University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.
GETTYSBURG.

There are spots of the earth's surface, over which
the Angel of Death seems to hover. Of these is the
town of Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania—unknown in the
month of June, 1863, but in July famous as that other
insignificant hamlet of Waterloo, in July, 1815.

“Gettysburg! Gettysburg!”—that is a cry which
has escaped from many a bleeding heart. And the
hearts which bled most have been Southern hearts.
For here, not only was the most precious blood of the
South poured out like water—here the fate of her
great sovereignties was decided. Gettysburg determined,
for long years to come, at least, the destiny of
the North American Continent. Here was the real
end of the great struggle, not at Appomattox. On the
slopes of Round Top and Cemetery Hills, those two
Titans, the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army
of the Potomac, so long warring on each other, grappled
in a life and death wrestle. And the Southern
Enceladus was thrown. The fall broke his strength.
All the movements of the giant thereafter were the
mere tossings and writhings of the great body, weighed
down by the mountain pressing on it. When Longstreet
was thrown back from Round Top, and the Virginians

under Pickett dashed themselves in pieces
vainly against Cemetery Hill, all was over.

Let us be understood. The Army of Northern Virginia
was not shattered. In July as in June, Lee had
an army and a powerful and unbroken one. The tempered
steel of that great weapon could stand more than
Gettysburg; and the proof is, that after the fight,
Meade, that hardy soldier, kept beyond its sweep. The
question was not of the army's morale from that time
forward, but of the country's. Why this access of despair?
Was it want of confidence in the Executive and
heads of Departments? Was it a conviction of mismanagement,
ill-judgment, partiality in the civil rulers?
Was it loss of faith in God, and their own resources?
Let history answer. The fact remains. Lee's army of
seventy thousand at Gettysburg, in June, 1863, was cut
down to forty thousand in Spottsylvania, in May, 1864.
It did not reach the last named number when from the
fifty miles of earthworks pressed by Grant at Petersburg,
Lee vainly besought the government for “more
men, more men!”

Thus Gettysburg is one of those great combats which
sum up and terminate an epoch. Let us see what led
to it, and how it was fought.

Hooker, overwhelmed at Chancellorsville, and driven
back over the river, the Federal arms seemed paralyzed,
at least for the time. Everything prompted a movement
of the Southern army northward. The country
was in a blaze of enthusiasm; the army regarded itself
as invincible; the authorities at Richmond greeted
each other with smiles; when Lee sent thither for rations,
the Commissary-General, in high good humor,

or laboring under a grand conception, endorsed, it is
said, on the requisition, “If Gen. Lee wishes rations,
let him seek them in Pennsylvania.”

Lee obeyed the wish of the country. Chancellorsville
was fought on the third day of May,—on the
third day of June, the army of Northern Virginia was
on the road to Gettysburg.

Let us look at the great chess-board, and endeavor
to comprehend the “situation” and the plans of Lee.
Hooker was on the Rappahannock, and it was desirable
to draw him out of Virginia. This could only be done
by advancing to invade the North. By moving through
the gaps of the Blue Ridge, toward the Potomac, Lee
would accomplish one of two things,—he would force
Hooker to follow him, or compel that commander to
advance upon Richmond. If he adopted the latter
alternative, Lee would be in his rear; could move
upon Washington; and, to use his own expression,
“swap queens,”—one capital for the other. This bold
move was not anticipated, however. Hooker would
fall back under orders from his government to protect
the Federal capital. Then Lee, still advancing, would
draw him into Maryland, into Pennsylvania. Then,
Beauregard was to hasten forward to Culpeper Court
House,[1] and threaten Washington, diverting a portion
of Hooker's troops from the Army of the Potomac for
its protection,—or that whole army. If a portion,
then Lee would fight his opponent at a disadvantage.

If the whole army, then Harrisburg, Philadelphia, perhaps,
would fall.

Then a treaty of peace,—a document such as the
world had never seen before,—an agreement consisting
of one article only:

“Let us alone, and we will let you alone!”

Such, it would seem, were the plans of Gen. Lee
in June, 1863; such the splendid prize which lured
him on to that magnificent march. It will live in history
as one of the greatest in the annals of war. Let
us, therefore, follow the steps of the Confederate commander,
from the first movement of his infantry into
Culpeper to his appearance at the head of sixty-seven
thousand bayonets in front of Gettysburg.

About to move, Lee ordered a review of Stuart's
cavalry. It took place in a plain not far from Brandy
Station, and the horsemen charged, shouts resounded,
the artillery roared in mimic battle as the troopers,
sword in hand, rushed upon it,—beneath a great pole
from which floated the Confederate banner, Gen. Lee,
calm and silent, sat his horse, looking on.

No sooner had the thunders of the mimic battle died
away, than the cannon began again, and this time in
earnest. Gen. Hooker had sent over two divisions of
cavalry, supported by two “picked brigades” of infantry,
with artillery, to discover the meaning of all this
noise. Stuart met them with his cavalry on Fleetwood
Hill, near Brandy Station, and throughout all a June
day wrestled with them in obstinate fight. At sunset
they were repulsed and driven beyond the river again,
but one thing had been accomplished: Lee's bayonets
had been seen in the Culpeper woods, and thus

the presence of a portion of his infantry there was
known. This, and the fact that A. P. Hill was still on
the heights of Fredericksburg, summed up the knowledge
of Gen. Hooker in reference to the movements of
his antagonist.

