The Illustrated Gettysburg Reader: An Eyewitness History of the Civil War's Greatest Battle

by Rod Gragg

  “If you are coming at all, come at once, or I cannot give you proper support, but the enemy’s fire has not slackened at all. At least eighteen guns are still firing from the cemetery itself.”

  ALEXANDER.

  Pickett said, “General, shall I advance?” The effort to speak the order failed, and I could only indicate it by an affirmative bow. He accepted the duty with seeming confidence of success, leaped on his horse, and rode gayly [sic] to his command. I mounted and spurred for Alexander’s post. He reported that the batteries he had reserved for the charge with the infantry had been spirited away by General Lee’s chief of artillery; that the ammunition of the batteries of position was so reduced that he could not use them in proper support of the infantry. He was ordered to stop the march at once and fill up his ammunition-chests. But, alas! there was no more ammunition to be had.

  The order was imperative. The Confederate commander had fixed his heart upon the work. Just then a number of the enemy’s batteries hitched up and hauled off, which gave a glimpse of unexpected hope. Encouraging messages were sent for the columns to hurry on,—and they were then on elastic springing step. General Pickett, a graceful horseman, sat lightly in the saddle, his brown locks flowing quite over his shoulders. Pettigrew’s division spread their steps and quickly rectified the alignment, and the grand march moved bravely on. General Trimble mounted, adjusting his seat and reins as if setting out on a pleasant afternoon ride. When aligned to their places, a solid march was made down the slope and past our batteries of position. . . .9

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Up, Men, and to Your Posts!”

  As the Confederate bombardment rained shells on the center of the Federal line, Major General Winfield S. Hancock mounted his horse and rode back and forth along his line, trailed by an orderly bearing the corps flag. His troops cheered wildly and appeared heartened by the demonstration, which was Hancock’s intent. When urged to dismount—a corps commander should not risk his life, he was told—he replied: “There are times when a corps commander’s life does not count.” Soon, his life—and the lives of his troops—would be in even greater jeopardy. The target of the impending Confederate assault—the center of the Federal line on Cemetery Ridge—was defended by Hancock and the soldiers of his Second Corps.

  Dead center was a sector of the line defended by Brigadier General John Gibbon’s division. To Gibbon’s right was Brigadier General Alexander Hays’s division and to his left Brigadier General John C. Caldwell’s division. Waiting in support just to the rear was a detachment of troops from Major General Abner Doubleday’s First Corps division. In total, the troops under Hancock’s command at the center of the line numbered fewer than 6,000—facing Lee’s advancing battle line of approximately 13,000.

  To steady his troops, General Winfield S. Hancock braved the Confederate bombardment on horseback, as recorded by artist Alfred Waud in this battlefield sketch. “There are times,” stated Hancock, “when a corps commander’s life does not count.”

  Library of Congress

  Throughout the bombardment, Hancock, Gibbon, and the other commanders at the center of the line studied the Confederate positions in the distance, but the smoke obscured their vision. Then the Federal artillery ceased fire, and afterward, the Confederate bombardment slackened and stopped. As the smoke drifted away, General Gibbon stared at the faraway tree line to the west and saw movement: it was a sight he would always remember: “The enemy in a long grey line was marching towards us over the rolling ground in our front,” he would recall, “their flags fluttering in the air and serving as guides to their line of battle.”1

  “Up, Men, and to Your Posts!”

  The Pickett-Pettigrew Charge Goes Forward

  Mounted on a handsome dark warhorse named “Old Black,” Major General George Edward Pickett galloped up to the troops of his division. They were sprawled near the edge of the woods behind the Confederate artillery, and were awaiting orders. At thirty-eight, Pickett was given to fancy uniforms and perfumed locks, which he wore shoulder-length in ringlets. Raised in the antebellum Virginia aristocracy, he waved away his family’s attempts to make him into a lawyer and instead gained admittance to West Point. There, he amassed scores of demerits, mainly for trivial offenses such as trying to trip a line of cadets marching to supper, and graduated last in his class. He demonstrated courage in combat in the Mexican War, and was sobered by the deaths of his first two wives and a newborn child while posted to the American West in the 1850s. At a military outpost on the coast of Washington Territory near Canada, he triumphed over British naval forces in a border dispute over a pig. In Confederate service he quickly rose from colonel to major general, leading troops in battle during the Seven Days Battles, where he was seriously wounded.

