by Rod Gragg
The roar of all this tumult reached us on the left, and heightened the intensity of our resolve. Meanwhile the flanking column worked around to our left and joined with those before us in a fierce assault, which lasted with increasing fury for an intense hour. The two lines met and broke and mingled in the shock. The crush of musketry gave way to cuts and thrusts, grapplings and wrestlings. The edge of conflict swayed to and fro, with wild whirlpools and eddies. At times I saw around me more of the enemy than of my own men; gaps opening, swallowing, closing again with sharp convulsive energy; squads of stalwart men who had cut their way through us, disappearing as if translated. All around, strange, mingled roar—shouts of defiance, rally, and desperation; and underneath, murmured entreaty and stifled moans; gasping prayers, snatches of Sabbath song, whispers of loved names; everywhere men torn and broken, staggering, creeping, quivering on the earth, and dead faces with strangely fixed eyes staring stark into the sky. Things which cannot be told—nor dreamed....
Brigade Commander Strong Vincent posted the 20th Maine to the south side of Little Round Top—the far left flank of the Federal line. “You are to hold this ground at all costs,” he ordered Chamberlain.
Pennsylvania State Archives
In the very deepest of the struggle while our shattered line had pressed the enemy well below their first point of contact, and the struggle to regain it was fierce, I saw through a sudden rift in the thick smoke our colors standing alone. I first thought some optical illusion imposed upon me. But as forms emerged through the drifting smoke, the truth came to view. The cross-fire had cut keenly; the center had been almost shot away; only two of the color-guard had been left, and they fighting to fill the whole space; and in the center, wreathed in battle smoke, stood the Color-Sergeant, Andrew Tozier. His color-staff planted in the ground at his side, the upper part clasped in his elbow, so holding the flag upright, with musket and cartridges seized from the fallen comrade at his side he was defending his sacred trust in the manner of the songs of chivalry....
When that mad carnival lulled—from some strange instinct in human nature and without any reason in the situation that can be seen—when the battling edges drew asunder, there stood our little line, groups and gaps, notched like saw-teeth, but sharp as steel, tempered in infernal heats like a magic sword of the Goths. We were on the appointed and entrusted line. We had held ground—“at all costs!” But sad surprise! It had seemed to us we were all the while holding our own, and had never left it. But now that the smoke dissolved, we saw our dead and wounded all out in front of us, mingled with more of the enemy. They were scattered all the way down to the very feet of the baffled hostile line now rallying in the low shrubbery for a new onset. We could not wait for this. They knew our weakness now. And they were gathering force. No place for tactics now! The appeal must be to primal instincts of human nature!
“Shall they die there, under the enemy’s feet, and under your eyes?” Words like those brokenly uttered, from heart to heart, struck the stalwart groups holding together for a stand, and roused them to the front quicker than any voice or bugle of command. These true-hearted men but a little before buffeted back and forth by superior force, and now bracing for a dubious test, dashed down the death-strewn slope into the face of the rallied and recovering foe, and hurled them, tore them from above our fallen as the tiger avenges its young. Nor did they stop till they had cleared the farthest verge of the field, redeemed by the loving for the lost—the brave for the brave.
Now came a longer lull. But this meant, not rest, but thought and action. First, it was to gather our wounded, and bear them to the sheltered lawn for saving life, or peace in dying; the dead, too, that not even our feet should do them dishonor in the coming encounter. Then—such is heavenly human pity—the wounded of our Country’s foes; brothers in blood for us now, so far from other caring; borne to like refuge and succor by the drummer-boys who had become angels of the field. In this lull I took a turn over the dismal field to see what could be done for the living, in ranks or recumbent; and came upon a manly form and face I well remembered. He was a sergeant earlier in the field of Antietam and of Fredericksburg; and for refusing to perform some menial personal service for a bullying quartermaster in winter camp, was reduced to the ranks by a commander who had not carefully investigated the case. It was a degradation, and the injustice of it rankled in his high-born spirit. But his well-bred pride would not allow him to ask for justice as a favor. I had kept this in mind, for early action. Now he was lying there, stretched on an open front where a brave stand had been made, face to the sky, a great bullet-hole in the middle of his breast, from which he had loosened the clothing, to ease his breathing, and the rich blood was pouring in a stream. I bent down over him. His face lightened; his lips moved. But I spoke first, “My dear boy, it has gone hard with you. You shall be cared for!” He whispered, “Tell my mother I did not die a coward!” It was the prayer of home-bred manhood poured out with his life-blood. I knew and answered him, “You die a sergeant. I promote you for faithful service and noble courage on the field of Gettysburg!” This was all he wanted. No word more. I had him borne from the field, but his high spirit had passed to its place. It is needless to add that as soon as a piece of parchment could be found after that battle, a warrant was made out promoting George Washington Buck to sergeant in the terms told him; and this evidence placed the sad, proud mother’s name on the rolls of the Country’s benefactors.
