Gettysburg: The Crossroads Town

by Tim Black

  In the distance Minerva could see the Union troops amassed along a ridge line. “Is that the Union defense line, Mr. Greene?”

  “Yes, that’s Cemetery Ridge. You see that copse of trees? That little clump?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that is the center of the Union lines and it will be where Robert E. Lee sends fourteen thousand soldiers this afternoon. They will aim for that. Notice there is a stone wall that juts out at an angle?”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “That will be forever known as Bloody Angle, or the Angle. The Confederates will reach that, but they will be forced back,” Mr. Greene explained.

  “Hey!” came a voice from below. “Who’s up there? State your name and your business!”

  “Uh oh,” said Mr. Greene. “We might have a little trouble, Minerva.”

  Minerva noticed the point of the bayonet before she noticed the soldier who followed the bayonet up the cupola stairs.

  “I only left my post for a moment to answer nature,” said a curly-headed, brown-haired boy whose hat was having a hard time keeping the hair beneath it. The teenager didn’t seem a day over sixteen to Minerva.

  “My niece and I were just admiring the view, private,” Mr. Greene explained to the young Confederate soldier.”

  “Ain’t supposed to be no civilians up here,” the soldier replied.

  “We didn’t know that, private. There was no one here.”

  “Well, you two can’t stay here. My captain says so,” he added.

  “We understand. If you will let us pass, we will go down now.”

  The soldier seemed perplexed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, Minerva realized.

  “Thank you ever so much, young man.” Minerva smiled her best southern belle smile. “I am so glad to see a good Christian man. My name is Minerva,” she said, offering her hand to the soldier for him to take or kiss. The boy’s manners kicked in.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but you do understand I have to do my duty,” he apologized.

  “Why yes, sir. You wouldn’t be much good as a soldier if you didn’t do your duty, now would you?” Minerva said, adding a smile to her performance.

  The smile seemed to unnerve him.

  “Would you be kind enough, sir, to escort my uncle and me down the stairs?” Minerva asked sweetly.

  Mr. Greene grinned in astonishment. Minerva was channeling Vivien Leigh’s performance as Scarlett O’ Hara in the movie version of Gone with the Wind. She only needed to add “fiddly dee,” to her act.

  “Why, you are ever so strong,” Minerva said as the soldier took her arm to lead her down the steps from the cupola.

  A grinning Mr. Greene managed to hobble after the young couple and made it safely down the stairs as well.

  “Perhaps we should return to the hotel,” the teacher said to Minerva when they were away from the Confederate cupola sentry and had descended to the ground floor of the building. “I have a feeling Mr. Foote will be back again before the charge begins.”

  “Perhaps we should return,” Minerva agreed.

  “I applaud you on your performance, Minerva.”

  Minerva smiled with satisfaction.

  Chapter 10

  Mrs. Weikert was not happy that Bette chose to join Victor in lieu of remaining on the farm, but having read Tillie Pierce’s booklet several times, Bette remembered that Tillie wrote that on the 3rd of July the Weikert family was evacuated from the farm due to the errant Confederate artillery fire, which preceded Pickett’s Charge. She concluded she would probably be safer on Big Round Top with Victor than at the Weikerts’ farm. No one, Bruce Catton assured her, would be firing on Big Round Top during Pickett’s Charge.

  They climbed undetected up the eastern slope of Big Round Top to its summit, retracing the steps they had taken the day before. Victor led Bette to yesterday’s boulder-strewn crow’s nest and they set up camp, even going so far as to lay out a Union blue picnic blanket that Mrs. Weikert had provided. Again, the matriarch of the Weikert clan supplied Victor and Bette with food, water and the spyglass. Bruce Catton was merrily floating overhead watching the preparation of the artillerymen on Little Round Top, as well as the machinations of the Confederates to the west along the wood line that stretched the length of Seminary Ridge.

  “It is really hot and humid today, Victor,” Bette said. “Most of the clouds have lifted and the sun is going to bake us,” she added.

  “We have shade, among the boulders and the trees, Bette. The sun won’t bake us as bad as it will the soldiers. Professor Michael Jacobs of Pennsylvania College kept a record of the weather during the battle. We’ll have a high of 87 degrees today,” he said, adding, “with a few cumulostratus clouds.”