Hill's presence there at Fredericksburg was tempting.
Why not cross the Rappahannock, cut him to
pieces before Lee could succor him, and advance on
Richmond? Hooker suggested that plan, but President
Lincoln demurred. His views were expressed in
that rough and homely style, which, wanting in the
dignity which Washington had set the example of to
all in his “great office,” was not deficient in a rude
pith, and good sense:

“In case you find Lee coming to the north of the
Rappahannock,” wrote Lincoln to Hooker, “I would
by no means cross to the south of it. I would not take
any risk of being entangled upon the river, like an ox
jumped half over a fence, and liable to be torn by dogs,
front and rear, without a fair chance to gore one way
or kick the other.”

Five days afterwards, the President wrote once
more:

“I think Lee's army, and not Richmond, is your true
objective point. If he comes towards the Upper Potomac,
fight him when opportunity offers. If he stays
where he is (in Culpeper), fret him, and fret him.”

President Lincoln and his Lieutenant were thus speculating
and consulting on the probable intentions of
their antagonist, when startling intelligence reached
them from the Shenandoah Valley. Lee had executed
a movement as successful as it was hazardous. With one

corps of his army, under Hill, at Fredericksburg, and
another under Longstreet, on the banks of the Rapidan,
he had pushed forward the third, under Ewell, by way
of Chester's Gap, into the Shenandoah Valley—thus
making of his army, directly in face of the enemy, a
skirmish line, stretching over about one hundred miles.
Then the object of this movement soon appeared.
Ewell's infantry wound through the mountain gorge,
crossed the Shenandoah at Front Royal, and pushing
rapidly forward, attacked Milroy at Winchester, driving
him thence with a loss of four thousand prisoners,
twenty-nine pieces of artillery, and a great mass of
military stores. Gen. Milroy had cruelly tyrannized
over the unhappy people, ruling the whole country
with a rod of iron, and in one day swift retribution
had come upon him. Driven from his “Star Fort” at
the point of the bayonet; hurried on his way with shot
and shell; cut off and overwhelmed by a force sent to
his rear, he had scarcely the time to escape in person,
with a handful of men, across the Potomac.

“In my opinion,” wrote Hooker, on the 25th of June,
“Milroy's men will fight better under a soldier.”

That was his epitaph!

Having thus brushed away this hornet's nest, Ewell
pushed for Maryland, and this was the intelligence
which came to strike at the same moment President
Lincoln at Washington, and Gen. Hooker on the Rappahannock.
It drew forth one of Lincoln's most characteristic
dispatches—a curious document, full of good
judgment, mingled with a sort of grotesque humor:

There was little of the verbiage of “official dignity”
there, and no “distinguished considerations;” but there
was good sense. George Washington and John Adams
—different personages from Lincoln—would never
have used those words, but the suggestion was none the
less valuable. Gen. Hooker ought to have struck at
that long, slim line, stretched out over one or two hundred
miles. Instead of doing so, he fell back to protect
Washington.

The great game of chess was now in full progress.
Lee's strategy had met with admirable success. Hooker
was afraid to move upon Richmond: afraid to attack
his opponent's flank; he was falling back to guard his
own territory and capital. Thus Lee advanced without
hindrance to the accomplishment of his designs;
the three corps of his army moved on steadily, guided
by the master mind.

Ewell had pushed into the valley, and Longstreet
marched up to guard his rear. Ewell advanced toward
the Potomac, and Longstreet followed. Then
into the gap behind Longstreet, thus moving on, came
up Hill from Fredericksburg. Thus corps by corps,
the Confederate arms streamed northward, ready to
concentrate and give battle at any moment, if Hooker
had the boldness to attack.

The perplexity of that personage seems to have been
extreme. He was ignorant of Lee's designs. Did the

Confederate commander intend to advance into Pennsylvania,
or was this great movement designed to tempt
his adversary to attack on the Rappahannock, when Lee
would sweep down on his right and rear, interposing between
him and Washington? The latter was probable,
and Gen. Hooker fell back to Manassas. But then his
perplexities increased. Did Lee intend a real invasion,
or was he only waiting for Hooker to cross the Potomac,
to pass the Blue Ridge, and advance upon Washington?

Gen. Hooker was in a maze, as were his most experienced
advisers.

“Try and hunt up somebody from Pennsylvania,”
wrote his Chief of Staff, Gen. Butterfield, as late as
June 17th, “who knows something, and has a cool
enough head to judge what is the actual state of affairs
there with regard to the enemy. My impression is that
Lee's movement on the Upper Potomac is a cover for
a cavalry raid on the south side of the river....
We cannot go boggling round until we know what
we are going after.”