As for myself, so far I had escaped. How close an escape I had had I did not know till afterwards. I think I may mention here, as a psychological incident, that some years after the war, I received a letter written in a homely but manly style by one subscribing himself “a member of the Fifteenth Alabama,” in these words:
Low on ammunition after repelling repeated assaults, the troops of the 20th Maine charged down Little Round Top’s boulder-littered slope with fixed bayonets. The 15th Alabama vainly “tried to make a stand amidst the trees and boulders….”
Library of Congress
“Dear Sir: I want to tell you of a little passage in the battle of Round Top, Gettysburg, concerning you and me, which I am now glad of. Twice in that fight I had your life in my hands. I got a safe place between two big rocks, and drew bead fair and square on you. You were standing in the open behind the center of your line, full exposed. I knew your rank by your uniform and your actions, and I thought it a mighty good thing to put you out of the way. I rested my gun on the rock and took steady aim. I started to pull the trigger, but some queer notion stopped me. Then I got ashamed of my weakness and went through the same motions again. I had you, perfectly certain. But that same queer something shut right down on me. I couldn’t pull the trigger, and gave it up,—that is, your life. I am glad of it now, and hope you are. Yours truly.”
I thought he was that, and answered him accordingly, asking him to come up North and see whether I was worth what he missed. But my answer never found him, nor could I afterwards.
Battle of Gettysburg, July 2, 1863. Based on a map by Hal Jespersen, www.CWmaps.com
* * *
“One Word Was Enough—‘BAYONET!’”
* * *
The silence and the doubt of the momentary lull were quickly dispelled. The formidable Fifteenth Alabama, repulsed and as we hoped dispersed, now in solid and orderly array—still more than twice our numbers—came rolling through the fringe of chaparral on our left. No dash; no yells; no demonstrations for effect; but settled purpose and determination! We opened on them as best we could. The fire was returned, cutting us to the quick. The Forty-Seventh Alabama had rallied on our right. We were enveloped in fire, and sure to be overwhelmed in fact when the great surge struck us.... Already I could see the bold flankers on their right darting out and creeping catlike under the smoke to gain our left, thrown back as it was. It was for us, then, once for all. Our thin line was broken, and the enemy were in rear of the whole Round Top defense—infantry, artillery, humanity itself—with the Round Top and the day
theirs.
Now, too, our fire was slackening; our last rounds of shot had been fired; what I had sent for could not get to us. I saw the faces of my men one after another, when they had fired their last cartridge, turn anxiously towards mine for a moment; then square to the front again. To the front for them lay death; to the rear what they would die to save. My thought was running deep. I was combining the elements of a “forlorn hope,” and had just communicated this to Captain Spear of the wheeling flank, on which the initiative was to fall. Just then—so will a little incident fleck a brooding cloud of doom with a tint of human tenderness—brave, warm-hearted Lieutenant Melcher, of the Color Company, whose Captain and nearly half his men were down, came up and asked if he might take his company and go forward and pick up one or two of his men left wounded on the field, and bring them in before the enemy got too near. This would be a most hazardous move in itself and in this desperate moment, we could not break our line. But I admired him. With a glance, he understood, I answered, “Yes, sir, in a moment! I am about to order a charge!”
* * *
“We Surrender! Don’t Kill Us!”
* * *
Not a moment was to be lost! Five minutes more of such a defensive, and the last roll-call would sound for us! Desperate as the chances were, there was nothing for it, but to take the offensive. I stepped to the colors. The men turned towards me. One word was enough—“BAYONET!” It caught like fire, and swept along the ranks. The men took it up with a shout,—one could not say, whether from the pit, or the song of the morning star.... The grating clash of steel in fixing bayonets told its own story; the colors rose in front; the whole line quivered for the start; the edge of the left-wing ... swooped down upon the serried host—down into the face of half a thousand! Two hundred men!
It was a great right wheel. Our left swung first. The advancing foe stopped, tried to make a stand amidst the trees and boulders; but the frenzied bayonets pressing through every space forced a constant settling to the rear. Morrill with his detached company and the remnants of our valorous sharpshooters who had held the enemy so long in check on the slopes of the Great Round Top, now fell upon the flank of the retiring crowd, and it turned to full retreat—some up amidst the crags of Great Round Top, but most down the smooth vale towards their own main line on Plum Run. This tended to mass them before our center. Here their stand was more stubborn. At the first dash the commanding officer I happened to confront, coming on fiercely, sword in one hand and big navy revolver in the other, fires one barrel almost in my face; but seeing the quick saber-point at his throat, reverses arms, gives sword and pistol into my hands and yields himself prisoner. I took him at his word, but could not give him further attention. I passed him over into the custody of a brave sergeant at my side, to whom I gave the sword as emblem of his authority, but kept the pistol with its loaded barrels, which I thought might come handy soon, as indeed it did.
Ranks were broken; many retired before us somewhat hastily; some threw their muskets to the ground—even loaded; sunk on their knees, threw up their hands, calling out, “We surrender. Don’t kill us!” As if we wanted to do that! We kill only to resist killing. And these were manly men, whom we would befriend, and by no means kill, if they came our way in peace and good will. Charging right through and over these, we struck the second line of the Forty-seventh Alabama doing their best to stand, but offering little resistance. Their Lieutenant-Colonel as I passed—and a fine gentleman was Colonel Bulger—introduced himself as my prisoner, and as he was wounded, I had him cared for as best we could. Still swinging to the right as a great gate on its hinges, we swept the front clean of assailants. We were taking in prisoners by scores—more than we could hold, or send to the rear, so that many made final escape up Great Round Top. Half way down to the throat of the vale I came upon Colonel Powell of the Fourth Alabama, a man of courtly bearing, who was badly wounded. I sent him to the Eighty-third Pennsylvania, nearest to us and better able to take care of him than we were.
