotten.”
“Maybe it’s better forgotten.”
“No, it is better remembered. Because if they don’t, it will happen again, and keep on happening until they realize . . . this is a war. The Southerners are not an unruly mob that comes at us with sticks and torches. They have leaders, men who know how to take men into combat. Those men downstairs . . . in the lobby . . . those men have never led anything . . . and they will learn what that can cost.”
She looked up at him, saw his hard stare, and she felt him tighten, his jaw clench. She said, “You won’t be content to be a supply officer. . . .”
There was a long pause, and he took a deep breath. “I have never been content to be a supply officer.”
“Then tell them. Volunteer for something else.”
He dropped his arm, turned away from her, from the window. “I’m not a politician. I don’t have the friends, the pull, that those people . . . downstairs have. I have been given a job, and ultimately it comes down to that, to do what the army orders me to do.”
She moved toward him, and the sun came in behind her, silhouetting her. He reached out, touched her face with gentle hands, and there was a knock at the door.
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned, pulled open the heavy door, and was surprised to see an older man, an officer.
“Forgive me . . . are you Captain Hancock?”
“Yes, please come in.”
The man moved quickly, then saw Mira and looked uncomfortable. “Forgive the intrusion, Captain, they told me downstairs you just arrived. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“We, being . . . ?”
“I am Colonel Randolph Marcy, General McClellan’s chief of staff.”
“General McClellan?”
“Yes, Captain. The general has sent me to request that you not report anywhere until the general can see you.”
“Forgive me, Colonel Marcy, but I am not familiar with a General McClellan. I knew of a McClellan in Mexico, knew him at the Point. . . .”
“You have had a long journey, Captain. General George McClellan has been appointed Commander of the Army, to assume those duties General Scott is . . . no longer . . .” He paused, did not want to say the words. “You are familiar with General Scott?”
Hancock nodded. “Of course, sir. Forgive me. I have been out of touch.”
“Quite all right, Captain. Events occur at a rapid pace these days. The President feels that General McClellan is more suited to the operation of an effective fighting force than is General Scott. General Scott is . . . beyond his time, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If that is the President’s judgment.”
“General McClellan will send word to you here. Again, forgive the intrusion.” He turned to Mira, bowed, said a curt “Madam,” and backed out the door.
Hancock went back to the window, began to feel hot, blood rising in the back of his neck. “So, we have a real war, and they
“What do you suppose General McClellan wants with you, dear? He said they were waiting for you. It sounds terribly important.”
“McClellan. I remember him now, feisty little fellow, a couple years behind me. Brilliant . . . graduated at the top of his class, should have stayed in the army. I think he went up north somewhere, ran a railroad or something. Now he’s the commanding general?”
“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 who can’t wait to be heroes, who have no idea how. We need leaders, Mr. Hancock. I believe that includes you.”
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, t
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, had rendered quick actions and smooth organization impossible. It was no different in the North. General McClellan had finally been persuaded to make another major move, a new offensive strategy designed to capture Richmond. Moving his entire army by boat to the Virginia peninsula, he would invade from the east coast, up the rivers, driving the small Confederate forces inland. It was a long winter of inactivity, while both sides waited for McClellan to finally do something with his huge army.
17. LEE
April 1862
THROUGHOUT THE winter months, little had changed for Lee. He had officially been named Davis’s military adviser, which still meant that he continued to perform those duties that Davis didn’t want.
Joe Johnston was named commander of all forces in the northern Virginia area, and Beauregard, whose ego would predictably clash with Johnston’s, was transferred to command of the army of northern Mississippi. With the new movement by McClellan, the threat to Richmond had changed directions. There was a growing lack of confidence that McClellan’s huge Federal force could be stopped.
Lee was the last to enter Davis’s office, saw the men seated in a half-circle. He had grown accustomed to meetings such as this being affairs that were anything but friendly and sociable. Davis sat behind the big desk, rested his lean face sideways against one hand, appearing tired to Lee, and impatient. As Lee reached his own chair, he nodded to Joe Johnston, who sat upright, combative, glancing at Lee but not smiling. To Lee’s right sat Secretary of War Randolph, a man Lee respected for his reasonableness and his seeming lack of political ambitions. Lee felt he could freely discuss his problems and strategies with Randolph, who, like him, could not escape the stranglehold that Davis maintained on military decision-making.