[Special Washington Correspondence of the N. Y. Tribune, March 13th.]
Why
George B. McClellan was called to the onerous and responsible position he has held for the past seven months, will never be fully explained.
When appointed
Major-General of Volunteers by
Governor Dennison, of
Ohio, he was
Superintendent of the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad, a dilapidated concern, which had long been on its last legs:--It is putting it in very soft language to say that his standing among railroad managers was not high.
In used, the truth would bear me out in asserting that it was rather middling, if not decidedly low. He had put his name to a large volume five years before, as one of the
American Military Commission to the Crimes.
Of this respectable, though somewhat jejune work the public supported him to be the author.
It was known only to a few that it was merely a compilation and translation from
European publications — that an enterprising bookseller (unaware of this fact) had seat a good many copies across the
Atlantic for sale which ware returned upon his hands because foreign traders dare not sell them, lest they be sued for infringing copyrights — and that in reality he was no more the author of the substantial parts of this book than he was of the Even in pretty wall informed circles, it is still asserted that
Captain McClellan was selected by the other two members of the mean Commission (
Majors Mordecai and
Belafied) to draw up the report to the
Secretary of War.
This is an error.
Each member published a book, and that of
McClellan is the smallest and most inconsiderable of the three.
The country was appalled at the disaster of
Bull Run.
it could not be denied that
Gen. McDowell had failed.
War is inexorable.--It sacrifices lives and reputations with remorseless hand.
Public opinion demanded that
McDowell be instantly displaced from the command of the army of the Potomac.--Neither the
President nor
Gen. Scott dared to resist the execution of the decree.
It is now felt that great injustice was done to
McDowell.
But a victim was demanded to appease popular clamor, and he was offered up in looking around for his successor, it was found that the selection was confined to a very narrow range.
The oldest and most experienced
Generals in the army, excepting
Gen. Wool, who was then under some mysterious ban, had joined the rebels.
The campaign in
Western Virginia where
McClellan, by virtue of his
Major-Generalship, was senior officer, had been successful.
He had sent shrilling telegrams, and written imposing dispatches to
Washington, describing the successes in his Department.
The public, not then knowing that he had neither planned nor fought a single one of the battles he described, and had not even been under fire in
Western Virginia, and that he was entitled to no more credit for any of those victories than the writer of this paragraph — the bewildered and appalled public, and the horribly frightened officials at
Washington, who, in their nightly dreams, saw visions of
Beauregard and the
Black-Horse cavalry crossing the
Long Bridge, instantly indicated
McClellan as the man to supplant Mcllowell.
Precisely why they called
him they did not know, and I fancy they have not yet found out. But the war had hardly begun, and his department was the only one in which anything had been done; and, forgetting how cheap pen and ink are, they took it for granted that the author of such glowing dispatched must, in fighting qualities, be the ante-type of
Frederick, of Bincher, of
Wellington, and of
Napoleon.
So, ‘"click"’ went the telegraph, and, quick estan express railway train can run,
George B. McClellan appeared in
Washington, and assumed the command of the army of the Potomac.
Having set up an idol, all patriotic men, of high and low degree, instantly commenced offering incense at its shrine — though nobody could tell exactly why, nor has anybody yet found out. Everybody reposed implicit confidence in him; all waited for his nod with reverential aspect; his slightest word was treasured up and repeated in whispers; his most casual look was scanned as if big with meaning; and then be was so silent, so reticent, so uncommunicative!
There was a mystery about him. He did not confer with his subordinate
Generals, and they recollected that the great
Napoleon did just so by his Marshals.
The newspapers abounded with sketches of his personal appearance, and the show-windows ran over with photographs of ‘"the
Major-General Commanding"’ in all conceivable and inconceivable attitudes, the most frequent and popular of which in that therein he is mounted on a furious charger, at the head of his serried columns, leading his impetuous men, amid a tempest of fire, straight up to the enemy's entrenchments.
Time rolled on; the pictures increased; but the army stood still!
Let the
Bull Run panic subside, said everybody.
Well, it subsided.
But the army did not move.
Wait, wait, said discreet men, (your genuine conservatives) till the hot weather away.
And the hot weather parsed away.
But the army stood still.
Let the autumnal rains fall, and the mud dried away.
It was the we mean — when they fall, then!
So the over the P their foliage, till they looked us bare as a flock of packed tourneys.
But the army remained in full feather, and didn't go. Let the enemy begin the attack — and they began it at Baif's Bluff.
Then was exhibited a fearful amount of incompetency, of slaughter, of treachery.--but the
Major- General Commanding, after
Banks had crossed the
Potomac, ordered his return, and refused to accept the battle tendered by the foe. A long, geting Indian summer, with roads more hard and skies more beautiful than
Virginia had seen for many a year, followed, carrying October, with its dry soil and hammy sun, onward, till December melted into January.
This seemingly special invitation of
Providence for an onward movement, instead of being accepted, was whiled away in ostentations parades and gala-day sham fights, where the common soldiery mounted their white gloves, and the
Major General Commanding bestrode his favorite charger, the unthinking crowd gaping with wonder, while belies from the
Northern cities showered their an esteem smiles all over the scene.
As the new year approached, ‘"Why don't be moved"’ said some impatient observer, infatuated with the delusion that war means fighting.
‘"He is waiting for something to turn up!"’ responded grave believers in strategy.
Well, it did turn up at
Hill Spring. --Why don't be move now ? He is waiting for
Burnside.
His plan contemplates a general once upon the foe all along the lines from
Hatteras to
Kansas.
