Lincoln and McClellan--The Peninsular Campaign of 1862--Impatience
with McClellan's Delay--Lincoln Defends McClellan from Unjust
Criticism--Some Harrowing Experiences--McClellan Recalled from the
Peninsula--His Troops Given to General Pope--Pope's Defeat at
Manassas--A Critical Situation--McClellan again in Command--Lincoln
Takes the Responsibility--McClellan's Account of his
Reinstatement--The Battle of Antietam--The President
Vindicated--Again Dissatisfied with McClellan--Visits the Army in
the Field--The President in the Saddle--Correspondence between
Lincoln and McClellan--McClellan's Final Removal--Lincoln's
Summing-up of McClellan--McClellan's "Body-guard."
President Lincoln's relations with no other person have been so much
discussed as those with General McClellan. Volumes have been written on
this subject; many heated and intemperate words have been uttered and
wrong conclusions reached. Whatever defects may have marked McClellan's
qualities as a soldier, he must remain historically one of the most
conspicuous figures of the war. He organized the largest and most
important of the Union armies, and was its first commander in the field.
He was one of the two out of the five commanders of the Army of the
Potomac, before Grant, who led that army to victory; the other three
having led it only to disastrous defeat. Great things were expected of
him; and when he failed to realize the extravagant expectations of those
who thought the war should be ended within a year, he received equally
extravagant condemnation. It is noticeable that this condemnation came
chiefly from civilians--from politicians, from Congress, from the press:
not the best judges of military affairs. His own army--the men who were
with him on the battlefield and risked their lives and their cause under
his leadership--never lost faith in him. Of all the commanders of the
Army of the Potomac, he was the one most believed in by his troops. Even
after his removal, at a grand review of the army by the President, after
the battle of Fredericksburg, it was not for the new commander,
Burnside, but the old commander, McClellan, that the troops gave their
heartiest cheers. It is worth remembering also that the war was not
ended until two and a half years after McClellan's retirement, and until
trial after trial had been made and failure after failure had been met
in the effort to find a successful leader for our armies. The initial
task of organization, of creating a great army in the field, fell upon
him--a task so well performed that General Meade, his first efficient
successor, said, "Had there been no McClellan there could have been no
Grant, for the army [organization] made no essential improvements under
any of his successors." And Grant, the last and finally victorious of
these successors--who was at one time criticized as being "as great a
discouragement as McClellan"--recorded in his Memoirs the conviction
(already quoted in these pages) that the conditions under which
McClellan worked were fatal to success, and that he himself could not
have succeeded in his place under those conditions.
It is not in the province of the present narrative to enter into a
consideration of the merits or demerits of McClellan as a soldier, but
to treat of his personal relations with President Lincoln. Between the
two men, notwithstanding many sharp differences of opinion and of
policy, there seems to have been a feeling of warm personal friendship
and sincere respect. Now that both have passed beyond the reach of
earthly praise or blame, we may well honor their memory and credit each
with having done the best he could to serve his country.
McClellan was appointed to the command of the Union armies upon the
retirement of the veteran General Scott, in November of 1861. He had
been but a captain in the regular army, but his high reputation and
brilliant soldierly qualities had led to his being sent abroad to study
the organization and movements of European armies; and this brought him
into prominence as a military man. It was soon after McClellan took
command that President Lincoln began giving close personal attention to
the direction of military affairs. He formed a plan of operations
against the Confederate army defending Richmond, which differed entirely
from the plan proposed by McClellan. The President's plan was, in
effect, to repeat the Bull Run expedition by moving against the enemy in
Virginia at or hear Manassas. McClellan preferred a transference of the
army to the region of the lower Chesapeake, thence moving up the
Peninsula by the shortest land route to Richmond. (This was a movement,
it may be remarked, which was finally carried out before Richmond fell
in 1865.) The President discussed the relative merits of the two plans
in the following frank and explicit letter to McClellan:
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
February 3, 1862.
MAJOR-GENERAL MCCLELLAN.