To terminate if possible this paralysis of doubt,
Gen. Hooker sent out a powerful force of cavalry and
infantry from Aldie toward the Blue Ridge, drove
Stuart before him, in spite of obstinate resistance, and
at Ashby's Gap Longstreet's forces, which had advanced
along the eastern slope of the Ridge, were suddenly
unmasked. Through Chester's Gap, in his rear,
Hill had rapidly passed into the valley. Thus all that
was discovered amounted to this alone—that Lee's
whole army was in the valley. What was his design?

All at once came a wild cry of terror, borne on the

wind from Pennsylvania. Southern troopers were
swarming in the country around Chambersburg; the
inhabitants were flying with their horses and cattle to
the mountains; the whole State was in a blaze of excitement
and apprehension. Then came worse news
still. This was no mere “cavalry raid.” Ewell's infantry
had followed the cavalry; Longstreet and Hill
were crossing the Potomac at Williamsport, and Shepherdstown
in his rear. Lee's whole army was advancing
rapidly into the Cumberland Valley.

General Hooker was thus certain of his adversary's
plans. He was no longer apprehensive of an attack
upon Washington from the Virginia side of the Potomac,
and hastened to cross that river near Leesburg, to
follow Lee. This crossing was effected on the 26th of
June; his force was rapidly concentrated in the vicinity
of Frederick City, when, on the very next day, the
army was startled by the announcement that Gen.
Hooker had been relieved from command.

Such was the fact. Gen. Hooker's head had fallen
at Frederick City, as Gen. McClellan's had at Warrenton—in
the midst of a great movement. The opponent
of both, also, was the General-in-Chief, Halleck.
But there was this difference: McClellan was surprised,
nay, astounded, and bitterly resented the unexpected
blow struck at him. Hooker accepted his fate
serenely—for he had applied to be relieved.[2] The
cause of all was Harper's Ferry, where ten thousand
troops still remained, and were of no earthly use.
Gen. Hooker wished to utilize them, but the General-in-Chief

would not permit it. Every human being has
his hobby—Gen. Halleck's was Harper's Ferry.
When Gen. Hooker stumbled against it, Gen. Halleck
was inexorable. Thereupon, Gen. Hooker requested
to be relieved—and was relieved.

The command thus falling from Hooker's hands,
was assumed by General Meade, a soldier and a gentleman.

Meade did not order a single trumpet to be blown
when he took command; did not promise in any general
order to annihilate his opponent as soon as he
could come up with him; did not criticise the movements
of his predecessor, or vaunt his own prowess.
He knew of what stuff his great adversary, Lee, was
made, and the metal of the army which followed him.
A mortal combat was before him, of which the issue
was far from certain, and with becoming gravity and
dignity, Gen. Meade assumed the great responsibility
thrust upon him, not sought by him.

There are men whom you are compelled to respect
as your enemies, as you would admire them were
they your friends. Meade belonged to that class.

Hooker disappeared—Meade succeeded him—the
Army of the Potomac did not exhibit by a single tremor
even the consciousness that another hand grasped
the helm. It moved on from Frederick City northward
to offer battle to Lee.

Let us return to that officer now, and look at the
invasion from a Confederate point of view. In the
last days of June, Ewell had passed through Chambersburg,
occupied Carlisle, and penetrated to within sight
of Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania. Lee

had followed as far as Chambersburg, with the two
corps of Hill and Longstreet.

For the first time soldiers of the Confederate States
army were encamped on the soil of Pennsylvania.
What was their deportment there? What was the
result for the inhabitants?

Plunder, eruelty, and outrage? Why not? Had
not Gen. Pope made a desert of Culpeper, destroying
without remorse every species of private property,
seizing furniture and clothing, the bread and meat of
women and children, burning the very houses over
their heads, the ruins of which may still be seen?
Had not Milroy made a hell of the country around
Winchester? Had not subordinate officers—Stahl and
Steinwehr and others—oppressed the unfortunate people
beyond all power of words? Had not the war, long
before, become a war upon women and children, and
gray-beards—upon their property, their liberty, and
their lives? If Lee retaliated, would history blame
him very severely? Would he not retaliate, now that
he was in the enemy's territory, making them realize
the horrors which the Federal troops had inflicted upon
Virginia?

If any one thought that of Lee, he was speedily
undeceived. Here is what he said to his army at
Chambersburg, in the heart of Pennsylvania, June 27,
1863:

“The Commanding General considers that no
greater disgrace could befall the army, and through it
our whole people, than the perpetration of the barbarous
outrages on the innocent and the defenceless,
and the wanton destruction of private property, that

have marked the course of the enemy in our own country.
It must be remembered that we make war only
upon armed men. The Commanding General, therefore,
earnestly exhorts the troops to abstain, with most
scrupulous care, from unnecessary or wanton injury to
private property, and he enjoins upon all officers to
arrest and bring to summary punishment all who
shall in any way offend against the orders on this
subject.”

Such was Lee's order—and it was obeyed. Here is
the declaration of a Pennsylvanian, upon whose property
a portion of the army had encamped:

“I must say they acted like gentlemen, and, their
cause aside, I would rather have forty thousand rebels
quartered on my premises than one thousand Union
troops.”[3]

And one of the Richmond journals, bitterly criticising
Lee's clemency, made the sneering statements that
he flamed out at the robbing even of the cherry-trees,
and if he saw the top rail thrown from a fence as he
was passing, would dismount and replace it with his
own hands!