  Despite his reputation as a dandy, Pickett was viewed as an aggressive combat officer, and after months of recovering from his wound, he was eager for battle at Gettysburg. Riding up to his troops on the afternoon of July 3, drawn sword in hand, he shouted, “Up, men, and to your posts! Don’t forget today that you are from Old Virginia!” The effect of his words was “electrical,” said one officer, as the soldiers sprang to their feet, formed their lines, and advanced. They marched forward under billowing national colors and battleflags, passing General Longstreet, who exchanged salutes with Pickett, and moved through the now-silent line of Confederate artillery, heading resolutely toward the distant enemy line on Cemetery Ridge. Pickett would advance only midway, stopping with his staff somewhere near the Emmitsburg Road, at or near a farm owned by Nicholas Cordori. From there, in accordance with accepted military practice, he would direct his division from the rear.

  Garnett’s Brigade was on the left, Kemper’s Brigade was on the right, and Armistead’s Brigade followed Garnett’s—with Wilcox’s Brigade advancing to the right and the rear of Armistead’s. Down the field to the left, General Pettigrew’s division was also preparing to move forward. When the assault began, the wild, high-pitched “Rebel Yell” echoed across the fields between the opposing lines. Colonel Alexander’s artillery ceased fire as Pickett’s men moved through the line of guns, then, when the Southerners were safely ahead, the guns reopened a cover fire for as long as their ammunition would last. In their front lay a sprawling, open range of fields and fences—three-quarters of a mile wide in places—which ended at the Emmitsburg Road. Beyond the road sprawled more fields, which sloped upward to the stone wall atop Cemetery Ridge where Federal troops watched and waited. At the approximate center of the Federal line on Cemetery Ridge was a clump of leafy trees—“the copse of trees,” some called it—the target of the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge. On that point all the troops planned to converge, Pickett’s division maneuvering toward it from the right and Pettigrew’s division from the left.

  Major General George Pickett did not command Lee’s July 3 grand assault against the center of the Federal line—General Longstreet did—but the attack would become known to generations of Americans as “Pickett’s Charge.”

  Library of Congress

  As the mile-wide formation of Southern troops advanced—some 13,000 strong—the ranks of Federal soldiers atop Cemetery Ridge watched with a mixture of dread and awe. A mild westerly breeze dispersed the smoke of the Confederate artillery barrage, and the advancing mass of men in gray and butternut moved steadily forward in the sunlight. “Here they come!” soldiers began shouting. “They are coming!” Even as an enemy, a New Jersey private could not help but admit it was “the grandest sight” he had ever seen. “Their lines looking to be as straight as a line could be,” he would recall, “their bayonets glistening in the sun, from right to left as far as the eye could see. . . .” A Connecticut soldier agreed, reporting that the distant Confederate line advanced “like a victorious giant, confident of power and victory.”

  Soon the straight, neat lines—marked by scattered red and blue “Starry Cross” battle-flags—began to come under a torrent of Federal artillery fire from the many cannon expertly placed by General
Hunt, the Federal chief of artillery. Due to his decision to cut short the Federal artillery barrage, Hunt’s guns had ample ammunition, both long-range and close-up—solid shot, grapeshot, explosive shell, case shot, and canister. Case shot, when exploded, would spray deadly marble-sized lead balls in all directions. Explosive shell would break up into killer iron fragments when exploded. Solid shot would plow through rank after rank of marching troops. Grapeshot—large iron balls packed in a cluster like grapes—and canister—tin cans packed with lead balls—were used at close range to transform cannon into monster shotguns.

