by Rod Gragg
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The gray lines of the Confederates now began to be unmasked from the ravine and to deploy themselves on the level surface of the plain. They belonged to Ewell’s—formerly Stonewall Jackson’s—corps and were old acquaintances. Their movements were firm and steady, as usual, and their banners, bearing the blue Southern cross, flaunted impudently and seemed to challenge combat. On they came, one line after the other, in splendid array. Up to this time scarcely a musket-shot had been fired; but now our solid squares deployed, and the men were ordered to “let them have it.” Quick as a flash the compliment was returned; bullets hummed about our ears like infuriated bees, and in a few minutes the meadow was strewn with arms and accoutrements, with the wounded and the dead.
The combatants approached each other until they were scarcely more than seventy-five yards apart, and the names of battles printed on the Confederate flags might have been read, had there been time to read them. Quickly our line became thinned to a mere shadow of its former self, and the field-officers, by the killing or disabling of their horses, were every one dismounted. The troops on our right were outflanked and driven back, and, there being no reserves, no alternative remained but to withdraw. The enemy did not venture to charge, but maintained a severe fire, to which our response in the act of falling back was necessarily feeble. Forgetful that I had in my belt a good revolver, with five good loads in it, I picked up a musket and asked a soldier for a cartridge. He gave me one, remarking as he did so that he did not think it would “go,” as his ammunition had been dampened by the rain. My next impulse was to load the musket and get at least one parting shot at the enemy. While I was thus engaged, a stalwart young fellow dropped at my side, and cried, “Oh, help me!” Having taken my hand, he struggled to rise, but could not, and, finding his efforts unavailing, murmured, “Oh, I’m gone! just leave me here.”
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“I Too Felt the Sting of a Bullet”
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A moment or two later I too felt the sting of a bullet, and fell benumbed with pain. It was an instantaneous metamorphosis from strength and vigor to utter helplessness. The man nearest me, being called to for assistance, replied by a convulsive grasp at the spot where a bullet that instant struck him. He passed on, limping as he went, and in a few minutes more the last blue blouse had disappeared, and the field swarmed with gray Confederates. Of twenty-two commissioned officers and two hundred and thirty-six men constituting our regiment as it went into this action, only three officers and eighty-nine men came out of it. The rest were mostly killed and wounded. The musketry-firing having slackened, the enemy’s line of battle now came forward in fine style, preceded by skirmishers. The crimson flags were flaunted more impudently than ever, and the entire Confederate force breathed exultation and defiance. Some of the victors seemed disposed to be even savage. A wounded man lying near me, who had raised himself on his elbow, probably to get an easier posture, was assailed with a volley of curses by a stalwart soldier in gray, who ordered him to lie down instantly, on pain of being shot dead. The soldier held his musket at a ready, evidently intending to execute his threat if not summarily obeyed.
The rebel skirmish-line now passed me, and one of the skirmishers, a gentle-faced young man, came near. He had obtained the sword of a Union officer, and carried it swinging to the belt which was thrown over his neck. To the inquiry whether the Union wounded were going to be molested, he replied, “No; you need not be afraid. Ten minutes ago I would have shot you in a minute; but now that you are a prisoner you shall not be disturbed ....” The Confederate infantry now faced by its right flank, and moved off in that direction. I rejoiced at this, for I now felt at liberty to look about me. The whole field was strewn with the prostrate bodies of men in blue. Almost my first glance discovered, not far away, a well-known face. It was that of our adjutant, Lieutenant B——. Pierced by two musket-balls, he had fallen from his horse, which galloped away, but fell, like its rider, before getting out of range. “Is that you, lieutenant?” He replied only by a look, expressive at once of recognition and of agony. I was about to make further inquiry, when I was interrupted by a rebel battery, which came up at a brisk canter and unlimbered its guns where we lay. They seemed to be about to commence firing on the town, through which our troops were yet retreating.