Such was the contrast between the Federal and Confederate
invasions. Why is the parallel drawn? Does
any one care? No—the world is deaf to all that
story, to-day. The South has committed the greatest
of crimes—she has failed, and has no advocate. The
truth is eternal—is mighty—and some day will prevail.
The mills of the gods grind slowly—behind
the blackest cloud is the sunshine; to-morrow, or the

next year, or the next generation, that sun of truth
will show itself, and everything will appear in its real
colors.

Then the world will know what it is to act as a
Christian gentleman, whatever wrongs have fired the
blood—will see the grand proportions of the Virginian,
Lee, and estimate him truly.

An outline has been presented of the movements of
the two armies from the Rappahannock, northward.

We are now at the 1st of July, and on the threshold
of the battle of Gettysburg.

To that “strategic point”—a sort of wheel-hub,
from which radiate, like spokes, roads running in every
direction—the two armies advanced, as though
dragged by the hand of destiny. It was the inexorable
law of war, however, not fate, which forced the
adversaries to converge upon that point. Lee was
looking forward to Harrisburg—Meade back to Pipe
Creek, toward Washington. But Gettysburg said,
“Come!”

Lee had been at Chambersburg with the main body
of his army, under Longstreet and Hill. Ewell had
meanwhile been sent on with his corps toward the
Susquehannah. He had steadily advanced, occupied
Carlisle, come in sight of Harrisburg, was about to
attack, when a summons came from Lee to rejoin the
main army at Gettysburg.

In fact the rapid advance of Gen. Meade made this
movement indispensable. Lee's communications with
Virginia were menaced; it was necessary to guard
them, and, recognizing this necessity, the Confederate
commander turned to the right at Chambersburg,

crossed the South Mountain, and, on the morning of
the first of July, was advancing to give battle to his
adversary. In expectation of this encounter, Ewell
had been recalled. Gen. Meade also saw the shadow
of the great event approaching, and hurried forward.
The heads of the two columns came together, and the
“first day's fight at Gettysburg” followed.

From the moment when the blue and gray soldiers
caught sight of each other, the thunder began to roar.
Buford's cavalry, pushing out west of Gettysburg
about a mile, on this morning, suddenly struck up
against the advance brigades of A. P. Hill. Then
followed a result which invariably characterizes encounters
between infantry and cavalry. Gen. Buford
fought hard, but his horsemen recoiled before the bayonets
of Hill, and he was being driven back when
General Reynolds hastened forward with his infantry.

Line of battle was then formed by the opposing
commanders upon ridges, facing each other, west of
Gettysburg, and the battle began in earnest.

Lee and Meade, in the rear, were startled by that
sound, for neither expected or desired a battle to be
fought there. Each appreciating the courage and resources
of his adversary, felt that the result of the
coming conflict largely depended upon manœuvring
and position; to be thus plunged unawares into the
struggle, suited neither.

But the dice-box had been rattled in the hand of
fate, and the die was cast. The war-dogs had begun
to growl, and they could not be dragged back.

Thus did it happen that the collision of the advance
guards of the two armies brought on what became

nearly a decisive engagement. It might have been
virtually made so by the Confederates, if that night
they had seized upon Cemetery Hill. Decisive of
all, perhaps—of much, certainly.

Before noon Lee and Meade had sent forward, division
by division, powerful reinforcements to the columns
engaged. Thus the “affair of advance guards”
had become a wrestle of two armies. It was a lovely
country and a lovely day, which looked on that hurly-burly
of fierce passions. The fields were green with
grass, or golden with the ripe grain, over which a gentle
breeze passed. The landscape was broken by
woods; in the west rose blue mountains; the sun
was shining brilliantly through showery clouds; in
the east the heavens were spanned by a magnificent
rainbow.

Such was the scene of Arcadian beauty—golden
fields, lit by the sunshine, with the symbol of peace
bending over all—in which the mighty adversaries
had now grappled. Only, other features of the landscape
at that moment jarred upon the tranquil loveliness
of the spot. The flame and smoke of burning
farm-houses, fired by shell, rose threateningly, and
swept across the fields; the hills rebellowed with the
long roar of the artillery and the crash of musketry
as the opponents closed in.

Warring passions have come to make an inferno of
this paradise. By that rainbow ladder, the Angel of
Peace, you would say, has ascended to heaven, hiding
with her long, white wings, the pitying eyes which
feared to look upon the terrible spectacle.

The opposing lines are drawn up on the two ridges,

facing each other, a mile west of Gettysburg, with
Willoughby Run, a small stream, between them. Hill,
driving Buford, takes the initiative, and throws his
right across the stream. It is speedily assailed, and,
attacking with the greatest gallantry, the Federal
forces which have hurried forward, envelop and capture
Gen. Archer, with several hundred men, and soon
afterwards two regiments of Mississippians meet with
the same fate. Surrounded in a ravine, they are
seized, and triumphantly borne off, with their battle-flags.
Thus, for the moment, fortune seems to smile
upon the blue, and frown upon the gray.