  “You even know the weather report?” an impressed Bette asked.

  “Well, it is important, and I read the report Professor Jacobs from Pennsylvania College kept about the weather during the battle. He was very thorough. He took temperatures three times per day. And yes, it is humid today. The Confederates are going to have to march about a mile over open ground in the hot sunlight. Climb over fences and so forth. All while under fire. That’s especially fatiguing when someone is trying to kill you at the same time.”

  “The Rebels are beginning to gather in mass,” Catton called to the students from overtop their position.

  Victor, extended the tube on his spyglass and peered at Little Round Top. “What are those odd-looking cannons, Mr. Catton?” he asked.

  The ghost turned his head and then floated over to Little Round Top. He returned with an answer. “Those are six ten-pound Parrott Rifles, Victor. The latest thing…well for 1863 anyway. They were accurate, rifled guns, named for the man from West Point, New York, who designed the weapons.”

  “Anything special about them, Mr. Catton?”

  “Parrott Rifles were celebrated for their accuracy at over two thousand yards, which is more than a mile. Unfortunately, they had a reputation for blowing up. You see, children, an artillery man faced death not only from his enemy but from his own weapon. Many a dedicated soldier was killed or maimed when one of the guns exploded and sent shrapnel hither and thither.”

  “Hither and thither?” Victor asked.

  Bette intervened. “Here and there,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “Look over at Seminary Ridge. Do you notice anything happening in the woods on the ridge?” Catton asked.

  “It appears the Confederates are collecting cannons,” Victor said, after looking through the glass. “I remember reading Stephen W. Sears’ account of the line of cannons and he wrote that ‘nothing remotely like it had been seen in the war and with their crews hidden from sight the guns stood silent in their long ranks like deadly, solitary sentinels.’ You can see the bronze Napoleon cannons glistening in the sunlight. The Confederate commander of artillery was a man named Porter Alexander, wasn’t it, Mr. Catton?”

  “Very good, Victor. Colonel Porter Alexander to be precise. Unfortunately, he was outfoxed by his Union counterpart, who feigned defeat and stopped firing. You see, not only Shelby and I, but most historians disagree on four things about Pickett’s Charge, or as Shelby likes to call it, the Trimble-Pickett-Pettigrew Charge. First, how many Confederate cannons fired in the bombardment before the charge? Second, how long did the Rebel cannons fire? The estimates vary between one hundred forty and one hundred sixty-three. And we can’t see all of the artillery pieces from our vantage point. Third, and this is the one historical disagreement that Shelby and I argue most heatedly about—how many men marched in the attack? Anywhere from ten thousand to fifteen thousand, historians say. I conclude it is about twelve thousand and Shelby claims it is fourteen thousand men. We plan to settle the argument today.”

  “I hope so,” Victor interrupted. “Since that’s why you took us to July 1863 instead of November, Mr. Catton.”

  “Ah yes, Victor… And the fourth and last thing, is how far did the Confederates advance? You see Pettigrew’s men marc
hed farther than Pickett’s boys, because the Rebels weren’t totally parallel with Cemetery Ridge and Pettigrew was on the left flank of the group. Look, here come the artillerymen out of the wood line!”

  Mr. Catton was like a little boy about to open the largest Christmas present under the tree. In some ways, Victor was pleased that a soul could be happy in the afterlife, for he hoped that when he died and went to heaven it wouldn’t be all harps and wings and choir rehearsals. Messrs. Catton and Foote made death seem like fun. But he was in no hurry to share their “fun.”

  Sure enough, as Bruce Catton cheered them on, the Confederates began to take their positions by their cannons in preparation for the bombardment of Cemetery Ridge.

  “It’s show time!” Bruce Catton shouted.

  1:07 p.m. according to Professor Jacobs’ meticulous calculations, 1:07 p.m. on the afternoon of July 3rd, 1863. By 4 p.m. the Confederates’ chance to win the Civil War would be gone with the wind, to borrow Margaret Mitchell’s immortal phrase.

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Catton?” Bette asked. “Show time?”