A former artillery officer in the German army, Captain Hubert Anton Casimir Dilger commanded Battery I of the 1st Ohio Light Infantry. At Chancellorsville, he had directed his guns to cover the retreat of the Federal Eleventh Corps; at Gettysburg, he did so again.
Library of Congress
Some of the artillerymen having noticed the danger I was in of being trampled by the horses, two of them very gently removed me to a place of greater safety. Supporting my arms on the friendly shoulders of these men and listening to their rough words of sympathy, I could not but feel that they were, after all, both fellow-men and fellow-countrymen, and wonder how we could be, or rather have been, such deadly enemies. They next brought Lieutenant B——., and laid him near me. His sufferings were terrible, and his cries of pain agonizing to listen to. The Confederate artillerymen spoke to him sympathizingly, and their bronzed faces expressed sincere compassion. They endeavored to arrange for him an easy posture, but in vain: all postures were alike painful. They procured water, which he demanded incessantly, but it served only as an emetic. Nothing could alleviate his intense thirst, aggravated as it was alike by the fever of his wounds and by the excessive heat of the sun.
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“The Whole Field Was Strewn with Bodies in Blue”
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It was now five o’clock in the afternoon. The fighting had mostly ceased; the artillerymen were summoned away, and the columns of the Confederate infantry quietly filed off to their different stations in front of Gettysburg. Calm settled upon the ensanguined field where so lately the whirlwind of battle had arisen and spent itself. Except the moaning of the wounded and their cries for assistance, there was little to disturb the evening quiet. Here and there a rebel soldier sauntered about in quest of plunder, or, as sometimes happened, on a mission of mercy, refreshing the wounded with water from his canteen, and saying to them with looks of pity how sorry he was that “you-uns were all out here against us this way....”
The declining sun neared the verge of the horizon, and the clouds that hung about its disk were magnificently tinged with golden light. Their parted volumes disclosed a shining vista ending in serene effulgence, beyond which the eye could not pierce. It was not difficult to imagine that along this luminous path the souls of heroes and martyrs were ascending from the bitter cross of the battlefield to the crown of immortality and infinite peace ....4
“With a Ringing Yell, My Command Rushed upon the Union Right”
A Stunning Southern Attack Collapses the Federal Right Flank
When General Early’s division of Confederates struck the Federal right flank north of town, they were led by a brigade of troops under Brigadier General John Brown Gordon. The a thirty-one-year-old Georgian was not a professional soldier; he had been a lawyer, a newspaper reporter, and a coal mine boss before creating his own company—the Raccoon Roughs—from the Deep South hill country. He had proven himself to be a superb commander—rising from major to brigadier—and was praised by his superiors and troops alike. He was also fearless in battle: at Antietam he was wounded five times, and nearly drowned in his own blood from a head wound. He recovered and returned to the army in time for Lee’s invasion. He had a commanding presence—six feet tall and powerfully built—and at Gettysburg he rode into battle on a magnificent black stallion.
Gordon’s brigade consisted of six regiments of veteran Georgia troops, 1,200 strong, at the head of Early’s division. The Georgians arrived at Gettysburg on the Heidlersburg Road, coming from the direction of Harrisburg, and were preceded by a deadly accurate Confederated artillery barrage. They deployed through the fields and dealt the Eleventh Corps and the Federal right flank a smashing blow. After qo initia
l stubborn resistance—under pressure from Early’s other three brigades and a renewed surge by General Rodes’s division—the Federal ranks on the right collapsed like falling dominoes. Some troops panicked, but most did not—at least at first. There was just a progressive collapse of the Federal battle line, which sent a rolling blue tide of Northern troops spilling across the fields north of Gettysburg toward the town.