But a great misfortune to the Federal side has come
to balance this success. They have lost their brave
Gen. Reynolds, corps commander. Hurrying forward
to meet Hill, he has fallen, struck in the neck by a
bullet, and is borne to the rear, already dying.

But Federal reinforcements continue to push forward
to the scene of action. The men advance gaily,
exclaiming, “We have come to stay!” It is one of
their own officers, Gen. Doubleday, who is going
before the Committee on the War to utter coolly the
terrible witticism:

“And a very large portion of them never left that
ground!”[4]

Hill's advance force, thus hard pushed, holds its
ground with the old gallantry, shown in so many battles,
but the pressure on it is heavy. Moving more to
the left, Hill concentrates, and offers a determined
front, when all at once a welcome sight greets his eyes.

It is a long line of bayonets, emerging from the northern
woods, and the glimmer of gray uniforms.

This force is Ewell's. He has hurried forward from
the banks of the Susquehannah at the summons of
Lee, pushed straight for Gettysburg, and here he is,
coming into line on Hill's left flank, opposite the Federal
right. He seizes upon Oak Hill, a commanding
eminence then, forms Rodes' division, all that has yet
arrived, for battle, and the thunder of the guns upon
his left tells Hill that the engagement is about to take
a new phase.

The enemy, too, see that. They hurry forward a
fresh corps, and place it on the right of their former
line, and thus envelop Gettysburg on the west and
north, both. Their line is a crescent, with its left half
opposite Hill, its right half opposite Rhodes. Then
the thunders are redoubled.

The battle rages all along the shores of Willoughby
Run, in the fields below Seminary Ridge—the lines
bending to and fro, the hills bellowing. From the
roofs and steeples of Gettysburg affrighted burghers
look on stupefied. By the roads in rear, long strings
of panting Dutchmen are seen wending their way hurriedly
to the rear;—“Stalwart, able-bodied wretches,
in men's garments,” a Northern correspondent of the
New York Commercial Advertiser[5] calls them—the

Arcady of the day before has become a scene of con-flict
bitter beyond expression.

The Federal lines are stretched thus over the great
fields west and north of the town, and seem about to
drive the Confederate forces in their front, when a second
reinforcement appears coming from the north. It
is Early, commanding Ewell's second division, and
Early takes his position upon Rodes' left. Thus the
Confederate line has swept round in a semicircle, adapting
itself to the enemy's—Early on its left, Rodes in
the centre, Hill's troops upon the right.

But between the right and left wings of the Federal
army is a gap. Ewell sees it, and gets ready. At
three o'clock the great blow is delivered.

Rodes, holding Oak Hill, opposite the Federal centre,
hammers at it with his guns; then suddenly he
rushes forward, and breaks the Federal lines asunder,
as an iron wedge splits a tree-trunk. His attack
sweeps away the right of one corps and the left of
another; the Federal army is pierced, and Early and
Gordon, advancing at the same time against their right
wing, the whole line is thrown into confusion, doubled
up, and driven back, wildly flying, into Gettysburg,
through which the disordered regiments stream rapidly,
on their way to Cemetery Hill. The day is lost.

The Federal forces are in full retreat, leaving guns,
flags, and five thousand prisoners in the hands of the
Confederates. Gen. Hancock, sent by Meade, gallops
up only to find that the day is decided—the advance
corps of the Army of the Potomac overwhelmed; worse
than all, that Cemetery Hill, that frowning rampart,
the key-position of the whole, is only held by a single
brigade, supported by the cavalry of Buford.

Has the reader of this page ever visited Gettysburg?
If so, he will comprehend the terrible significance
of this fact. Holding that powerful position, made,
one would say, for artillery—with his right and left
resting firmly on the rugged slopes of Culp's and
Round-Top Hills—Gen. Meade could bid defiance to
his adversary, and drive back any force which came
against him. Losing possession of that range—forced
back from it by the columns of Lee—that was to ruin
Gen. Meade; for Lee once occupying Cemetery Hill,
there was nothing left for the Federal commander but
retreat.

On the evening of the 1st of July, 1863, the fate of
the Confederacy was decided, it would seem, by the
failure of the Confederates to advance and seize the
great fortress thus within their very grasp. Who was
to blame? History must answer the question. What
is certain is, that the hill was not occupied. It was
held by one brigade, some cavalry, and the disordered
remnants of the two defeated corps, only—and no attack
was made.

The moment passed. Hancock strained every nerve.
Meade hurried forward with his main body. The hills
swarmed with troops. On the next morning, Gen. Lee

saw in front of him, on that impregnable fortress, the
glittering bayonets and bristling cannon of nearly the
whole Army of the Potomac.

Let us look now at the ground upon which the final
struggle was about to take place.

Cemetery Ridge, a line of hills running northward
toward the town of Gettysburg, bends eastward in the
vicinity of the place, and terminates in the rude acclivity
of Culp's Hill. There rested Meade's right.

At the southern end of the ridge rises Round-Top
Hill, a rugged and almost perpendicular peak—wild,
frowning, jagged, bristling with woods. Here rested
Meade's left.

Along the crest of the range, between these two
points, were drawn up his infantry and artillery, ready
for battle.