MY DEAR SIR: You and I have distinct and different plans for a
movement of the Army of the Potomac; yours to be done by the
Chesapeake, up the Rappahannock to Urbana, and across to the
terminus of the railroad on the York river; mine to move directly
to a point on the railroad southwest of Manassas. If you will give
me satisfactory answers to the following questions, I shall gladly
yield my plan to yours:
1st. Does your plan involve a greatly larger expenditure of _time_
and _money_ than mine?
2d. Wherein is a victory more certain by your plan than mine?
3d. Wherein is a victory _more valuable_ by your plan than mine?
4th. In fact, would it not be _less_ valuable in this, that it
would break no great line of the enemy's communication, while mine
would?
5th. In case of a disaster, would not a retreat be more difficult
by your plan than mine?
Yours truly, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
To this communication McClellan made an elaborate reply, discussing the
situation very fully, and answering the inquiries apparently to the
satisfaction of the President, who consented to the plan submitted by
McClellan and concurred in by a council of his division commanders, by
which the base of the Army of the Potomac should be transferred from
Washington to the lower Chesapeake. Yet Lincoln must have had misgivings
in the matter, for some weeks later he wrote to McClellan: "You will do
me the justice to remember I always insisted that going down the bay in
search of a field, instead of fighting at or near Manassas, was only
shifting, and not surmounting, a difficulty; that we would find the same
enemy, and the same or equal intrenchments, at either place."
After the transfer of the Army of the Potomac to the Peninsula there was
great impatience at the delays in the expected advance on Richmond. The
President shared this impatience, and his despatches to McClellan took
an urgent and imperative though always friendly tone. April 9 he wrote:
"Your despatches, complaining that you are not properly sustained, while
they do not offend me, do pain me very much. I suppose the whole force
which has gone forward for you is with you by this time. And, if so, I
think it is the precise time for you to _strike a blow_. By delay, the
enemy will relatively gain upon you--that is, he will gain faster by
fortifications and reinforcements than you can by reinforcements alone.
And once more let me tell you, it is indispensable to you that you
_strike a blow_.... I beg to assure you that I have never written to you
or spoken to you in greater kindness of feeling than now, nor with a
fuller purpose to sustain you, so far as, in my most anxious judgment, I
consistently can. But you _must act_."
While Lincoln was thus imperative toward McClellan, he would not permit
him to be unjustly criticized. Considerable ill-feeling having been
developed between McClellan and Secretary Stanton, which was made worse
by certain meddlesome persons in Washington, the President took
occasion, at a public meeting, to express his views in these frank and
manly words: "There has been a very wide-spread attempt to have a
quarrel between General McClellan and the Secretary of War. Now, I
occupy a position that enables me to observe that these two gentlemen
are not nearly so deep in the quarrel as some pretending to be their
friends. General McClellan's attitude is such that, in the very
selfishness of his nature, he cannot but wish to be successful, as I
hope he will be; and the Secretary of War is in precisely the same
situation. If the military commanders in the field cannot be successful,
not only the Secretary of War but myself, for the time being the master
of them both, cannot but be failures. I know General McClellan wishes to
be successful, and I know he does not wish it any more than the
Secretary of War wishes it for him, and both of them together no more
than I wish it. Sometimes we have a dispute about how many men General
McClellan has had, and those who would disparage him say he has had a
very large number, and those who would disparage the Secretary of War
insist that General McClellan has had a very small number. The basis for
this is, there is always a wide difference, and on this occasion perhaps
a wider one than usual, between the grand total on McClellan's rolls and
the men actually fit for duty; and those who would disparage him talk of
the grand total on paper, and those who would disparage the Secretary of
War talk of those at present fit for duty. General McClellan has
sometimes asked for things that the Secretary of War did not give him.
General McClellan is not to blame for asking what he wanted and needed,
and the Secretary of War is not to blame for not giving when he had none
to give."