  Twenty-five years later, a New York officer—Captain Winfield Scott—would record how the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge appeared to the Federal troops atop Cemetery Ridge—before the “magnificent line of battle” was raked by searing Federal fire.

  From our position we could overlook the whole valley between the two lines. . . . All at once, over their works and through the bushes that skirted them, came a heavy skirmish line. The skirmishers were about two paces apart, covering about three quarters of a mile of our front. Behind them about 20 rods came another heavy skirmish line. Behind them, about the same distance, came out the first line of battle. As they first emerged, had they continued straight to the front, their charge would have been centered upon the troops to our left.

  It was a magnificent line of battle, over three-quarters of a mile long. The men carried their guns, with bayonets fixed, at right shoulder. The regimental flags and guidons were plainly visible along the whole line. The guns and bayonets in the sunlight shone like silver. The whole line of battle looked like a stream or river of silver moving towards us. Behind this came the regimental officers; while behind them, mounted and followed by their aids, came the brigade and division commanders, with their orderlies carrying their guidons and headquarters flags.

  * * *

  “The Line of Battle Looked like a Stream or River of Silver Moving towards Us”

  * * *

  Then came the second line of infantry, in the same form and order as the first, followed by their commanders on horses. Behind this still, in heavy massed columns on the center and wings, were the supports and reserves. Two streaming lines of silver led off, decorated and enlivened by their battle flags. Their order was magnificent. The movement of such a force over such a field, in such perfect order, to such a destiny, was grand beyond expression. After moving forward about a quarter of a mile, a change was made in the direction of the line. A left half wheel was executed and they came straight for us, so that their left would just strike the right of our brigade....

  The whole line, to us who were in front, seemed straight as an arrow—the whole force like a perfect and magnificent parade. My own heart was thrilled at the sight. I was so absorbed with the beauty and grandeur of the scene that I became oblivious to the shells that were bursting about us. This passage of scripture came to my mind, and I repeated it aloud: “Fair as the moon, bright as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.”

  * * *

  “The Shock to Heart and Nerve Was Awful”

  * * *

  Shortly their skirmishers came within range. Ours reserved their fire until the enemy came close to them. Our fire was then so accurate and severe, that their first line was held in check and could not force ours back. Their second line of skirmishers re-enforced the first, and ours then began to yield, falling back slowly. Our batteries from Cemetery Hill fired over our heads and threw shells, which went through the lines, bursting among them. Gaps were opened and quickly closed again. The shells kept flying, gaps opened and closed, and the silver lines in perfect order came on. Skirmishers fired sharply; the horsemen galloped to and fro behind the lines as the goal was approached. The half-wheel of the enemy exposed their flank to the fire of McGilvray’s and Hazlitt’s guns from near Round Top. But there was no flinching. Gaps opened and closed, but the lines came forward.

  As the lines neared us, the enemy’s batteries slackened. Our batteries in the front line opened with grape and canister. Greater gaps were opened, and quickly closed, and still on in sublime order came the silver lines. It was then cannon, and gaps, and closing of ranks, and on, on, on, in magnificent and unflinching valor, came the lines of silvery steel.... The commands and the tramp of the on-coming hosts could now be heard. There was a moment’s quiet of skirmishers and musketry. Orders of the enemy, a little clearer and sharper, ran out upon the air. Another crash of canister—other and terrifying gaps, and still heroic closing of ranks. Our first line by the stone wall was held by troops of Webb’s Brigade. They clutched their muskets and fixed their bayonets. The order was given to hold their fire until the enemy was close upon them.