When they are ready at the extremities, the centre will fall with crushing weight upon
Manassas, and the rebellion will be ended.
Be patient.
By and-by the gallant
Burnside, after encountering and mangling obstacles immeasurably worse than all the mud that can be piled between the
Potomac and the
Rappahannock, opens fire at
Roanoke in the
East, while
Fort Henry, on the
Tennessee, and
Donelson, on the
Cumberland, their brave assailants wallowing to their armpits in the mire, send the echo back to
Albemarle.
Mitchell, catching the inspiration, buffets sleet and storm, and by forced marches seizes
Bowling Green, while Siegel falls suddenly upon
Springfield,
Curtis chases
Price quite down into
Arkansas, our gunboats penetrate beyond
Pulaski and threaten
Savannah, and
Gen. Buller hurries off his regiments and transports to the
Gulf for an attack, via
Ship Island, upon New Orleans!
Does this mounting in hot hastes, this gleaming of bayonets and bursting of shells all around from
Pickens to
Springfield, disturb the equanimity or jostle the self-control of the
Major-General Commanding?
Not a bit of it. Like Message, of whom
Napoleon said, ‘"His head is never so cool as when a thousand cannon are thundering in his ears,"’ our
Field-
Marshal possesses his soul in peace, and directs the telegraphic censer to reiterate the chronic fact, ‘"All is quiet along the lines of the
Potomac."’
And so the army has stood through the winter, but without being permitted to go into winter quarters.
The ‘"
Major-General Commanding"’ has enjoyed his luxurious apartments at ‘"these headquarters."’ and has retired nightly to his downy pillow; while the leaders of divisions and brigades have dwelt under breezy canvas, and the common soldiers have slept on their pallets of straw, often spread on the bare ground.
A noble-hearted General said to me, ‘"My camp has been full of agues, intermittent, and typhoids all winter.
I have done nothing but issue orders for coffins.
And now, just as the malaria season approaches, we are to move southward."’ Believing in the full intent of ‘"the
Major-General Commanding"’ not to move one rod this winter, it has been infamously crust to forbid the army going into huts, and putting up other suitable protection incident to winter quartering.
But all attempts at this have been promptly arrested and frowned down.
Facts are freshly circulated on this point which should make, the blood of humanity boil with indignation.
But, at last, the army is going to move.--Why?
When the people began to learn that this gorgeous pageant on the
Potomac had already cost them about $300,000,00, and was involving them in an annual tax of $20,000,000, and was running up a debt that their great-grandchildren would not see the end of, they commenced to inquire whether this attempt to make a colossal military chieftain out of a second-rate railroad superintendent was not too costly an experiment; and they began to hint at a change.
Acting upon this hint, a robust official opened his mouth and spoke.
He presented to ‘"the
Major General Commanding"’ the alternative, either to move his army or move himself; either to take his columns away from the
Potomac, or to yield up their lead to other hands.
Will he move?
I think he will, and at an early day. Where?
If I know, I would not tell.
Will he find the foe?
I am not sure that he will soon find him in large numbers.
If he meats him, will he conquer him?--There is not doubt of it with such troops, so well armed, and with such ponderous masses of artillery, and led by such experienced officers as
Heintzelman,
McDowell,
Franklin,
Sumner,
Hooker,
Smith,
McCall, Cassy,
Doubleday, and their associates, who have seen service, and such recruits from civil life as Backs,
Wadsworth,
Martindale,
Cochrane, and others who are eager to distinguish themselves, the grand army of the Potomac, whether its nominal board be
McClellan,
McDowell, or
Hallack, or
Fremont, or the
President of the
United States, (Its Constitutional
Commander-In-Chief,) or with concert of action, even if it have no nominal head, will know no such word as fail ! Its weight is so great that if it be but let loose and precipitated upon the foe, it will grind him to powder.
In a word, the army will move, and will win. But no thanks to the ‘"
Major-General Commanding."’ He will go forward, because he could not help it if he were to try.
I assert upon the most trustworthy authority, that, in the opinion of the best informed army officers,
Gen. McClellan is not entitled to the slightest credit for any of our recent victories at the
East and the
West--not the slightest.
I assert, and defy contradiction and consequences, that all the real and acting
Major-
Generals under his command in the army of the Potomac, with two or three exceptions at the most, have not the slightest confidence in his capacity as a strategic or a military leader, and that they scout his pretensions to superiority with scorn and contempt.
What would the people say if they were to know that, on the eve of events surpassing in magnitude any that have occurred during this war, the
Commander of the Army of the Potomac should call a special council of war, to be composed of his principal
Generals; that, at the time appointed, ten chiefs of divisions from all parts of the army attended at his headquarters to confer upon matters of the weightiest concernment; that, after a simple shake of the hand all round, he retired, leaving his father-in-law a member of his staff, and recently a more paymaster in the army, to represent him in the council; he, the
Major General Commanding, never appearing for one moment among them during this protracted sitting?
Would they not think he was either one of the greatest or one of the smallest men that ever commanded a vast army on the eve of a grand onward movement?
And, remembering that war has produced an Alexander, a Hannibal, a a Eugene, a Marlborough, a Frederick, a Wellington, and a Napoleon, would they not promptly assign him to the latter category?
And would they hesitate to believe that some of these commanders of divisions left the council with undisguised contempt for their
Prentice chief?
I wish it understood that I make these statement upon my responsibility, and upon ample evidence.
And yet, for the reasons already given.
McClellan will move forward, and, if he finds the foe, his columns will conquer him. This historian of this rebellion will do him and his army full justice, awarding laurels to those who win them, and censure to those who deserve it.