As the Federals began retreating, Gordon’s troops and various others followed in immediate pursuit, igniting a panic among the increasingly frantic troops of the Eleventh Corps. Then, to Gordon’s surprise, he received orders from General Ewell to halt the advance. Gordon initially resisted the order, and later stated that he wished he had never obeyed it. The Army of the Potomac, he believed, was on the verge of defeat. Like other Southern commanders, Gordon later admitted that at Gettysburg he yearned for the presence and leadership of “Stonewall” Jackson. But Jackson was gone. Decades afterward in his memoirs, Gordon chronicled his brigade’s role in the breaking of the Federal right flank.
At thirty-one, Brigadier General John Brown Gordon sported a French-style goatee—and a reputation as a fierce fighter. On the afternoon of July 2, he and his brigade of 1,200 Georgians smashed into the Federal far right flank.
National Archives
A top Harvard graduate with ties to Boston intelligentsia, Brigadier General Francis Barlow had been endorsed for promotion by the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne. At Gettysburg, he was wounded and left for dead by his troops.
National Archives
Returning from the banks of the Susquehanna, and meeting at Gettysburg, July 1, 1863, the advance of Lee’s forces, my command was thrown quickly and squarely on the right flank of the Union army. A more timely arrival never occurred. The battle had been raging for four or five hours. The Confederate General Archer, with a large portion of his brigade, had been captured. Heth and Scales, Confederate generals, had been wounded. The ranking Union commander on the field, General Reynolds, had been killed, and Hancock was assigned to command. The battle, upon the issue of which hung, perhaps, the fate of the Confederacy, was in full blast.
The Union forces, at first driven back, now re-enforced, were again advancing and pressing back Lee’s left and threatening to envelop it. The Confederates were stubbornly contesting every foot of ground, but the Southern left was slowly yielding. A few moments more and the day’s battle might have been ended by the complete turning of Lee’s flank. I was ordered to move at once to the aid of the heavily pressed Confederates. With a ringing yell, my command rushed upon the line posted to protect the Union right.
Here occurred a hand-to-hand struggle. That protecting Union line once broken left my command not only on the right flank, but obliquely in rear of it. Any troops that were ever marshalled would, under like conditions, have been as surely and swiftly shattered. There was no alternative for Howard’s men except to break and fly, or to throw down their arms and surrender. Under the concentrated fire from front and flank, the marvel is that any escaped.
In the midst of the wild disorder in his ranks, and through a storm of bullets, a Union officer was seeking to rally his men for a final stand. He, too, went down, pierced by a Minie ball. Riding forward with my rapidly advancing lines, I discovered that brave officer lying upon his back, with the July sun pouring its rays into his pale face. He was surrounded by the Union dead, and his own life seemed to be rapidly ebbing out. Quickly dismounting and lifting his head, I gave him water from my canteen, asked his name and the character of his wounds. He was Major-General Francis C. Barlow, of New York, and of Howard’s corps. The ball had entered his body in front and passed out near the spinal cord, paralyzing him in legs and arms. Neither of us had the remotest thought that he could possibly survive many hours.
I summoned several soldiers who were looking after the wounded, and directed them to place him upon a litter and carry him to the shade in the rear. Before parting, he asked me to take from his pocket a package of letters and destroy them. They were from his wife. He had but one request to make of me. That request was that if I should live to the end of the war and should ever meet Mrs. Barlow, I would tell her of our meeting on the field of Gettysburg and of his thoughts of her in his last moments. He wished me to assure her that he died doing his duty at the front, that he was willing to give his life for his country, and that his deepest regret was that he must die without looking upon her face again.
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“Large Bodies of the Union Troops Were Throwing Down Their Arms”
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I learned that Mrs. Barlow was with the Union army, and near the battle-field. When it is remembered how closely Mrs. Gordon followed me, it will not be difficult to realize that my sympathies were especially stirred by the announcement that his wife was so near him. Passing through the day’s battle unhurt, I despatched [sic] at its close, under flag of truce, the promised message to Mrs. Barlow. I assured her that if she wished to come through the lines she should have safe escort to her husband’s side. In the desperate encounters of the two succeeding days, and the retreat of Lee’s army, I thought no more of Barlow, except to number him with the noble dead of the two armies who had so gloriously met their fate. The ball, however, had struck no vital point, and Barlow slowly recovered, though this fact was wholly unknown to me ....