  From the tree line visible in the distance, 13,000 Confederate troops emerged to launch the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge. The Southern bayonets were “glistening in the sun,” said a Northern soldier, “as far as the eye could see…”

  Adams County Historical Society

  Men peered through the crevices of the fence with anxious but determined looks. The conflict of thought, and purpose, and will was now upon both armies. Moments seemed ages. The shock to heart and nerve was awful. The enemy, as if anticipating the deadly reception, brought down their gleaming muskets from the shoulder to charge bayonets. Our line was neared. One more crash of grape and canister, another fearful rending of ranks, another determined closing, and on they came. . . .2

  “Round Shots Tore through Their Ranks”

  The Troops of Pickett’s Division Are Swept by a Storm of Fire

  Forty-five-year-old Brigadier General Richard B. Garnett made the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge on horseback. A West Pointer who had fought Indians in Florida and in the West before the war, Garnett was handsome, affable, and fun-loving—his favorite tune was “Willie Brewed a Peck of Malt.” Before the charge, he had been kicked by a horse but had climbed out of an army ambulance to lead his brigade into battle. Despite the sultry heat of the day, Garnett—“Dick” to his friends—was so ill that he wore a heavy overcoat. Seeing Garnett on horseback and knowing he likely intended to ride all the way to the enemy line, General Pickett reportedly gave him a good-natured but serious warning: “Dick, old fellow . . . you are going to catch hell.” Garnett dismissed the advice.

  An experienced, capable officer, Garnett had risen in the Confederate ranks from major to brigadier general in less than six months. When General “Stonewall” Jackson had been promoted to a higher command, it was Garnett who was selected to command Jackson’s famed Stonewall Brigade. However, at the Battle of Kernstown in March of 1862, Garnett had ordered his troops to withdraw without Jackson’s permission, and Jackson subsequently had him relieved from command. Lee had given him a brigade command in Pickett’s division, but Garnett remained determined to clear his name. “He was therefore anxious to expose himself,” observed a fellow officer.

  Expose himself he did: on horseback Garnett made an obvious target as the five regiments of his brigade advanced on the front left of Pickett’s division. They and the other Confederate troops in the assault were heading toward the slope that led to the clump of trees and the center of the Federal line. He would never return. When last seen, Garnett, still mounted, was waving his hat and cheering on his troops—until he disappeared in a blast of swirling white smoke. His wounded horse came galloping back, drenched in blood, but “Dick” Garnett was never found.

  Decades later, Captain Henry T. Owen, a company commander in the 18th Virginia Infantry, would describe the bloody route followed by Garnett and his men.

  Then came the command in a strong, clear voice: “Forward! Guide center! March!” and the column, with a front of more than half a mile, moved grandly up the slope. Meade’s guns opened upon the column as it appeared above the crest of the ridge, but it neither paused nor faltered. Round shot, bounding along the plain, tore through their ranks and ricochetted [sic] around them; shells exploded incessantly in blinding, dazzling flashes before them, behind them, overhead and among them. Frightful
gaps were made from center to flank, yet on swept the column, and as it advanced the men steadily closed up the wide rents made along the line in a hundred places at every discharge of the murderous batteries in front. A long line of skirmishers, prostrate in the tall grass, firing at the column since it came within view, rose up within fifty yards, fired a volley into its front, then trotted on before it, turning and firing back as fast as they could reload.

  The column moved on at a quick step with shouldered arms, and the fire of the skirmish line was not returned. Half way over the field an order ran down the line, “Left oblique,” which was promptly obeyed, and the direction is changed forty-five degrees from the front to the left. Men looking away, far off toward the left flank, saw that the supporting columns there were crumbling and melting rapidly away.... The command now came along the line, “Front, forward!” and the column resumed its direction straight down upon the center of the enemy’s position.... The destruction of life in the ranks of that advancing host was fearful beyond precedent, officers going down by dozens and the men by scores and fifties....

  Still sore from a horse’s kick, Confederate General Richard Garnett chose to make the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge on horseback. “Dick, old fellow…,” General Pickett warned him, “you are going to catch hell.”

  Library of Congress