  “Look to your right, girl, can you see the Union soldiers huddling behind the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that small clump of trees?”

  “Yes,” Bette said.

  “Well the cannons are about to open fire on that position. The idea was to soften up the Union defenses, but what happened, Victor Bridges, I’m sure you know?”

  “The Confederates overshot their target. Most of the shells fell harmlessly behind the Union line on Cemetery Ridge. Some of them even got close to the Weikert farm.”

  “Yes,” Bruce Catton said. “I know that you read Tillie Pierce’s account, Bette. Well, Tillie and the Weikerts will soon be leaving the farm for a safer haven because of the overshooting. So you were wise to come with us.”

  Bette nodded agreement.

  Victor estimated that the Confederates had well over one hundred cannons. But Mr. Catton was right. The undulation in the terrain prevented Victor from obtaining a precise accounting of the artillery pieces.

  The cannonade began with one cannon firing after another at the Union lines on Cemetery Ridge. The roar of the artillery was deafening and Victor and Bette watched silently as the Confederate barrage began. The Rebel cannons were met with return fire from Union artillery, including the Parrott Rifles on Little Round Top. Victor saw a Confederate cannon suffer a direct hit from a Federal shell, and the men working a battery on Little Round Top rose as one and appeared to be cheering even though Victor could not hear them above the din of battle.

  More Parrott Rifles began to fire at the Confederate batteries, joining a chorus of cannons from Cemetery Ridge and Culp’s Hill. One of the guns registered a direct hit and flipped a bronze Confederate Napoleon cannon into the air like a fairytale giant tossing a broken toy. Another shell silenced a second weapon, killing or maiming all of its artillerymen. Victor witnessed several more hits from the Parrott Rifles, and had not witnessed even one of the guns explode. At least so far, he thought.

  Back and forth the monotonous volleys continued for more than an hour. Victor estimated that the Confederate bombardment consumed over an hour and a half. He wished he had had a cell phone to record the cannonade. Wouldn’t that be something to put on YouTube? he thought, and then realized that was impossible. Something like that and the council of dead historians would banish their trips to the past forever.

  Meanwhile, the Union gunners ceased firing.

  “It’s a ploy. I believe in baseball they refer to it as a ‘deke’ to fake out one’s opponent. As when a first baseman pretends that a throw is not coming to him and the runner is surprised when the ball arrives in the first baseman’s mitt. I believe ‘deke’ is slang for decoy?”

  “I understand ‘deke’,” Mr. Catton. Yes, it is slang for decoy. But in what sense is deke used here?”

  “Well, Victor,” Catton began his explanation. “The Union artillery commander is pretending that the Confederates have taken out the Union artillery, but what he is really doing is lulling the Confederates to feel confident of their attack…and then, boom, he opens up on the Confederate infantry caught out in the open. “

  “And Colonel Porter bought the trick?” Victor asked.

  “He sure did,” Catton said. “To his everlasting chagrin. Yes, the Confederate guns did inflict Federal casualties, but most of the cannons overshot Cemetery Ridge and the shells killed horses and splintered trees. Meade’s headquarters was shelled, but Meade and his staff had fled. The Confederates lost more men in the bombardment than the Federals as the Union guns were more accurate. Now, Victor and Bette, fix your eyes on the trees on Seminary Ridge.”

  The cannons stilled and an eerie pall of silence overcame the battlefield as thousands of Confederates milled about the trees and began assembling into ranks. A piercing voice from Little Round Top broke the quiet.

  “Sweet God in heaven!” shouted one of the artillerymen. “Look at all the damn Rebels! Are they figuring to charge?”

  “I’d say they are,” another man shouted back. “Crazy bastards!”

  Through the tree line advanced a horde of Confederate infantry, a line of soldiers that stretched along Seminary Ridge for over a mile. File after file. Rank after rank. The Rebels slowly, meticulously, marched toward the Army of the Potomac on Cemetery Ridge. It was a beautiful sight, Victor thought. He estimated ten thousand or more men walking in unison, their bayonets glistening in the sun. And then, suddenly, the pageantry of the Confederate parade-ground precision was ruined by the Union cannons from Cemetery Ridge when they opened fire on the Confederate host, ripping holes in the Rebel lines.