When we reached the front of the Forty-fourth New York, I thought it far enough. Beyond on the right the Texas Brigade had rallied or rendezvoused, I took thought of that. Most of the fugitives before us, rather than run the gantlet of our whole brigade, had taken the shelter of the rocks of Great Round Top, on our left, as we now faced. It was hazardous to be so far out, in the very presence of so many baffled but far from beaten veterans of Hood’s renowned division. A sudden rush on either flank might not only cut us off, but cut in behind us and seize that vital point which it was our orders and our trust to hold. But it was no light task to get our men to stop. They were under the momentum of their deed. They thought they were “on the road to Richmond.” They had to be reasoned with, persuaded, but at last faced about and marched back to that dedicated crest with swelling hearts. Not without sad interest and service was the return. For many of the wounded had to be gathered up. There was a burden, too, of the living. Nearly four hundred prisoners remained in our hands—two for every man of ours. Shortly the twilight deepened, and we disposed ourselves to meet any new assault that might come from the courage of exasperation. But the attack was not renewed....8
CHAPTER SIX
“Advance, Colonel, and Take Those Colors”
As the afternoon of July 2 wore on, Longstreet’s second-day attack moved forward en echelon, from south to north, targeting the left side of the Federal line. Federal troops defending Little Round Top and Sickles’s Salient took the first blows, then—unfolding with mounting pressure—the Confederate attack moved up the Federal line toward its center. At dusk, it would also include assaults on the Federal far right flank. The second day’s fighting was a massive clash of arms: approximately 22,000 assaulting Confederate troops battled some 40,000 Federal defenders over the course of three hours. It yielded a bloody harvest—more than 15,000 dead and wounded. Upon reflection, General Longstreet would view the July 2 Confederate attack on the Federal left as “the best three hours’ fighting ever done....” A Federal officer who saw his regiment almost destroyed would be more personal in his assessment, saying simply, “men fell fast at every stride.”1
“The Men Must See Us Today”
A Bloody Give-and-Take near Devil’s Den
As the battle lines of Hood’s division advanced toward the far left flank of the Federal line with flags flying, Captain James E. Smith of the 4th Independent Battery of New York Light Artillery watched them approach. Smith commanded a battery of long-range Parrott rifled artillery, posted on and around the southern end of Houck’s Ridge—a rise of ground on the north side of Devil’s Den. Heading straight for Smith’s guns were parts of two brigades of Hood’s division—soldiers from Texas and from Arkansas under Brigadier General Jerome Robertson and Georgia troops under Brigadier General Henry Benning. As the Confederates advanced, Smith’s New Yorkers opened a furious artillery fire. It tore huge gaps in the ranks of gray and butternut—but they dressed their lines, filled in the gaps, and continued advancing.
Boulders and bodies litter the base of Little Round Top, where Confederates of Hood’s division engaged in brutal combat with troops defending the left flank of the Federal line.
Library of Congress
“Give them shell! give them shot!” Smith yelled to his gun crews. “Damn them, give them anything!” The Southerners took their losses—horrible losses—and kept coming. As they neared Smith’s artillery, his gun crews were running low on ammunition. Desperate, Smith turned toward the line of Federal infantry supporting his battery and yelled, “For God’s sake, men, don’t let them take my guns away from me!” Closest was the 124th New York Infantry—troops from Sickles’s Third Corps—who hailed from New York’s Orange County and dubbed themselves the “Orange Blossoms.” They were commanded by Colonel Augustus Van Horne Ellis, a tough, profane New Yorker, who had given up a law practice before the war to seek adventure in California and on the high seas. Now he had more adventure than he could possibly want, as Hood’s Confederates swarmed up the r
ise toward his position. To rally his troops, Ellis had his horse brought forward, and climbed into the saddle over the protests of another officer, who knew it would make him a conspicuous target. Ellis insisted. “The men must see us today,” he proclaimed.
Ellis and his “Orange Blossoms” fought fiercely—at one point turning back the oncoming Confederates with a bayonet charge. In the end, the Southerners would take Devil’s Den and the high ground beside it, as well as three of Smith’s precious Parrotts—but nothing more. The “Orange Blossoms” would help preserve the Federal left flank, although not without a great loss of blood. Of the 279 officers and troops who held the line, 90 became casualties that afternoon. Among the wounded was Ellis’s second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Francis M. Cummins. Among the dead was another chief subordinate, Major James Cromwell—and Colonel Ellis, who was shot from the saddle in the heat of battle. Captain Charles Weygant, a survivor of that harrowing afternoon, would later describe the desperate, bloody defense waged by Colonel Ellis and his “Orange Blossoms.”