The summer of 1862 was a sad one for the country, and peculiarly sad for
Lincoln. The Army of the Potomac fought battle after battle, often with
temporary successes, but without apparent substantial results; while
many thousands of our brave soldiers perished on the field, or filled
the hospitals from the fever-swamps of the Chickahominy. The terrible
realities of that dreadful summer, and their strain on Lincoln, are well
shown in the following incident: Colonel Scott, of a New Hampshire
regiment, had been ill, and his wife nursed him in the hospital. After
his convalescence, he received leave of absence, and started for home;
but by a steamboat collision in Hampton Roads, his noble wife was
drowned. Colonel Scott reached Washington, and learning, a few days
later, of the recovery of his wife's body, he requested permission of
the Secretary of War to return for it. A great battle was imminent, and
the request was denied. Colonel Scott thereupon sought the President. It
was Saturday evening; and Lincoln, worn with the cares and anxieties of
the week, sat alone in his room, coat thrown off, and seemingly lost in
thought, perhaps pondering the issue of the coming battle. Silently he
listened to Colonel Scott's sad story; then, with an unusual irritation,
which was probably a part of his excessive weariness, he exclaimed: "Am
I to have no rest? Is there no hour or spot when or where I may escape
these constant calls? Why do you follow me here with such business as
this? Why do you not go to the War-office, where they have charge of all
this matter of papers and transportation?" Colonel Scott told of Mr.
Stanton's refusal; and the President continued: "Then probably you ought
not to go down the river. Mr. Stanton knows all about the necessities of
the hour; he knows what rules are necessary, and rules are made to be
enforced. It would be wrong for me to override his rules and decisions
in cases of this kind; it might work disaster to important movements.
And then, you ought to remember that I have other duties to attend
to--heaven knows, enough for one man!--and I can give no thought to
questions of this kind. Why do you come here to appeal to my humanity?
Don't you know that we are in the midst of war? That suffering and death
press upon all of us? That works of humanity and affection, which we
would cheerfully perform in days of peace, are all trampled upon and
outlawed by war? That there is no room left for them? There is but one
duty now--_to fight_. The only call of humanity now is to conquer peace
through unrelenting warfare. War, and war alone, is the duty of all of
us. Your wife might have trusted you to the care which the Government
has provided for its sick soldiers. At any rate, you must not vex me
with your family troubles. Why, every family in the land is crushed with
sorrow; but they must not each come to me for help. I have all the
burden I can carry. Go to the War Department. Your business belongs
there. If they cannot help you, then bear your burden, as we all must,
until this war is over. Everything must yield to the paramount duty of
finishing the war." Colonel Scott withdrew, crushed and overwhelmed. The
next morning, as he sat in his hotel pondering upon his troubles, he
heard a rap at his door, and opening it found to his surprise the
President standing before him. Grasping his hands impulsively and
sympathetically, Lincoln broke out: "My dear Colonel, I was a brute last
night. I have no excuse for my conduct. Indeed, I was weary to the last
extent; but I had no right to treat a man with rudeness who had offered
his life for his country, much more a man who came to me in great
affliction. I have had a regretful night, and come now to beg your
forgiveness." He added that he had just seen Secretary Stanton, and all
the details were arranged for sending the Colonel down the Potomac and
recovering the body; then, taking him in his carriage, he drove to the
steamer's wharf, where, again pressing his hand, he wished him God-speed
on his sad errand.
Such were Lincoln's harrowing experiences; and thus did his noble and
sympathetic nature assert itself over his momentary weakness and
depression.
In August of 1862 General McClellan was ordered to withdraw his army
from the Peninsula. "With a heavy heart," says McClellan, "I
relinquished the position gained at the cost of so much time and blood."
Without being removed from his command, his troops were taken away from
him and sent to join General Pope, who had been placed in command of a
considerable force in Virginia, for the purpose of trying the
President's favorite plan of an advance on Richmond by way of Manassas.
Either from a confusion of orders or a lack of zeal in executing them,
the Union forces failed to co-operate; and Pope's expected victory
(Manassas, August 30) proved a disastrous and humiliating defeat. His
army was beaten and driven back on Washington in a rout little less
disgraceful than that of Bull Run a year before. This battle came to be
known as the "Second Bull Run."