Lee occupied a range nearly parallel with his opponent,
but lower, and commanded by it—Seminary
Ridge. His right, held by Longstreet, was opposite
Round-Top—his left, commanded by Ewell, bent
round, east of Gettysburg, conforming itself to the
enemy's line, and faced Meade's right on Culp's Hill.

A. P. Hill held the centre.

Between the opposing ranges was a little valley traversed
by a stream, and waving with golden wheat, over
which ran shadows as the breeze touched it.

In the midst of this lovely land, smiling in the sunshine,
was now about to take place one of the bloodiest
combats of all history. On one side—the Army of
the Potomac—was courage, discipline, complete equipment,
excellent soldiership in men and officers, and
the consciousness that they were fighting on their own

soil, pressed by the foot of the stranger. On the other
—the Army of Northern Virginia—was a courage
certainly as reckless, a materiel certainly as excellent;
but in addition, a wild elevation and self-confidence,
unparalleled since the days of Napoleon. Fredericksburg
and Chancellorsville had made every private rate
himself as worth three of the enemy; no heart in all
that host doubted the result for an instant; an indescribable
afflatus, like the breath of victory, buoyed up
the army; they went to battle dancing and singing, as
though excited by champagne.

“I never even imagined such courage,” said a Federal
surgeon to Gen. Kemper; “your men seemed to
be drunk with victory, as they charged!”

The two armies were nearly equal in numbers.

“Including all the arms of the service,” says General
Meade, “my strength was a little under one hundred
thousand men.”

Gen. Lee's was sixty-seven thousand bayonets—
about seventy thousand of all arms, in the absence of
Stuart's cavalry. So the morning report declared, on
Gen. Longstreet's authority.

“The Army of Northern Virginia,” said Longstreet,
“was at this time in a condition to undertake anything.”

You were right, General! It was only the impossible
that was beyond their strength.

Such were the relative numbers of the two great
armies, drawn up and facing each other, on the Gettysburg
Heights, July 2, 1863. Each commander was
waiting for the other to attack, and wisely. To be
assailed—that was to enjoy an enormous advantage.

To assail—that was to run a terrible hazard. The
lines advancing over those waving wheat-fields were
doomed to destruction from the fire on the neighboring
heights. Which side would first try that bloody
advance?

It speedily became obvious that Gen. Meade had no
such intention. He was plainly going to await his adversary's
attack. Would Lee make that attack, however?—would
he not rather execute a great flank
movement by the Emmetsburg Road?[6] At four in
the afternoon that question was answered.

All the forenoon, Gen. Lee had remained silent.
Seated on the stump of a tree, near the centre of his
line, he reconnoitered his great adversary—seeking,
apparently, for some opening in his armor. There
seemed absolutely none. Right and left, as far as the
eye could reach, stretched the glittering blue lines,
defended everywhere by cannon, and to charge those
heights, thus crowned with bayonets and artillery,
seemed a hopeless undertaking. An assault aiming to
turn the Federal left, in front of Round-Top, seemed
to promise good results, however, and this assault was
determined on by Lee.

At four in the afternoon all is ready. The attacking
column will be that of Longstreet, holding the
right—Lee's “Old War Horse,” who had breasted so
many shocks of battle, and never failed him yet. You
have only to look at the calm face, half enveloped in
the full beard, to understand that this is an obstinate
fighter. On that face is written the stubborn tenacity

of the bull-dog, who, once closing his teeth in the body
of an enemy, will permit himself to be hewn in pieces
without relaxing his hold.

Longstreet opens, first a heavy fire of artillery.
With that great hammer he strives to loosen the iron
joints of the Federal coat of mail in his front. Gen.
Sickles receives this fire; he has thrown his lines forward
considerably in front of the rest, and it will be
necessary for Longstreet to overpower and drive him
back before scaling the heights of Round-Top.

The hammer continues to bang; Longstreet forms
his column of assault, consisting of Hood and McLaws;
at four in the evening he moves. Then the
thunder of the cannon drops to silence, and the veterans
of the First Corps are hurled against the blue
lines in their front.

From this moment until night descends—and the
eyes of the dying see the “moon rise o'er the battle-plain”—one
continuous crash of musketry and thunder
of artillery rolls through the valley, and leaps back
from the hills, deafening all ears. McLaws, holding
Longstreet's left, and supported by Hill's right division,
attacks the Federal salient, pushes forward into a
peach-orchard in his front, and here, hour after hour,
the battle continues to roar. In spite of Federal reinforcements,
constantly arriving, the Confederates,
slowly but surely, push back the opposing lines.
Brigade after brigade of the Northern troops is swept
away; the Confederates continue to advance; the
great carnival of death is in full blast, and it is the
gray soldiers who ride upon the wave of battle, bearing

them ever nearer to the heights, which, once
attained, will give them victory.

Meanwhile, the assault of Longstreet's right division
has been splendid. It is led by Hood, the great
Texan, unsurpassed for dash and courage by any soldier
in the army. Hood never pauses in his charge,
for he is a man “to count on.” He pushes straight
across the Federal flank, sweeping back from Peach
Orchard toward Round-Top, and penetrates the space
between their left and the peak. At one blow Hood
seems to have decided the great struggle. His Texans
are rushing up the slope. Once rooted on this
rugged peak, they will have Gen. Meade's army in
reverse. Their cannon will enfilade his lines; the
Cemetery height will be untenable; the Federal army
will be dislodged from its grand position, and be
forced to retreat upon Washington, pursued by Lee.