On the first day neither General Early nor General Ewell could possibly have been fully cognizant of the situation at the time I was ordered to halt. The whole of that portion of the Union Army in my front was in inextricable confusion and in flight. They were necessarily in flight, for my troops were upon the flank and rapidly sweeping down the lines. The firing upon my men had almost ceased. Large bodies of the Union troops were throwing down their arms and surrendering, because in disorganized and confused masses they were wholly powerless either to check the movement or return the fire. As far down the lines as my eye could reach, the Union troops were in retreat. Those at a distance were still resisting, but giving ground, and it was only necessary for me to press forward in order to insure the same results which invariably follow such flank movements. In less than one-half hour my troops would have swept up and over those hills, the possession of which was of such momentous consequence.
It is not surprising, with a full realization of the consequences of a halt, that I should have refused at first to obey the order. Not until the third or fourth order of the most peremptory character reached me, did I obey. I think I should have risked the consequences of disobedience even then, but that the order to halt was accompanied with the explanation that General Lee, who was several miles away, did not wish to give battle at Gettysburg....
No soldier in a great crisis ever wished more ardently for a deliverer’s hand than I wished for one hour of Jackson, when I was ordered to halt. Had he been there, his quick eye would have caught at a glance the entire situation, and instead of halting me, he would have urged me forward and have pressed the advantage to the utmost, simply notifying General Lee that the battle was on, and he had decided to occupy the heights. Had General Lee himself been present this would undoubtedly have been done.
Grievously wounded and left for dead by his troops, General Barlow eventually recovered and returned to command. After the war, General Gordon often told his story of assisting the wounded young officer—and how the two eventually became friends. According to Gordon, both he and Barlow mistakenly thought the other had been killed in the war, until they were introduced by a mutual friend in a postwar meeting. “Nothing short of an actual resurrection from the dead could have amazed either of us more,” he wrote.5
“Covered with Glory”
General Lee Renews the Confederate Assault on McPherson’s Ridge
From his position atop Herr Ridge on the west side of Gettysburg, General Robert E. Lee could see the smoke and dust arising on the distant ridges and fields north of town. The troops from Ewell’s corps were pressing the enemy. A new attack on the Federal left might win
the day for the South. Standing beside Lee, as he silently studied the fighting, was his First Corps commander, General Hill, along with General Heth, who had redeployed his division since its setback earlier that day. Finally Lee turned to the two officers and issued an order: put in Heth’s division.
Opposite Herr Ridge to the east, across Willoughby Run, the Federal left extended in a battle line along McPherson’s Ridge. It was still primarily defended by Brigadier General Solomon Meredith’s Iron Brigade of Midwesterners from Wisconsin, Michigan, and Indiana. On the brigade’s right—just south of the Chambersburg Turnpike—troops of the 2nd and 7th Wisconsin were deployed—mainly in open fields along the ridge. In the middle of the line, the 24th Michigan was posted in the sprawling stand of timber known as Herbst Woods, and to the left—also in the woods—were the troops of the 19th Indiana. Defending the brigade’s far right and left flanks were troops from Pennsylvania and New York, supported by scattered sections of field artillery. Heth’s Confederates attacked at about two-thirty in the afternoon, splashing through Willoughby Run and advancing under fire up the slopes of McPherson’s Ridge. On the Confederate left, closest to the Chambersburg Turnpike, was a brigade of Virginians commanded by Colonel John M. Brockenbrough. On the Confederate right were the battered survivors of General Archer’s Brigade, and in the middle was Brigadier General James J. Pettigrew’s brigade of North Carolinians.