Thus the autumn of 1862 set in amidst gloom, disorder, and dismay. Our
armies in and around the national capital were on the defensive; while
the victorious Lee, following up his successes at Manassas, was invading
Maryland and threatening Washington and the North. The President was
anxious; the Cabinet and Congress were alarmed. The troops had lost
confidence in General Pope, and there was practically no one in chief
command. The situation was most critical; but Lincoln faced it, as he
always did, unflinchingly. He took what he felt to be the wisest and at
the same time the most unpopular step possible under the circumstances:
he placed McClellan in command of all the troops in and around
Washington. It was a bold act, and required no ordinary amount of moral
courage and self-reliance. Outside the army, it was about the most
unpopular thing that could have been done. McClellan was disliked by all
the members of the Cabinet and prominent officials, and with especial
bitterness by Secretary Stanton. Secretary Welles speaks, in his Diary,
of "Stanton's implacable hostility to McClellan," and records his belief
that "Stanton is determined to destroy McClellan." Welles relates that
on the very day of Pope's defeat at Manassas, Secretary Stanton,
accompanied by Secretary Chase, called on him and asked him to join in
signing a communication to the President demanding McClellan's immediate
dismissal from command of the Army of the Potomac, saying all the
members of the Cabinet would sign it. The document was in Stanton's
handwriting. Welles, though far from friendly toward McClellan, refused
to sign the paper, and the matter was dropped. Welles adds the comment,
"There was a fixed determination to remove, and, if possible, to
disgrace, McClellan."
When it was rumored in Washington that McClellan was to be reinstated,
everyone was thunderstruck. A Cabinet meeting was held on the second day
of September, at which the President, without asking anyone's opinion,
announced that he had reinstated McClellan. Regret and surprise were
openly expressed. Mr. Stanton, with some excitement, remarked that no
such order had issued from the War Department. The President then said,
with great calmness, "No, Mr. Secretary, _the order was mine, and I will
be responsible for it to the country_." He added, by way of explanation,
that, with a retreating and demoralized army tumbling in upon the
capital, and alarm and panic in the community, something had to be done,
and as there did not appear to be anyone else to do it he took the
responsibility on himself. He remarked that McClellan had the confidence
of the troops beyond any other officer, and could, under the
circumstances, more speedily and effectually reorganize them and put
them in fighting trim than any other general. "This is what is now
wanted most," said he, "and these were my reasons for placing McClellan
in command."
Perhaps at no other crisis of the war did Lincoln's strength of
character and power of making quick and important decisions in the face
of general opposition, come out more clearly than on this occasion.
Secretary Welles, who was present at the dramatic and stormy Cabinet
meeting referred to, says: "In stating what he had done, the President
was deliberate, but firm and decisive. His language and manner were kind
and affectionate, especially toward two of the members, who were greatly
disturbed; but every person present felt that he was truly the chief,
and every one knew his decision was as fixed and unalterable as if
given out with the imperious command and determined will of Andrew
Jackson. A long discussion followed, closing with acquiescence in the
decision of the President. In this instance the President, unaided by
others, put forth with firmness and determination the executive
will--the _one-man_ power--against the temporary general sense of the
community, as well as of his Cabinet, two of whom, it has been generally
supposed, had with him an influence almost as great as the Secretary of
State. They had been ready to make issue and resign their places unless
McClellan was dismissed; but knowing their opposition, and in spite of
it and of the general dissatisfaction in the community, the President
had in that perilous moment exalted him to new and important trusts."
It appears from the statement of General McClellan, made shortly before
his death, that on the morning of his reinstatement (before the Cabinet
meeting just described) the President visited him at his headquarters,
near Washington, to ask if he would again assume command. "While at
breakfast, at an early hour," says McClellan, "I received a call from
the President, accompanied by General Halleck. The President informed me
that Colonel Kelton had returned and represented the condition of
affairs as much worse than I had stated to Halleck on the previous day;
that there were 30,000 stragglers on the roads; that the army was
entirely defeated and falling back to Washington in confusion. He then
said that he regarded Washington as lost, and asked me if I would, under
the circumstances, consent to accept command of all the forces. Without
a moment's hesitation, and without making any conditions whatever, I at
once said that I would accept the command, and would stake my life that
I would save the city. Both the President and Halleck again asserted
their belief that it was impossible to save the city, and I repeated my
firm conviction that I could and would save it. They then left, the
President verbally placing me in entire command of the city and of the
troops falling back upon it from the front."