All this Hood sees at a glance; his Texans rush
upon the hill, without skirmishers, in solid mass, every
man running and yelling. The rocky slope is reached;
the Texans dash toward the summit without pause;
when suddenly on the crest they are met, bayonet to
bayonet; beyond are confused groups of shouting and
struggling men, dragging up cannon.

A single officer has saved the Army of the Potomac.
Gen. Warren, riding by, as Hood charges, has seen
the imminent peril—has imperiously ordered the signal-officers,
about to retreat from Round-Top, to continue
waving their flags—has seized a brigade, the
first he can find—has rushed up the slope, directing
cannon to be hauled up by the hands of the men; and
when Hood's troops reach the crest, it is to find themselves

met, breast to breast, by a brigade of infantry,
who attack them, bayonet to bayonet, with clubbed
muskets, with rocks, howling, yelling, dying, but dragging
with them as they fall the foes with whom they
have grappled.

In half an hour this bloody combat has ended. The
head of Hood's column is hurled from the peak into
the ravine—the enemy are massed upon the summit—
over the dead bodies, thick strewn on the rocky crest,
and the wounded, weltering in blood, rolls the hoarse
and menacing thunder of the artillery, dragged thither
at last, and now firing upon the gray soldiers beneath.

It was Vincent's brigade which did this work. The
names of his men should be preserved. They saved
the day at Gettysburg. Hear Gen. Meade:

“At the same time that they threw these immense
masses against Gen. Sickles, a heavy column was
thrown upon the Round-Top Mountain, which was the
key point of my whole position. If they had succeeded
in occupying that, it would have prevented me from
holding any of the ground which I subsequently held
to the last.”

That is to say, that the question whether Gen.
Meade was to retreat or not, was decided in the
thirty minutes' fight on the crest of Round-Top Hill.

Strange battle! The Federal forces driven on the
first day's fight; but Cemetery Hill not occupied.
Driven again in the second day's fight; but Round-Top
Hill not secured. Fate seemed to fight against
the South. There is one title for the battle of Gettysburg
which should live in history—“The Great
Graze!”

At nightfall Longstreet was retreating sullenly. He
had fought with his well-known obstinacy; had
clutched victory, it seemed, twice or thrice; but,
promptly and rapidly reinforced at every point by
brigades, divisions, corps, the Federal lines had stubbornly
returned to the contest, worn out their opponents
by sheer hard fighting: then they had advanced
in turn, and forced the Confederates back beyond the
peach orchard and wheat field. When night descended,
the lines faced each other there—nothing had
been gained. The moon rising slowly over the battle-field,
looked down upon a thousand corpses—that was
all.

Lee's first assault upon the enemy's position has thus
failed; but he does not despair. He will try another.
While Longstreet has attacked the enemy's left, Ewell
has assailed their extreme right; has penetrated their
line, occupied their breastworks, and at nightfall
seems rooted firmly there; but at dawn he has been
attacked in turn, driven from his position, and now, on
this morning of the 3rd, is again in the plain, with all
the labor to go over again.

General Lee, from his position on Seminary Ridge,
at his centre, reconnoitres the Federal position through
his field glass. There is no change in it, except that
Gen. Meade has straightened his line, has his flanks
thoroughly protected, and is not to be surprised on his
right or his left.

One of two things must be done by Lee. He must
retire, or attack the Federal centre. Which course
will he pursue? He looks at his old army, cool, resolute,
gay, believing in itself and in him, He resolves

to put all upon the die, and orders preparations to be
made for a final assault.

We approach now one of those grand dramatic spectacles
which stand out, bold, prominent, and bloody, on
the great canvas of the world's wars. Gettysburg is
to see a last charge—the glare is to deepen, the
tragedy attain its utmost intensity in the rush of the
Virginians upon Cemetery Hill.

For this hard work, Pickett's division of Virginia
troops, which has just arrived, fresh from the rear, has
been selected by Lee. He knows of what metal they
are, and that he can depend upon them.

The great attack once determined upon, the arrangement
of the troops is rapidly made. Pickett, with his
Virginians, will make the assault, his flanks covered
and supported by Wilcox and Pettigrew—Longstreet
will guard their right against an attack from the force
in front of him. If the Virginians burst through and
seize the Cemetery heights, the whole centre of the
army will rush into that gap; Meade's wings will be
torn asunder; then his fate will be decided.

At one o'clock, Lee commences the execution of his
plan. He has crowned Seminary Ridge, along the
whole front of Longstreet and Hill, with artillery, and
at one in the day, one hundred and forty-five pieces of
cannon open their grim mouths, sending their hoarse
roar across the valley. Eighty pieces reply to them,
and for two hours these two hundred and twenty-five
cannon tear the air with their harsh thunder, reverberating
ominously in the gorges of the hills, and hurled
back in crash after crash, from the rocky slopes of the
two ridges. Searching for a word to describe this

artillery fire, that cool and unexcitable soldier, Gen.
Hancock, could find nothing but “terrific.”