  Victor was horrified at the slaughter, and yet mesmerized as the disciplined Rebels dressed their line, filling in the gaps in the ranks that were created by the deadly Union canister and enfilade fire.

  Men marched shoulder to shoulder across a pasture of perdition. The Confederates had nearly a mile of open ground to cross from Seminary Ridge to Cemetery Ridge, but they moved slowly, not rushing in the least, and as a result, sustaining hundreds of casualties. Such beautifully choreographed madness, Victor thought.

  On Little Round Top, the order came to fire on the advancing columns of the Confederates, and the Parrott Rifles opened up with deadly accuracy. Such a shame, Victor thought, for the Confederates looked so gloriously beautiful with their regimental flags raised high, the bright sunlight glinting off their swords and bayonets. Their movements were so graceful, like a battlefield ballet, a ballet suddenly ruined by bullets. Then the true carnage began. It began at the double line of fences along Emmitsburg Road, an obstacle for the soldiers to overcome, an obstruction that stalled their advance. As the center of the Confederate line reached the fences strung along Emmitsburg Road, scores of soldiers were killed or wounded crossing the fences. Weighed down by their equipment, the Rebels couldn’t leap over the fences, and instead had to awkwardly climb the barrier. And as they climbed they became easy targets for the Federal gunners who cut them down. Men fell dead or wounded around and over the fences.

  Bruce Catton, watching the battle intently, said to the students, “The fences along the Emmitsburg Road really slowed them up. I think it showed poor planning that the Rebels hadn’t aimed their cannons at the fences, for they were an impediment to the infantry’s advance. Why the Confederates didn’t see that puzzles me.”

  One of the Parrott Rifles lobbed a shell into a column of Rebels, killing and maiming ten of the Rebel soldiers and causing a breach in the line. Another shell lifted three Confederate soldiers high into the air. Still another decapitated two soldiers marching abreast, leaving smoking torsos on the ground. Holes were formed in the lines and the Rebels robotically filled the gaps with other men who would, in turn, join the earlier casualties for, as soon as a breach was plugged in the line, another gap cropped up from a shell emanating from Culp’s Hill. Then another hole in the line was caused by a gun fr
om Cemetery Ridge. The Confederates were being bombarded with Union artillery from three different angles. But still the Rebels stubbornly pressed on. Holes were created and the gaps quickly filled and the line was dressed. Men were mangled and cut in half. Men were killed instantly. But still the Confederate host marched on, slowly covering the distance to Cemetery Ridge. Victor shook his head in disbelief. It was suicide. Pickett’s Charge was suicide. Victor saw nothing glorious in it, only vain, glorious stupidity.

  Why didn’t they run at full speed? Victor wondered. Surely there would be fewer casualties if they ran. Heck, the Confederate soldiers hadn’t even fired a shot. They were just marching.

  The soldiers were handsome in their butternut uniforms, Victor admitted. Their movements were the epitome of military precision, but it was futility. The Confederates were heading to a copse of trees at the center of Cemetery Ridge. Rebel flags fell, but were quickly retrieved and raised and waved again by another soldier, who might hold the flag for only a few seconds before he, too, was shot down. But the flag would fly again. Over and over this dance with death went on. Victor estimated the life expectancy of a flag bearer at two minutes, tops.

  When the Confederates were within two hundred yards of the stone wall, the Union soldiers, crouched behind the wall, rose up and opened fire with their Springfield rifle muskets, cutting the Rebels down like a scythe in a harvest of souls. The Union gunners on Cemetery Ridge switched their ammunition from hard shell and explosive to canister shot, which contained hundreds of minie balls, nails and glass shards. The projectiles were disseminated from the barrel of a cannon like a giant shotgun. A line of Confederates was literally blown away by a round of canister shot. The canister round pushed the Rebels back like a strong wind, laced with shrapnel.

  But still they came. Victor, using the looking glass, observed one courageous Confederate general as he put his hat on his sword and waved it for his men to follow him. From reading Killer Angels, Victor recognized the officer to be Brigadier General Lewis Armistead.