The result of the reappointment of McClellan soon vindicated the wisdom
of the step. He possessed the confidence of the army beyond any other
general at that time, and was able to inspire it with renewed hope and
courage. Leaving Washington on the 7th of September, in command of
Pope's beaten and disintegrated forces which he had to reorganize on the
march, he within two weeks met the flushed and lately victorious troops
of Lee and Jackson and fought the bloody but successful battle of
Antietam (September 17, 1862), which compelled Lee to retreat to the
southern side of the Potomac, and relieved Washington of any immediate
danger.
After the Antietam campaign, the Army of the Potomac rested awhile from
its exhausting and disorganizing labors. Supplies and reinforcements
were necessary before resuming active operations. This delay gave rise
to no little dissatisfaction in Washington, where a clamor arose that
McClellan should have followed up his successes at Antietam by
immediately pursuing Lee into Virginia. In this dissatisfaction the
President shared to some extent. He made a personal visit to the army
for the purpose of satisfying himself of its condition. Of this occasion
McClellan says: "On the first day of October, his Excellency the
President honored the Army of the Potomac with a visit, and remained
several days, during which he went through the different encampments,
reviewed the troops, and went over the battle-field of South Mountain
and Antietam. I had the opportunity, during this visit, to describe to
him the operations of the army since it left Washington, and gave him
my reasons for not following the enemy after he recrossed the Potomac."
Before the grand review that was to be made by the President, some of
McClellan's staff, knowing that the General was a man of great endurance
and expertness in the saddle, laughed at the idea of Lincoln's
attempting to keep up with him in the severe ordeal of "riding down the
lines." "They rather hinted," says a narrator, "that the General would
move somewhat rapidly, to test Mr. Lincoln's capacity as a rider. There
were those on the field, however, who had seen Mr. Lincoln in the saddle
in Illinois; and they were confident of his staying powers. A splendid
black horse, very spirited, was selected for the President to ride. When
the time came, Mr. Lincoln walked up to the animal, and the instant he
seized the bridle to mount, it was evident to horsemen that he 'knew his
business.' He had the animal in hand at once. No sooner was he in the
saddle than the coal-black steed began to prance and whirl and dance as
if he was proud of his burden. But the President sat as unconcerned and
fixed to the saddle as if he and the horse were one. The test of
endurance soon came. McClellan, with his magnificent staff, approached
the President, who joined them, and away they dashed to a distant part
of the field. The artillery began to thunder, the drums beat, and the
bands struck up 'Hail to the Chief,' while the troops cheered. Mr.
Lincoln, holding the bridle-rein in one hand, lifted his tall hat from
his head, and much of the time held it in the other hand. Grandly did
Lincoln receive the salute, appearing as little disturbed by the dashing
movements of the proud-spirited animal as if he had passed through such
an ordeal with the same creature many times before. Next came a further
test of endurance--a long dash over very rough untraveled ground, with
here and there a ditch or a hole to be jumped or a siding to be passed.
But Mr. Lincoln kept well up to McClellan, who made good time. Finally,
the 'riding down the lines' was performed, amidst the flaunting of
standards, the beating of drums, the loud cheering of the men and rapid
discharges of artillery, startling even the best-trained horses. Lincoln
sat easily to the end, when he wheeled his horse into position to
witness the vast columns march in review. McClellan was surprised at so
remarkable a display of horsemanship. Mr. Lincoln was a great lover of
the horse, and a skilled rider. His awkwardness of form did not show in
the saddle. He always looked well when mounted."