“Their artillery fire,” he says, “was most terrific.
.... It was the most terrific cannonade I ever
witnessed, and the most prolonged..... It was
a most terrific and appalling cannonade—one, possibly,
hardly ever paralleled.”

For nearly, or quite two hours, Lee continues this
“terrific” fire. With this hammer of the Titans he
aims to so batter the Federal centre, breaking down its
strength, that when his sword's point is thrust forward,
it will pierce every obstacle and drink blood. So the
gigantic sledge hammers bang away without ceasing,
until nearly three o'clock. Then the Federal fire slackens,
appears to be silenced, and Lee in turn ceases his
own. The moment has come.

The Virginians of Pickett form in double line, just
in the edge of the wood on Seminary Ridge—then
they are seen to move. They advance into the valley,
supported by Pettigrew on the left, and Wilcox ready
to follow on the right. So the division goes into that
Valley of Death, advancing in face of the enemy's
gun's at “common time,” as the troops of Ney moved
under the Russian artillery, on the banks of the Dnieper.

The two armies look on, holding their breath. It is
a magnificent spectacle. Old soldiers, hardened in the
fire of battle, flush, and lean forward with fiery eyes.
Suddenly the Federal artillery opens all its thunders,
and the ranks are swept from end to end by round shot,
shell, and canister. Bloody gaps are seen, but the men
close up; the line advances slowly, as before. The fire

redoubles; all the demons of hell seem howling, roaring,
yelling, screaming, gibbering in one great witch's
sabbat. Through the attacking column tears a storm
of iron, before which men fall in heaps, mangled,
bleeding, their bodies torn to pieces, their dying hands
clutching the grass. The survivors close up the ranks
and go on steadily.

Virginia is not poor and bare, as some suppose her.
She is rich beyond royal or imperial dreams—for she
has that charge.

At three hundred yards from the slope, the real conflict
bursts forth. There the thunder of the artillery
is succeeded by the crash of musketry. From behind
their stone breastwork the Federal infantry rise and
pour a sudden and staggering fire into the assailants.
Before that fire the troops of Pettigrew melt away. It
sweeps them as dry leaves are swept by the wind.
Where a moment before was a line of infantry, is now
a mass of fugitives, flying wildly before the hurricane
—the brave Pettigrew falling as he waves his sword
and attempts to rally them.

The Virginians have lost the flower of their forces,
but the survivors continue to advance. In face of the
concentrated fire of the infantry forming the Federal
centre, they ascend the slope, rush headlong at the
breastworks; storm them; strike their bayonets into
the flying Federals; and a wild cheer rises, making the
blood leap in the veins of a hundred thousand men.

They are torn to pieces, but they have carried the
works. Alas! it is only the first line. Beyond, other
earthworks frown; in their faces are thrust the muzzles

of muskets which spout flame—the new line, too,
must be carried, and they dash at it.

Then is seen a spectacle which will long be remembered—Pickett's
little remnant charging the whole
Federal army. They charge, and are nearly annihilated.
Every step death meets them. Then the enemy
close in on the flanks of the little band—no supporters
are near—they fight bayonet to bayonet, and die.

When the torn and bleeding remnant fall back from
the fatal hill, pursued by yells, shouts, musket balls,
cannon shot, they present a spectacle which would be
piteous if it were not sublime. Of the three brigades,
a few scattered battalions only return. Where are the
commanders? The brave Garnett killed; the gallant
Armistead mortally wounded as he leaped his horse
over the breastworks; the fiery Kemper lying maimed
for life, under the canister whirling over him. Fourteen
field officers out of fifteen are stretched dead and
dying on the field. Of the men, three-fourths are dead
or prisoners.

The battle of Gettysburg is decided.

All the following day, Gen. Lee remained in position,
awaiting an assault.

“I should have liked nothing better than to have
been attacked,” said Longstreet.

“My opinion is now,” said Gen. Meade, “that Gen.
Lee evacuated that position not from the fear that he
would be dislodged from it by any active operations
on my part, but that he was fearful that a force would
be sent to Harper's Ferry to cut off his communications.....
That was what caused him to retire.”

When asked the question, “Did you discover, after
the battle of Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization
in Lee's army?” Gen. Meade replied, “No, sir.
I saw nothing of that kind.”[7]

There was none; and Gen. Meade knew it. His
great adversary was at bay, and care was taken not to
press him too closely as he retired. On the 14th, Lee
had recrossed the Potomac into Virginia, and the campaign
was ended.

Gettysburg was the Waterloo—Cemetery Hill the
Mont St. Jean—of the war.

The Virginians who charged there had the right to
say,—

“The Old Guard dies—it does not surrender!”

Not without good reason is the anniversary of this
great battle celebrated at the North with addresses and
rejoicings—with crowds, and music, and congratulations.
The American Waterloo is worth making that
noise over; and the monument proposed there, is a
natural conception.

What will that monument be? A lion, as at Waterloo?

Take care, Messieurs! The world will say it is Lee!