After the President's return to Washington he began urging McClellan to
resume active operations; desiring him to "cross the Potomac, and give
battle to the enemy or drive him south." On the 13th of October he
addressed to him the long letter quoted at the end of the preceding
chapter. Subsequent communications from the President to McClellan
showed more and more impatience. On the 25th he telegraphed: "I have
just read your despatch about sore-tongue and fatigued horses. Will you
pardon me for asking what the horses of your army have done since the
battle of Antietam that fatigues anything?" And the next day, after
receiving McClellan's answer to his inquiry, he responded: "Most
certainly I intend no injustice to anyone, and if I have done any I
deeply regret it. To be told, after more than five weeks' total inaction
of the army, and during which period we had sent to that army every
fresh horse we possibly could, amounting in the whole to 7,918, that the
cavalry horses were too much fatigued to move, presented a very
cheerless, almost hopeless, prospect for the future, and it may have
forced something of impatience into my despatches. If not recruited and
rested then, when could they ever be? _I suppose the river is rising,
and I am glad to believe you, are crossing._" But McClellan did not
cross; his preparations for a new campaign were not yet complete; and
the President, at last losing patience, removed him from command, and
put Burnside in his place, November 5, 1862. And a disastrous step this
proved to be. Burnside was under peremptory orders from Washington to
move immediately against the Confederate forces. The result was the
ill-advised attack upon Fredericksburg (December 12, 1862) and
Burnside's bloody repulse. The movement was made against the judgment of
the army officers then, and has been generally condemned by military
critics since. Secretary Welles thus guardedly commented upon it in his
Diary: "It appears to me a mistake to fight the enemy in so strong a
position. They have selected their own ground, and we meet them there."
But it was McClellan's unwillingness to do the very thing that Burnside
is censured for having done, and that proved so overwhelming a disaster,
that was the occasion for McClellan's removal.
A good illustration of Lincoln's disappointed, perhaps unreasonable,
state of mind before McClellan's removal is furnished by Hon. O.M.
Hatch, a former Secretary of State of Illinois and an old friend of
Lincoln's. Mr. Hatch relates that a short time before McClellan's
removal from command he went with President Lincoln to visit the army,
still near Antietam. They reached Antietam late in the afternoon of a
very hot day, and were assigned a special tent for their occupancy
during the night. "Early next morning," says Mr. Hatch, "I was awakened
by Mr. Lincoln. It was very early--daylight was just lighting the
east--the soldiers were all asleep in their tents. Scarce a sound could
be heard except the notes of early birds, and the farm-yard voices from
distant farms. Lincoln said to me, 'Come, Hatch, I want you to take a
walk with me.' His tone was serious and impressive. I arose without a
word, and as soon as we were dressed we left the tent together. He led
me about the camp, and then we walked upon the surrounding hills
overlooking the great city of white tents and sleeping soldiers. Very
little was spoken between us, beyond a few words as to the pleasantness
of the morning or similar casual observations. Lincoln seemed to be
peculiarly serious, and his quiet, abstract way affected me also. It did
not seem a time to speak. We walked slowly and quietly, meeting here and
there a guard, our thoughts leading us to reflect on that wonderful
situation. A nation in peril--the whole world looking at America--a
million men in arms--the whole machinery of war engaged throughout the
country, while I stood by that kind-hearted, simple-minded man who might
be regarded as the Director-General, looking at the beautiful sunrise
and the magnificent scene before us. Nothing was to be said, nothing
needed to be said. Finally, reaching a commanding point where almost
that entire camp could be seen--the men were just beginning their
morning duties, and evidences of life and activity were becoming
apparent--we involuntarily stopped. The President, waving his hand
towards the scene before us, and leaning towards me, said in an almost
whispering voice: 'Hatch--Hatch, what is all this?' 'Why, Mr. Lincoln,'
said I, 'this is the Army of the Potomac' He hesitated a moment, and
then, straightening up, said in a louder tone: 'No, Hatch, no. This is
_General McClellan's body-guard_.' Nothing more was said. We walked to
our tent, and the subject was not alluded to again."